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Unmov'd wert thou by all her bitter bale—
Untouch'd by thought that she had governed thee—
Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand—
No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight;
O listless fell the lance when Mary laid
Her head upon the block—and high in soul,
Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy,
Died—in her widowed beauty, penitent—
Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent,
Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty!
'Tis past—she rests—the scaffold hath been swept,
The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned—
But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain,
And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind—
By noblest natures shall her woes be wept,
Who shone the glory of thy festal day:
Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins grey,
They will arouse remembrance of the stain
Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's page—
Remembrance laden with reproach and pain,
To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage!
