The lord of the isles . The mortal thrust so well repaid. toild the Bruce, the battle done,To use his conquest boldly won ;And gave command for horse and spearTo press the Southerns scatterd rear,Nor let his broken force combine,—When the war-cry of Argentine Fell faintly on his ear; Save, save his life, he cried, 0 saveThe kind, the noble, and the brave !The squadrons round free passage gave, The wounded knight drew near ;He raised his red-cross shield no more,Helm, cuish, and breastplate streamd with , as he saw the King strove even then to couch his lance — The
The lord of the isles . The mortal thrust so well repaid. toild the Bruce, the battle done,To use his conquest boldly won ;And gave command for horse and spearTo press the Southerns scatterd rear,Nor let his broken force combine,—When the war-cry of Argentine Fell faintly on his ear; Save, save his life, he cried, 0 saveThe kind, the noble, and the brave !The squadrons round free passage gave, The wounded knight drew near ;He raised his red-cross shield no more,Helm, cuish, and breastplate streamd with , as he saw the King strove even then to couch his lance — The effort was in vain ! THE LOUD OF THE ISLES. The spur-str«>kc faild to rouse the ton Wounded and weary, in mid course He stumbled on the foremost was the generous BruceTo raise his head, his helm to loose;— Lord Earl, the day is thine!My Sovereigns charge, and adverse taHave made our meeting all too hit1: Yet this may Argentine,As boon from ancient comrade, crave-A Christians mass, a soldiers pressd his dying hand—its grasp Kindly replied ; hut, in his clasp,It stiffend and grew cold —•• And, O farewell ! the victor cried,•• (>f chivalry the Bower an 1 pri le,The arm in battle hold, 282 THE LORD OE THE ISLES. CANTO vi. The courteous mien, the noble race,The stainless faith, the manly face!—Bid Ninians convent light their shrine,For late-wake of De better knight on death-bier laid,Torch never gieamd nor mass was said! XXXV. Nor for De Argentine alone. Through Ninians church these torches shone, And rose the death-prayers awful That yellow lustre glimmerd pale, On broken plate and bloodied mail, Kent crest and shatterd coronet, Of Baron, Earl, ami Banneret; Ami the best names that England knew, Claimd in the death-prayer dismal due. Yet mourn not, Land of Fame ! Though neer the leopards on thy shield Retreated from so sad a field, Since Norman William may thine annals justly boastOf hattles st
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