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And Ermengard, his friend and faithful aid,
The wife of Egfrid, here wrought piously,
Herself and sister–names which through the shade
Of many storms and centuries still run free.
And, all about, tradition decks thee out,
This castled county, rich in antique lore,
Bearing on all its face the land about
Strange tales of wonder of the times of yore.
Here may be heard sublimely from the past
The voices old of heroes and of kings–
The Bruce and Wallace, and, not least, though last,
Cromwell, who caught their spirit, and who flings
An air of health o’er British rule to-day.
And, joined with these their fellows in the fray,
Circling thy walls to-day the echo rings
Of Norman and Plantagenet, and the array
Of armies vast, whom Scotia’s Bard still sings,
Though he, with his immortal Marmion,
A traveller here, long since has passed away.
Nor must we quite forget the lady fair
Who hither came a queen without a crown
The royal Mary, yet most desolate;
Her hopes from their high altitude cast down,
And burd’ning all her spirit with the weight
Such ruin brings, of wild tumultuous care.
Her name is linked to thine, O Carlisle, still
Linked with thy ancient walls, thy castle old;
Linked with thy bounds from far, o’er vale and hill,
Piercing their deeps and distance manifold,
Her vision wandered; Caledonia wild,
Home of her heart, her childhood’s airy nest,
Winning her bosom soft, by pride beguiled,