Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/116

St. Giles, like time-tried sentinel,
    Uplifts his cross on high,
And stirs his ancient might to guard
    Thy pristine majesty;
And Learning reareth massive walls
    Thy fairest haunts among,
While, as a charmed child, the world
    Doth list thy magic song.

But settling o'er thy brow I see
    A tinge of mournful thought,
For Autumn blights the heather-flower,
    That generous summer brought;
And though I seek a greener clime,
    Where flowers are fair to see,
Still, still, sweet queen of Caledon,
    My spirit turns to thee.

There may indeed be richer realms,
    Where pride and splendor roll;
But thou art skilled to soothe the pang
    That rives the stranger's soul.
There may perchance be those who say
    Thy mountain-land is drear;
Yet thou hast still the wealth that wins
    The stranger's grateful tear.