And he, who felt the assassin's steel,
Though erst with sharper anguish tried
From rebel son and traitor chief;—
Before my sight they seem to glide.
He too, at Flodden-field who died,
The belt of iron round his breast,
Held his last frantic orgies here,
And rushed to battle's dreamless rest.
And Margaret's son and Mary's sire,
Methinks I see him, wrapped in gloom,
Glance coldly on the babe, whose birth
Just marked the portal of his tomb:
"An heir to Scotia's throne, Oh king!
A daughter fair!" the herald said;
No smile he gave, no hand he raised,
They touched his forehead;—he was dead.
He, too, the anointing oil who bore
Of Albion on his princely head,
Yet basely, near his palace-door,
Upon the sable scaffold bled,
In youthful days, when skies were bright,
And nought the coming doom betrayed,
The crown upon his temples placed
In yonder chapel's sacred shade.
Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/80
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.
HOLYROOD.
67