HAWTHORNDEX. 91
Yet though it plunges strong and bold,
Its murmurs meet the ear, Like fretful childhood s weak complaint,
Half smothered in its fear.
There s plenty, in my own dear land,
Of cave and wild cascade, And all my early years were spent
In such romantic glade ; And I could featly climb the cliff,
Or forest roam and fen ; But I ve been puzzled here among
These rocks of Hawthornden.
Here, too, are labyrinthine paths
To caverns dark and low, Wherein, they say, king Robert Bruce
Found refuge from his foe ; And still amid their relics old
His stalwart sword they keep, Which telleth tales of cloven heads
And gashes, dire and deep :
While, sculptured in the yielding stone
Full many a niche they show, Where erst his library he stored,
(The guide-boy told us so.) Slight need had he of books, I trow,
Mid hordes of savage men, And precious little time to read
At leagured Hawthornden.
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