Nor pass unmarked that bough-embosomed nook Beside thee-in the rock a cool recess, Christened immortally The Cypress Grove,31
By him who pondered there. 'Twas to that spot,
So sad, yet lovely in its solitude,
That Drummond, the historian and the bard,
The noble and enlightened, from the world.
Withdrew to wisdom, and the holy lore,
At night, at noon, in tempest or in calm,
Which Nature teaches-for, a wounded deer,
Early he left the herd, and strayed alone:
While dreaming lovely dreams, in buoyant youth,
Even 'mid the splendours of unclouded noon,
Had fallen the sudden shadow on his heart,
That lived but in another—whom Death took,
Blighting his fond affections in their spring.32
Through years of calm and bright philosophy, Making this Earth a type of Paradise,
He sojourned 'mid these lone and lovely scenes-
Lone, listening from afar the murmurous din
Of Life's loud bustle; as an eremite,
In sylvan haunt remote, when housed the bees,
And silent all except the nightingale,
Whom fitful song awakes, at eve may hear,
Dream-like, the boom of the far-distant sea:
And in that cave he strung and struck his lyre,
Waking such passionate tones to love and Heaven, That from her favourite haunt, the sunny South, From Arno and Vaucluse, the Muse took wing, And fixed her dwelling-place on Celtic shores.
THE RUINS OF SETON CHAPEL.
Il y a des Comptes, des Roys, des Ducs; ainsi
C'est assez pour moy d'etre Seigneur De Seton.
MARIE D'ECOSSE.
THE beautiful, the powerful, and the proud,
The
many, and the mighty, yield to Time—
Time that, with noiseless pace and viewless wing, Glides on and on-the despot of the world.
With what a glory the refulgent sun,
Far, from the crimson portals of the west,
Sends back his parting radiance: round and round
Stupendous walls encompass me, and throw
The ebon outlines of their traceries down
Upon the dusty floor: the eastern piles
Receive the chequered shadows of the west,
In mimic lattice-work and sable hues.
Rich in its mellowness, the sunshine bathes
The sculptured epitaphs of barons dead
Long ere this breathing generation moved,
Or wantoned in the garish eye of noon.
The sad and sombre trophies of decay-
The prone effigies, carved in marble mail;
The fair Ladye with cross'd palms on her breast;
The tablet grey with mimic roses bound;
The angled bones, the sand-glass, and the scythe,-
These, and the stone-carv'd cherubs that impend
With hovering wings, and eyes of fixedness,
Gleam down the ranges of the solemn aisle,
Dull 'mid the crimson of the waning light.
This is a season and a scene to hold Discourse, and purifying monologue, Before the silent spirit of the Past! Power built this house to Prayer
And vanished-see its sad mementoes round!
The gilly-flowers upon each fractured arch,
And from the time-worn crevices, look down,
Blooming where all is desolate. With tufts
Clustering and dark, and light-green trails between,
The ivy hangs perennial; yellow-flower'd,
The dandelion shoots its juicy stalks
Over the thin transparent blades of grass,
Which bend and flicker, even amid the calm ;
And, oh! sad emblems of entire neglect,
In rank luxuriance, the nettles spread
Behind the massy tablatures of death,
Hanging their pointed leaves and seedy stalks
Above the graves, so lonesome and so low,
Of famous men, now utterly unknown,
Yet whose heroic deeds were, in their day,
The theme of loud acclaim-when Seton's arm
In power with Stuart and with Douglas vied. 35
Clad in their robes of state, or graith of war,
A proud procession, o'er the stage of time,
As century on century wheeled away,
They passed; and, with the escutcheons mouldering o'er
The little spot, where voicelessly they sleep,
Their memories have decayed ;-nay, even their bones
Are crumbled down to undistinguished dust,
Mocking the Herald, who, with pompous tones,
Would set their proud array of quarterings forth,
Down to the days of Chrystal and De Bruce.
What art Thou now, O pile of olden time?—
A visible memento that the works
Of men do like their masters pass away!
The grey and time-worn pillars, lichened o'er,
Throw from their fretted pedestals a line
Of sombre darkness far, and chequer o'er
The floor with shade and sunshine. Hoary walls!
Since first ye rose in architectural pride—
Since first ye frowned in majesty of strength-
Since first ye caught the crimson of the dawn
On oriel panes, on glittering lattices
Of many-coloured brightness-Time hath wrought
From the near road, the traveller heard arise
The hymn of gratulation and of praise,
Amid your ribbed arches: sandalled monks,
Whitened by eld, in alb and scapulaire,
With book and crosier, mass and solemn rite,
Frail, yet forgiving frailties, sojourn'd here,
When Rome was all-prevailing, and obtained-
Though Cæsars and though Ciceros were not
The rulers of her camps and cabinets—
A second empire o'er the minds of men.36
What art Thou now, O pile of olden time ?— A symbol of antiquity-a shrine
By man deserted, and to silence left.
The sparrow chatters on thy buttresses
Throughout the livelong day, and sportively
The swallow twitters through thy vaulted roofs,
Fluttering the whiteness of its inner plumes
Through shade, and now emerging to the sun;
The night-owls are thy choristers, and whoop
Amid the silence of the dreary dark;
The twilight-loving bat, on leathern wing,
Finds out a crevice for her callow young
In some dilapidated nook, on high,
Beyond the unassisted reach of man ;
And on the utmost pinnacles the rook
Finds airy dwelling-place and home secure.
When Winter with his tempests lowers around,
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