82 HOLYROOD.
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.
The 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
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.
Me thinks 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 ;
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