18
LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.
He hears no stifled wail,
He marks no life-blood stream.
With ill-dissembled mien,
Who wields yon vengeful rod?
Who made thee judge,—thou English queen!
Her sins are with her God.
Hark! from yon mouldering cell
The owl her shriek repeats,
And all the tissued spell
Of wildering fancy fleets;
Lochleven's ruined towers
Once more the moon-beams flout,
And tangled herbage chokes those bowers
Whence the rich harp breathed out.
The lake's unruffled breast,
Expands like mirror clear,
With emerald islets drest,
Each in its hermit-sphere;
Yet, from those fair retreats
Do mournful memories flow,
And every murmuring shade repeats
Mary of Scotland's woe.
