WALLACE AND BRUCE.
17
No! we were cast in other mould
Than theirs by lawless power controlled!
The nurture of our bitter sky
Calls forth resisting energy,
And the wild fastnesses are ours,
The rocks, with their eternal towers!
The soul, to struggle and to dare,
Is mingled with our northern air,
And dust beneath our soil is lying
Of those who died for fame undying.
Tread'st thou that soil! and can it be,
No loftier thought is roused in thee?
Doth no high feeling proudly start
From slumber in thine inmost heart?
No secret voice thy bosom thrill,
For thine own Scotland pleading still?
C
