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| OLD Holyrood! Edina’s pride, | |
| When erst, in regal state arrayed, | |
| The mitred abbots told their beads, | |
| And chanted ’neath thy hallowed shade, | |
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| And nobles, in thy palace courts, | 5 |
| Revel and dance and pageant led, | |
| And trump to tilt and tourney called, | |
| And royal hands the banquet spread; | |
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| A lingering beauty still is thine, | |
| Though age on age has o’er thee rolled, | 10 |
| Since good King David reared thy walls, | |
| With turrets proud and tracery bold. | |
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| And still the Norman’s pointed arch | |
| Its interlacing blends sublime | |
| With Gothic columns’ clustered strength, | 15 |
| Where foliage starts and roses climb. | |
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| High o’er thy head rude Arthur’s Seat | |
| And Salisbury Crag in ledges rise, | |
| Where love the hurtling winds to shriek | |
| Wild chorus to the wintry skies. | 20 |
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| Thy roofless chapel, stained with years, | |
| And paved with tombstones damp and low, | |
| Yon gloomy vault, whose grated doors | |
| The bones of prince and chieftain show | |
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| Unburied, while from pictured hall, | 25 |
| In armor decked, or antique crown, | |
| A strange interminable line | |
| Of Scotia’s kings looks grimly down. * * * * * | |
| But most, of Scotia’s fairest flower, | |
| Old Holyrood with mournful grace | 30 |
| Doth every withered petal hoard, | |
| And dwell on each recorded trace. | |
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| I ’ve stood upon the castled height, | |
| Where green Carlisle its turrets rears, | |
| And mused on Mary’s grated cell, | 35 |
| Her smitten hopes, her captive tears, | |
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| When from Lochleven’s dreary fosse, | |
| From Langside’s transient gleam of bliss, | |
| She threw herself on queenly faith, | |
| On kindred blood,—for this! for this! | 40 |
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| I ’ve marked along the stagnant moat | |
| Her stinted walk mid soldiers grim, | |
| Or, listening, caught the burst of woe | |
| That mingled with her vesper-hymn; | |
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| Or ’neath the shades of Fotheringay | 45 |
| In vision seen the faded eye, | |
| The step subdued, the prayer devout, | |
| The sentenced victim led to die. | |
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| But simpler relics, fond and few, | |
| That in this palace-chamber lie, | 50 |
| Of woman’s lot and woman’s care, | |
| Touch tenderer chords of sympathy,— | |
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| The arras, with its storied lore, | |
| By her own busy needle wrought; | |
| The couch, where oft her throbbing brow | 55 |
| For sweet oblivion vainly sought; | |
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| The basket, once with infant robes | |
| So rich, her own serene employ, | |
| While o’er each lovely feature glowed | |
| A mother’s yet untasted joy; | 60 |
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| The candelabra’s fretted shaft, | |
| Beside whose flickering midnight flame | |
| In sad communion still she bent | |
| With genial France, from whence it came; | |
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| Those sunny skies, those hearts refined, | 65 |
| The wreaths that Love around her threw, | |
| The homage of a kneeling realm, | |
| The misery of her last adieu! | |
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| Yon secret stairs, yon closet nook, | |
| The swords that through the arras gleam, | 70 |
| Rude Darnley’s ill-dissembled joy, | |
| Lost Rizzio’s shrill, despairing scream, | |
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| The chapel decked for marriage rite, | |
| The royal bride, with flushing cheek, | |
| Triumphant Bothwell’s hateful glance,— | 75 |
| Alas! alas! what words they speak! * * * * * | |
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