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There still is left one heart
To mourn for thee!
And though, alas! thy venerable form
Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm,
One spirit yet is left to linger here
And pay the tribute of a silent tear;
Who in his memory registers the dints
That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow;
Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints,
Whose voice—perforce indignant—mingles now
In all thy lamentations—with the tone,
Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long gone.
Nor is't the moonshine clear,
Leeming on tower, and tree, and silent stream,
Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear,
Most prodigal of perfume—nor the sweets
Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky;
Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet
The eager vision—blessed albeit they seem,
Each 'with its charm particular—To my eye,
Old Cruxtoun hath an interest all its own—
From many a cherished, intersociate thought—
From feelings multitudinous well known
To souls in whom the patriot fire hath wrought
Sublime remembrance of their country's fame:
