Love mastered fear-her brow she crossed; "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life, That lawless love is guilt above, This awful sign receive.' He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, The sable score, of fingers four, There is a Nun in Dryburgh bower, That Nun, who ne'er beholds the day, CADYOW CASTLE. ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. THE ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the re mains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the Eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shows that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. In this forest was long preserved the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity led to their extirpation, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed. WHEN princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, To draw oblivion's pall aside, And mark the long-forgotten urn. Then, noble maid! at thy command, Where with the rock's wood-covered side And feudal banners flaunt between: Where the rude torrent's brawling course 'Tis night-the shade of keep and spire Fades slow their light; the east is grey; The drawbridge falls-they hurry outClatters each plank and swinging chain, As dashing o'er, the jovial rout Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. First of his troop, the chief rode on; Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roebucks bound, Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Mightiest of all the beasts of chase The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. Fierce, on the hunters' quivered band, Aimed well, the chieftain's lance has flown; 'Tis noon-against the knotted oak Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, Stern Claud replied, with darkening face, No more the warrior shalt thou see. Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee The war-worn soldier turned him home. There, wan from her maternal throes, And peaceful nursed her new-born child. O change accursed! past are those days; What sheeted phantom wanders wild, Where mountain Eske through woodland flows, The wildered traveller sees her glide, He ceased-and cries of rage and grief And half unsheathed his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream, and rock, Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, From gory selle, and reeling steed, He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke-""Tis sweet to hear To drink a tyrant's dying groan. Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod, From the wild Border's humbled side, And smiled, the trait'rous pomp to see. But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, With hackbut bent, my secret stand Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, 'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, From the raised visor's shade, his eye, Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along, And his steel truncheon, waved on high, Seemed marshalling the iron throng. But yet his saddened brow confessed The death-shot parts-the charger springs- What joy the raptured youth can feel, The wolf, by whom his infant fell! But dearer to my injured eye, To see in dust proud Murray roll; And mine was ten times trebled joy To hear him groan his felon soul. |