The sunset shone--to guide the flying, And beam a farewell to the dying! The summer moon, on Falkirk’s field, Streams upon eyes in slumber seal’d; Deep slumber--not to pass away When breaks another morning’s ray, Nor vanish when the trumpet’s voice Bids ardent hearts again rejoice: What sunbeam’s glow, what clarion’s breath, May chase the still cold sleep of death? Shrouded in Scotland’s blood-stain’d plaid, Low are her mountain-warriors laid; They fell, on that proud soil whose mould Was blent with heroes’ dust of old, And, guarded by the free and brave, Yielded the Roman--but a grave! Nobly they fell; yet with them died The warrior’s hope, the leader’s pride. Vainly they fell--that martyr host-- All, save the land’s high soul, is lost. Blest are the slain! _they_ calmly sleep, Nor hear their bleeding country weep! The shouts of England’s triumph telling Reach not their dark and silent dwelling; And those surviving to bequeath Their sons the choice of chains or death, May give the slumberer’s lowly bier An envying glance--but not a tear. But thou, the fearless and the free, Devoted Knight of Ellerslie! No vassal-spirit, form’d to bow When storms are gathering, clouds thy brow; No shade of fear or weak despair Blends with indignant sorrow there! The ray which streams on yon red field, O’er Scotland’s cloven helm and shield, Glitters not _there_ alone, to shed Its cloudless beauty o’er the dead; But where smooth Carron’s rippling wave Flows near that deathbed of the brave, Illuming all the midnight scene, Sleeps brightly on thy lofty mien. But other beams, O Patriot! shine In each commanding glance of thine, And other fight hath fill’d thine eye With inspiration’s majesty, Caught from th’ immortal flame divine Which makes thine inmost heart a shrine! Thy voice a prophet’s tone hath won, The grandeur Freedom lends her son; Thy bearing a resistless power, The ruling genius of the hour! And he, yon Chief, with mien of pride, Whom Carron’s waves from thee divide, Whose haughty gesture fain would seek To veil the thoughts that blanch his cheek, Feels his reluctant mind controll’d By thine of more heroic mould: Though struggling all in vain to war With that high soul’s ascendant star, He, with a conqueror’s scornful eye, Would mock the name of Liberty.