Thou wilt forgive! Mine is no peering eye,
That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part,
Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy,

To smite again the poor world-wounded heart:

No-thy misfortunes win from him a sigh

Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd passer-by.

Relique of earlier days,

Yes, dear thou art to me !—

And beauteous, marvellously,

The moon-light strays

Where banners glorious floated on thy walls—
Clipping their ivied honours with its thread

Of half-angelic light:

And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have shed
Their all-consuming blight,

Maternal moon-light falls

On and around thee full of tenderness,

Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine caress.

Ah me! thy joy of youthful lustyhood

Is gone, old Cruxtoun! Ever, ever gone!

Here hast thou stood

In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone,
For many a weary year-and to the storm
Hast bared thy wasted form-

Braving destruction, in the attitude
Of reckless desolation. Like to one
Who in this world no longer may rejoice,
Who watching by Hope's grave

With stern delight, impatient is to brave

The worst of coming ills-So, Cruxtoun! thou

Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow;

When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky

Startling the guilty as they thunder by

Then raiseth thou a wild, unearthly hymn,

Like death-desiring bard whose star hath long been dim!

Neglected though thou art,

Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days,
When independence had its chivalrie,

There still is left one heart

To mourn for thee !

And though, alas! thy venerable form
Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm,

One spirit yet is left to linger here

And pay the tribute of a silent tear;

Who in his memory registers the dints

That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow;
Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints,
Whose voice-perforce indignant-mingles now

In all thy lamentations—with the tone,

Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long gone.

Nor is't the moonshine clear,

Leeming on tower, and tree, and silent stream,
Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear,
Most prodigal of perfume-nor the sweets
Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky;
Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet
The eager vision-blessed albeit they seem,
Each with its charm particular-To my eye,
Old Cruxtoun has an interest all its own-
From many a cherished, intersociate thought—
From feelings multitudinous-well known
To souls in whom the patriot fire hath wrought
Sublime remembrance of their country's fame :
Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame-
The lustrous splendour-which those feelings shed
O'er many a scene of this my father-land!
Thou, grey magician, with thy potent wand,
Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead!
The mists dissolve-up rise the slumbering years—
On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie-
The herald calls-hark, to the clash of spears!
To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee;

Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be—
Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity!

Light feet have trod

The soft, green, flowering sod

That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced,

All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance ;

Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate glance,
While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain—

(Who, in this iron age, might sing in vain-
His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain!)
Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long
Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie—
Notes once the prelude to a tale of wrong,
Of Royalty and love. -Beneath yon tree-
Now bare and blasted-so our annals tell-
The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew
A darker shade than cast her favourite yew,
Loved Darnley passing well-

Loved him with tender woman's generous love,
And bade farewell awhile to courtly state
And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove-

For the lone river's banks where small birds sing

Their little hearts with summer joys elate—

Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely spring;
There he, the most exalted of the land,

Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's peerless hand.

And she did die !

Die as a traitor-in the brazen gaze

Of her-a kinswoman and enemy

O well may such an act my soul amaze !

My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword?

Where was the high and chivalrous accord,

To fling the avenging banner of our land,

Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven?

O shame among the nations-thus to brook
The damning stain to thy escutcheon given!
How could thy sons upon their mothers look,
Degenerate Scotland! heedless of the wail
Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity!
Unmov'd wert thou by all her bitter bale-

Untouch'd by thought that she had governed thee—
Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand—
No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight;
O listless fell the lance when Mary laid
Her head upon the block-and high in soul,
Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy,
Died-in her widowed beauty, penitent-
Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent,
Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty !

'Tis past—she rests-the scaffold hath been swept,
The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned—
But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain,
And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind-
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept,
Who shone the glory of thy festal day :
Whilst aught is left by these thy ruins grey,
They will arouse remembrance of the stain
Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's pag
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain,
To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage!

LXXV.

ROLAND AND ROSABELLE.

A TOMв by skilful hands is raised,
Close to a sainted shrine,
And there is laid a stalwart Knight,
The last of all his line.

Beside that noble monument,
A Squire doth silent stand,
Leaning in pensive wise upon
The cross-hilt of his brand.

Around him peals the harmony
Of friars at even-song,

He notes them not, as passing by

The hymning brothers throng : And he hath watched the monument

Three weary nights and days,

And ever on the marble cold
Is fixed his steadfast gaze.

66 I pray thee, wakeful Squire, unfold”—

Proud Rosabella said—

"The story of the warrior bold,

Who in this tomb is laid?"

"A champion of the Cross was he"The Squire made low reply

"And on the shore of Galilee,

In battle did he die,

"He bound me by a solemn vow,

His body to convey

Where lived his love-there rests it now,

Until the judgment-day :

And by his stone of record here,

In loyalty I stand,

Until I greet his leman dear

The Lady of the Land !"

"Fair stranger, I would learn of thee The gentle warrior's name,

Who fighting fell at Galilee

And won a deathless name?"