| |
| THOU rude and ancient pile, | |
| Holding thy vigil lone, | |
| Amid the heath-clad isle, | |
| Where Leven’s waters moan, | |
| Show me the prison-tower | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| Of maddened love, the thorn. | |
| |
| Methinks a midnight boat | |
| Still cleaves yon silent tide, | |
| Its glimmering torchlights float | |
| In mingled fear and pride; | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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? | 30 |
| 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 | 35 |
| Of wildering fancy fleets; | |
| Lochleven’s ruined towers | |
| Once more the moonbeams flout, | |
| And tangled herbage chokes those bowers | |
| Whence the rich harp breathed out. | 40 |
| |
| The lake’s unruffled breast | |
| Expands like mirror clear, | |
| With emerald islets drest, | |
| Each in its hermit-sphere; | |
| Yet from those fair retreats | 45 |
| Do mournful memories flow, | |
| And every murmuring shade repeats | |
| Mary of Scotland’s woe. | |
| |
