84 HOLYROOD.

But most, of Scotia s fairest flower Old Holyrood with mournful grace

Doth every withered petal hoard, And dwell on each recorded trace.

I ve stood upon the castled height, Where green Carlisle its turrets rears,

And mused on Mary s grated cell, Her smitten hopes, her captive tears,

When from Lochleven s dreary fosse,

From Langside s transient gleam of bliss,

She threw herself on queenly faith, On kindred blood, for this ! for this !

I ve marked along the stagnant moat, Her stinted walk mid soldiers grim,

Or, listening, caught the burst of woe That mingled with her vesper-hymn ;

Or neath the shades of Fotheringay,

In vision seen the faded eye, The step subdued, the prayer devout,

The sentenced victim led to die.

But simpler relics, fond and few, That in this palace-chamber lie,

Of woman s lot, and woman s care, Touch tenderer chords of sympathy ;

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