LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.
Thou rude and ancient pile,
Holding thy vigil lone,
Amid the heath-clad isle,
Where Leven's waters moan,
Show me the prison-tower
Of Scotland's fairest queen,
Who, reared in Gallia's royal bower,
Endured thy tyrant spleen.
Count me the thousand sighs
Her tortured bosom poured,
The tears that dimmed those eyes
Which rival kings adored,
Unfold her darkened fate,
A haughty brother's scorn,
Of her own native realm, the hate,
Of maddened love, the thorn.
Methinks a midnight boat
Still cleaves yon silent tide,
Its glimmering torch-lights float
In mingled fear and pride;
Young Douglas wildly steers,
His throbbing heart beats high,
As freedom's long-lost radiance cheers
The rescued prisoner's eye.
He sees no vision pale
Where axe and scaffold gleam,
He hears no stifled wail,
He marks no life-blood stream.
With ill-dissembled mien,
Who wields yon vengeful rod?
Who made thee judge,—thou English queen!
Her sins are with her God.
Hark! from yon mouldering cell
The owl her shriek repeats,
And all the tissued spell
Of wildering fancy fleets;
Lochleven's ruined towers
Once more the moon-beams flout,
And tangled herbage chokes those bowers
Whence the rich harp breathed out.
The lake's unruffled breast,
Expands like mirror clear,
With emerald islets drest,
Each in its hermit-sphere;
Yet, from those fair retreats
Do mournful memories flow,
And every murmuring shade repeats
Mary of Scotland's woe.