Expecting all by flight a pass to find, Then to the eastward of yon spreading plain, And thus gain refuge from the storm behind; But all anticipation proved in vain. Then rushed our heroes on their vanquished foesRelentless fury glared in every eye; Deaf to the calls for quarter that arose, The woods returned their dying wail and cry. While hundreds o'er yon precipices flew, And there remained of freedom's foes but few None had escaped the all-devouring storm And thus allowed the hapless hence to fly, Disgraced, dishonoured, sunk in hopeless gloom. But years and ages since have passed away, The clang of arms, the bustling to and fro, When hostile bands in bannered pomp appear; The shouts of triumph and the plaints of woe No more arrest the Muse that lingers here. Where Scotia's heroes, bulwarks of her name, Her pride, her glory, with their laurelled brow, Whose scorpion-scourges lashed Oppression tame, And sceptred Tyranny compelled to bow? What though their dust to dust hath long returned, Though lost their forms as bubbles on the wave? Their hallowed names in glory bright have burned Through ages, and shall triumph o'er the grave. What though no piles of sculptured beauty rise, A nation's heart can best immortalize The only lasting tribute to their worth. How changed these scenes where frequent have they trod, In all the glory of victorious power! Where thousands bravely rallied at their nod, All is a blank, a wilderness, a waste- Where, in the wreck of ages, can be traced The power and splendour once on Roslin shone? No faint memorial tells where once it stood; In ashes laid that town of antique fame. Thou hoary ruin, crumbling in decay, The prey of kindred fury and of years, No more thy portals welcome in the gay— The princely retinue no more appears. In thee what solitude and silence now! The sighing winds the lonely thistles wave— The broom and brier in homage seem to bow, And weep o'er wrecked magnificence the grave. Where now the trains of conquering heroes, where Where, too, the revelry, the laugh, and song- Approach with reverence, Folly, and be wise- Ye sons of pleasure, fashion, wealth and fame, 'Mid Fortune's smiles, on wheels of splendour hurled, Here learn that these are but an empty name— In pleasing sorrow let me linger here, With awe to thee, thou venerable dome, And where the worshipper without a sigh, While musing o'er thy grey corroded walls, Where nameless sculpture fascinates the eye, Whose mangled elegance the heart appals? Thy figured glories time hath long effaced- Though sport of accident, of years the prey, Ah! stern thy fate-in vain a Cochran's care, Where now thy altars rich in regal state, Demolished quite by that ignoble band, No vestige marks their consecrated place; The holy Twelve no more like seraphs stand 'Midst pillared grandeur of unrivalled grace. Yes! dim and desolate thy courts appear, Where, slumbering, rest the brave untrophied dead, Whose viewless shades in dreadful concert here Flit through thy gloomy aisles with noiseless tread. Thy priests and people time hath swept away, To imaged saints the knee hath ceased to bow- In sacred homage to the Virgin now, |