In weal or woe, thy smiles,
thy warm embrace, were mine; my head reclined on that faithful breast,
and still I found my home, my heaven. But now, desolate and alone,
ruin is around me. Destruction waits on all who would steal one pang
from the racked heart of William Wallace!--even pity is no more for me.
Take me, then, O Power of Mercy!" cried he, stretching forth his
hands, "take me to Thyself!"
At these words, a peal of thunder burst on his ear, and seemed to roll
over his tent, till, passing off toward the west, it died away in long
and solemn reverberation. Wallace rose from his knee, on which he had
sunk at this awful response to his Heaven-directed adjuration. "Thou
callest me, my Father!" cried he, with a holy confidence dilating his
soul. "I go from the world to Thee! I come, and before Thy altars
know no human weakness."
In a paroxysm of sacred enthusiasm he rushed from the tent, and,
reckless whither he went, struck into the depths of Roslyn woods. With
the steps of the wind he pierced their remotest thickets. He reached
their boundary--it was traversed by a rapid stream, but that did not
stop his course; he sprung over it, and, ascending its moonlight bank,
was startled by the sound of his name.
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