PCETRY OF FLOWERS. 85 
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. 

