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.
Thy roofless chapel, stained with years,
And paved with tomb-stones damp and low,
Yon gloomy vault, whose grated doors
The bones of prince and chieftain show
Unburied, while from pictured hall,
In armor decked, or antique crown,
A strange interminable line
Of Scotia's kings look grimly down.
Yet with bold touch hath Fancy wrought,
And ranged her airy region wide,
The features and the form to give,
Where History scarce a name supplied.
Methinks o'er every mouldering wall,
Around each arch and buttress twine,
Like rustling banner's dreamy fold,
The chequered fate of Stuart's line.
First of that race, whose early years
Dragged slowly on in captive's cell;
And he, who at the cannon's mouth
In the dire siege of Roxburgh fell;
Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/79
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66
HOLYROOD.