ERE is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village-bell has tolled the hour,
O, what can stay my lovely maid ?
"T is not Maria's whispering call,
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mixed with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I hear!
So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer;
At once 't is music and 't is love.
And art thou come? and art thou true?
O, welcome, dear, to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.
T length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assigned
A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That Castle rises on the steep
Of the green vale of Tyne:
And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist and willows weep,
You hear her streams repine.
The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows
The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.
Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude, and tottered Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,
Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced
Thy lordly gallery fair;
Nor yet the stony cord unbraced,
Whose twisted notes, with roses laced,
Adorn thy ruined stair.
Still rises unimpaired, below,
The courtyard's graceful portico;
Above its cornice, row and row
Of fair hewn facets richly show
Their pointed diamond form,
Though there but houseless cattle go,
To shield them from the storm.
And, shuddering, still may we explore,
Where oft whilom were captives pent,
The darkness of thy Massy More;
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement,
May trace, in undulating line,
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.
OW like an image of repose it looks, That ancient, holy, and sequestered pile! Silence abides in each tree-shaded aisle, And on the gray spire caw the hermit rooks: So absent is the stamp of modern days, That in the quaint carved oak, and oriel stained With saintly legend, to reflection's gaze
The star of Eld seems not yet to have waned.
At pensive eventide, when streams the west
On moss-greened pediment, and tombstone gray,
And spectral Silence pointeth to Decay,
How preacheth Wisdom to the conscious breast,
Saying, "Each foot that roameth here shall res":
To God and Heaven Death is the only way!
David Macbeth Moir.
Crockston (Crookston, Cruxtoun).
THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.
HROUGH Crockston Castle's lanely wa's
The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I ha'e vowed to meet my Mary.
Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I'd brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep
Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; But I will ford the whirling deep,
That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave,
Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wanderer eerie;
But when the lonesome way is past,
I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary!
Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave,
With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I'd brave,
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.
Y Crookston Castle waves the still green yew,
B The first that met the royal Mary's view,
When, bright in charms, the youthful princess led.
The graceful Darnley to her throne and bed:
Embossed in silver, now its branches green
Transcend the myrtle of the Paphian queen.
But dark Langside, from Crookston viewed afar,
Still seems to range in pomp the rebel war;
Here, when the moon rides dimly through the sky,
The peasant sees broad dancing standards fly,
And one bright female form, with sword and crown,
Still grieves to view her banners beaten down.
HOU gray and antique tower,
Receive a wanderer of the lonely night,
Whose moodful sprite
Rejoices at this witching time to brood
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