As I stood by yonroofless tower,
Where the wa’flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howletmourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid, the airwas still,
The stars they shot alangthe sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin’d wa’s,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whasedistant roaring swells and fa’s.
The cauldblaeNorth was streaming forth
Her lights, wi’ hissing, eeriedin;
Athwart the liftthey start and shift,
Like Fortune’s favors, tintas win.
By heedless chance I turn’d mine eyes,
And, bythe moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaistarise,
Attir’d as Minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o’stane,
His daring look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav’d was plain,
The sacred posy-“Libertie!”
And fraehis harp sicstrains did flow,
Might rous’d the slumb’ring Deadto hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,
As ever met a Briton’s ear!
He sang wi’joy his former day,
He, weeping, wailed his latter times;
Butwhat he said-it was naeplay,
I winnaventure’t in my rhymes.