# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Cruxtoun Castle

Cruxtoun Castle.
The reader will find a brief, but instructive, account of this relic of Baronial times—which, at different periods, has been written Cruxtoun, Croestoun, and Crookston—in a work entitled 'Views in Renfrewshire,' by Philip A. Ramsay, one of the Poet's earliest and truest friends. Of the objects of antiquity remaining in Renfrewshire, Cruxtoun Castle, according to Mr Ramsay, is, in point of interest, second only to the Abbey of Paisley. 'The ruins of this castle,' he observes, 'occupy the summit of a wooded slope, overhanging the south bank of the White Cart, about three miles south-east from Paisley, and close to the spot where that river receives the waters of a stream called the Levern. The scenery in this neighbourhood is rich and varied, and although the eminence on which the Castle stands is but gentle, it is so commanding that our great Novelist has made Queen Mary remark, that "from thence you may see a prospect wide as from the peaks of Schehallion." To Cruxtoun Castle, then the property of Darnley, Mary's husband, tradition tells us, the royal bride was conducted, soon after the celebration of their nuptials at Edinburgh.'
Thou grey and antique tower, Receive a wanderer of the lonely night, Whose moodful sprite Rejoices at this witching time to brood Amid thy shattered strength's dim solitude! It is a fear-fraught hour— A death-like stillness reigns around,
Save the wood-skirted river's eerie sound, And the faint rustling of the trees that shower Their brown leaves on the stream, Mournfully gleaming in the moon's pale beam: 0! I could dwell for ever and for ever In such a place as this, with such a night! When, o'er thy waters and thy waving woods The moon-beams sympathetically quiver, And no ungentle thing on thee intrudes, And every voice is dumb, and every object bright!
Forgive, old Cruxtoun, if, with step unholy, Unwittingly a pilgrim should profane The regal quiet, the august repose, Wliich o'er thy desolated summit reign— When the fair moon's abroad, at evening's close— Or interrupt that touching melancholy— Image of fallen grandeur—softly thrown O'er every crumbling and moss-bedded stone, And broken arch, and pointed turret hoar, Which speak a tale of times that are no more; Of triumphs they have seen, When Minstrel-craft, in praise of Scotland's Queen, Woke all the magic of the harp and song, And the rich, varied, and fantastic lore Of those romantic days was carped, I ween,
Amidst the pillared pomp of lofty hall, By many a jewelled throng Of smiling dames and soldier barons bold; When the loud cheer of generous wassail rolled From the high deis to where the warder strode, Proudly, along the battlemented wall, Beneath his polished armour's ponderous load; Who paused to hear, and carolled back again, With martial glee, the jocund vesper strain: Thou wilt forgive! Mine is no peering eye, That seeks, with glance malign, the suffering part, Thereby, with hollow show of sympathy, To smite again the poor world-wounded heart: No—thy misfortunes win from him a sigh Whose soul towers, like thyself, o'er each lewd passer-by.
Relique of earlier days, Yes, dear thou art to me!— And beauteous, marvellously, The moon-light strays Where banners glorious floated on thy walls— Clipping their ivied honours with its thread Of half-angelick light: And though o'er thee Time's wasting dews have shed Their all-consuming blight,
Maternal moon-light falls On and around thee full of tenderness, Yielding thy shattered frame pure love's divine caress.
Ah me! thy joy of youthful lusty hood Is gone, old Cruxtoun! Ever, ever gone! Here hast thou stood In nakedness and sorrow, roofless, lone, For many a weary year—and to the storm Hast bared thy wasted form— Braving destruction, in the attitude Of reckless desolation. Like to one Who in this world no longer may rejoice, Who watching by Hope's grave With stern delight, impatient is to brave The worst of coming ills—So, Cruxtoun! thou Rear'st to the tempest thy undaunted brow; When Heaven's red coursers flash athwart the sky— Startling the guilty as they thunder by— Then raisest thou a wild, unearthly hymn, Like death-desiring bard whose star hath long been dim!
Neglected though thou art, Sad remnant of old Scotland's worthier days, When independence had its chivalrie,
There still is left one heart To mourn for thee! And though, alas! thy venerable form Must bide the buffet of each vagrant storm, One spirit yet is left to linger here And pay the tribute of a silent tear; Who in his memory registers the dints That Time hath graved upon thy sorrowing brow; Who of thy woods loves the Autumnal tints, Whose voice—perforce indignant—mingles now In all thy lamentations—with the tone, Not of these paltry times, but of brave years long gone.
Nor is't the moonshine clear, Leeming on tower, and tree, and silent stream, Nor hawthorn blossoms which in Spring appear, Most prodigal of perfume—nor the sweets Of wood-flowers, peeping up at the blue sky; Nor the mild aspect of blue hills which greet The eager vision—blessed albeit they seem, Each 'with its charm particular—To my eye, Old Cruxtoun hath an interest all its own— From many a cherished, intersociate thought— From feelings multitudinous well known To souls in whom the patriot fire hath wrought Sublime remembrance of their country's fame:
Radiant thou art in the ethereal flame— The lustrous splendour—which those feelings shed O'er many a scene of this my father-land! Thou, grey magician, with thy potent wand, Evok'st the shades of the illustrious dead! The mists dissolve—up rise the slumbering years— On come the knightly riders cap-a-pie— The herald calls—hark, to the clash of spears! To Beauty's Queen each hero bends the knee; Dreams of the Past, how exquisite ye be— Offspring of heavenly faith and rare antiquity!
Light feet have trod The soft, green, flowering sod That girdles thy baronial strength, and traced, All gracefully, the labyrinthine dance; Young hearts discoursed with many a passionate glance, While rose and fell the Minstrel's thrilling strain— (Who, in this iron age, might sing in vain— His largesse coarse neglect, and mickle pain!) Waste are thy chambers tenantless, which long Echoed the notes of gleeful minstrelsie— Notes once the prelude to a tale of wrong, Of Royalty and love.—Beneath yon tree— Now bare and blasted—so our annals tell—
The martyr Queen, ere that her fortunes knew A darker shade than cast her favourite yew, Loved Darnley passing well— Loved him with tender woman's generous love, And bade farewell awhile to courtly state And pageantry for yon o'ershadowing grove— For the lone river's banks where small birds sing— Their little hearts with summer joys elate— Where tall broom blossoms, flowers profusely spring; There he, the most exalted of the land, Pressed, with the grace of youth, a Sovereign's peerless hand.
And she did die!— Die as a traitor—in the brazen gaze Of her—a kinswoman and enemy— O well may such an act my soul amaze! My country, at that hour, where slept thy sword? Where was the high and chivalrous accord, To fling the avenging banner of our land, Like sheeted flame, forth to the winds of heaven? O shame among the nations—thus to brook The damning stain to thy escutcheon given! How could thy sons upon their mothers look, Degenerate Scotland! heedless of the wail Of thy lorn Queen, in her captivity!
Unmov'd wert thou by all her bitter bale— Untouch'd by thought that she had governed thee— Hard was each heart and cold each powerful hand— No harnessed steed rushed panting to the fight; O listless fell the lance when Mary laid Her head upon the block—and high in soul, Which lacked not then thy frugal sympathy, Died—in her widowed beauty, penitent— Whilst thou, by foul red-handed faction rent, Wert falsest recreant to sweet majesty!
'Tis past—she rests—the scaffold hath been swept, The headsman's guilty axe to rust consigned— But, Cruxtoun, while thine aged towers remain, And thy green umbrage wooes the evening wind— By noblest natures shall her woes be wept, Who shone the glory of thy festal day: Whilst aught is left of these thy ruins grey, They will arouse remembrance of the stain Queen Mary's doom hath left on History's page— Remembrance laden with reproach and pain, To those who make, like me, this pilgrimage!