Wherein the blessed crucifix was hung, To which all nations then would bend the knee, And bow themselves to pray in deep idolatry. Like mighty billows, ages have rolled past, For Scottish thrones would once a glory wear, Or sunk in shady glen its banners bear, But these have passed away, like meteors through the air. Scotland hath fallen-and in evil hour The records of her greatness; they have chased In mute suspense may pause when they have traced Those city-gates have been, and are unhinged- And the great sea into its base infringed :- Beneath the shadow of the sweeping wave There learn how thrones, and shrines are reared in vain By human hands; for still the hungering surge Is battling for more prey from rocky verge to verge. * Those acquainted with St Andrew's are probably aware that the Chapel which was connected with Cardinal Beaton's castle is now a complete ruin on the beach, the fragments of which can only be seen at very low water. On this part of the coast the encroachment of the sea is very manifest, as the Castle and Chapel appear at one time to have stood a considerable distance from the shore.-See Grose's Antiquities; Notes to Jamieson's Cuvier, &c. 'Tis midnight, and the moon is rising bright :- Survey the lengthened aisle, and pillar's fall; On which the church-yard dews, like tear-drops gleam; There broods the night-bird in his roofless hallThrough each unwindowed arch the pale stars beam, And all appears sublime-the pageant of a dream! The golden gate, whose mutilated form No more the vestal throng, or white-robed choir, No more Devotion, clad in meek attire, prayer; Before the eye of heaven kneel suppliant there ;- No mortal step these churchyard ruins tread, Save when some mournful train in deep despair, Bearing the pall around the bier-borne dead, Follow unto the grave some well-beloved head. Stupendous stones there moulder into dust- For which the pains of martyrdom were borne, Here, like the Roman *, for a moment pause And overwhelms ; for this hath been the doom Have passed, like flitting phantoms to the tomb, The loftiest stars that light the firmament of fame. * Marius over the ruins of Carthage. The curtains of the night are far dispread, Hope's fading lamp slow wastes, from day to day; Summon from out the grave its vanquished prey, When these frail wrecks are swept like ocean-foam away. Alastor. HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile. The bark that held a prince went down, To him that wept a son? He lived-for life may long be borne, Ere sorrow break its chain ; Why comes not death to those who mourn ? He never smiled again! |