Thy towering spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke ;
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
O baneful cause, O fatal morn,
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood;
The parents shed their children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak winds whistle round her head;
Her helpless orphans cry for bread!
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes-and dies!
Jam periit virtus, animique evanuit ardor,
Jam tua sunt turpi subdita colla jugo.
Quod non externæ potuerunt vincere gentes,
Civica nunc victum bella furorque premunt.
Tibia non poterit, festæ non carmina musæ
Ulterius gratum lætificare diem;
Nec poterunt hiemis spatiosam fallere noctem
Gaudia festivi consociata foci :
Carmina nulla olim, gemitu nisi mista, sonabunt,
Nil nisi singultus, nil nisi luctus erit;
Dum tacitis mostæ cæsorum noctibus umbræ
Errant per campos, pallida turba, tuos.
Heu bellum invisum ! lux heu funesta diei,
Posthac venturis perniciosa viris !
Filius opposito gessit fera bella parenti,
Arma patres natis opposuere suis.
Cesserat inmitis rabies asperrima pugnæ ;
Attamen iratus victor, ut ante, fuit.
Tristia enim miseris nudisque pericula flammæ,
Vulneraque a sæva perpetienda manu.
At pia jam morti genetrix devota futuræ,
Ecce! per incultos sola vagatur agros;
Inmiscent gelidi circum fera murmura venti,
Et suboles rabida congemit orba fame :
Cernit inops nigræ tenebras descendere noctis,
Nec tecta optatam, nec dat amicus opem ;
Tum Jove sub tristi madidasque abjecta per herbas,
Ingemit ah! natos emoritura suos.
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial heart shall beat;
And spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow ;-
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!"
Dum mihi dum tumidæ complentur sanguine venæ,
Dumque memor vivo mens, velut ante, manet, Tum dolor usque pio penitus sub corde sedebit, Usque querar patrii tristia fata soli. Tum, licet indignus sine fine superbiat hostis, Sic repetam querulis carmina facta modis ;"Incipe jam tristes, infelix, incipe luctus, Scotia; pax abiit, scissaque palma jacet."
PAND. Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
CONST. Thou art not holy to belie me so;
I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine:
My name is Constance; I was Geoffrey's wife ;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost.
I am not mad ;—I would to heaven I were !
For then 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget !---
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canonized, Cardinal :
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself.
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
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