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Maternal moon-light falls
On and around thee full of tenderness,
Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine caress.
Ah me! thy joy of youthful lusty hood
Is gone, old Cruxtoun! Ever, ever gone!
Here hast thou stood
In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone,
For many a weary year—and to the storm
Hast bared thy wasted form—
Braving destruction, in the attitude
Of reckless desolation. Like to one
Who in this world no longer may rejoice,
Who watching by Hope's grave
With stern delight, impatient is to brave
The worst of coming ills—So, Cruxtoun! thou
Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow;
When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky—
Startling the guilty as they thunder by—
Then raisest thou a wild, unearthly hymn,
Like death-desiring bard whose star hath long been dim!
Neglected though thou art,
Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days,
When independence had its chivalrie,
