POETEY OF FLOWEES. 149 
Thou mantlest o’er the battlement 
By strife or storm decayed ; 
And fillest up each envious rent 
Time’s canker-tooth hath made. 
Thy roots outspread the ramparts o’er, 
Where, in war’s stormy day, 
The Douglasses stood forth of yore. 
In battle’s grim array : 
The clangour of the field is fled. 
The beacon on the hill. 
No more through midnight blazes red— 
But thou art blooming still! 
Whither hath fled the choral band 
That filled the Abbey’s nave ? 
Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand 
O’er many a level grave ; 
In the belfry’s crevices the dove 
Her young brood nurseth well. 
Whilst thou, lone flower, dost shed above 
A sweet decaying smell. 
In the season of the tulip cup. 
When blossoms clothe the trees. 
How sweet to throw the lattice up. 
And scent thee on the breeze ! 
The butterfly is then abroad. 
The bee is on the wing. 
And on the hawthorn by the road 
The linnets sit and sing. 
