LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.
Thou rude and ancient pile,
Holding thy vigil lone,
Amid the heath-clad isle,
Where Leven's waters moan,
Show me the prison-tower
Of Scotland's fairest queen,
Who, reared in Gallia's royal bower,
Endured thy tyrant spleen.
Count me the thousand sighs
Her tortured bosom poured,
The tears that dimmed those eyes
Which rival kings adored,
Unfold her darkened fate,
A haughty brother's scorn,
Of her own native realm, the hate,
Of maddened love, the thorn.
Methinks a midnight boat
Still cleaves yon silent tide,
Its glimmering torch-lights float
In mingled fear and pride;
Young Douglas wildly steers,
His throbbing heart beats high,
As freedom's long-lost radiance cheers
The rescued prisoner's eye.
He sees no vision pale
Where axe and scaffold gleam,
