Star. — 1830-08-07 (London, England)

EDINEURGH CASTLE-PRIZE POEM.  " She stands, A fortress fonn'd to Freedom's hands! The whirlwind's wrath, the euthquake. shock, Have left untoueh'd her hoary rock." Bvrolv.  Hock of our fathers ! fortress of the tree! August memorial of departed days ! How sweet it is to gaze alone on thee When the pale evening star serenely plays Along each spectral cliff; then thought may raise Scenes of past agea,—then may fancy rear Her varied shapes before our ardent gaze— The ancient chieftain leaning en his spear, While Scotia's battle-horn clangs forth her note of fear ; Or the old minstrel, with his artless lyre, Encircled by a rude, attentive band, Chanting with nervous voice his notes of fire, In the wild language of his mountain land ; Or the fierce battle-cry and clashing brand. When hostile nations met on thy dark brow ; The war-pipe's tone, the leader's loud command, The joyous shout, the stilled ay of woe, When Caledonia's sons dashed on their southern foe. Well bath the Scottish Lion !tamed to wave Upon thy battlements, for they have been The freeman's refuge and the tyrant's grave. Full many a glorious pageant have they Seen, And many a deed of blood since Cantitore's Queens Died on thy lofty crest; oft bath the night Been scared by brazent thunder storms, 1 ween, Awl light, more dread than darkness, when the fight Bade the fierce cannon blaze from thy majestic height. But there are deeds, thine early annals tell, Cradle and prison-house of Kings ! threw A shade of gloom upon thy glorious hill, Like dark reeds chequering some blue river's Hoe, Or purple blood-drops on an Alp of snow. These ramparts, Doubles,: brave ill-fated Lord, Gave thy proud bosom to the murderer's blow : Thy bright form sunk beneath his dastard sword. And the young life-blood gushed along the festal board ! Thy voice, unhappy Mary ! oft bath made Yon turret vocal with thy mournful strain, When from the lonely grate thy sad eye strayed To the blue mountains and the sunny main : Thy tears have watered it, like summer rain From a bright sky; there was no sister dear Gently to sooth thy youthful bosom's pain, Nor was thy Prince. thy much.loved infant, near. To wipe with his young hand his wretched mother's tear. These days are gone ; the culverin's voice is more Startles the wild.wing'd tenants of the rock, Save on the jubilee day ; the dove may soar And light upon the cannon's mouth ; the dock May graze secure where once the battle-shock Raged with demonise fury, or the mine Tore up_ the solid mountain with its stroke ; But still survive the ancient tales that twins Their memory round each tower and hoaty cliff of thine. Far other scenes repose beneath thee now Than Bruce beheld in Scotia's earlier day: A glorious city stretches wide below, Melting in misty grandeur far away, With towers, end faces, and domes in bright array, Like the vast billows of a marble sea, Rearing their beads to heaven ; but my weak lay Can ne'er, Edina, tell the majesty That pours a dulling stream of beauty upon thee. Rock of Dunedin ! up thine airy steep The zephyr bears the breath of many a flower From the sweet gardens that around thee sweep Like incense-offerings to s guardian power; • Proud o'er the scene thy watchful ramparts tower: Beneath them countless edifices rear Their fronts resplendent In the sunny hour ; But none more bright, more beautiful appear. Than ova OWN CLASSIC PILE —to all its children dear. Bulwark of Scotia! it is thine to see Agee pass o'er thee—multitudes expire_ Leaving no trace behind them ;—but on thee There are no marks of the Destroyer's ire ; He cannot wreak on thee his vengeance dire. Still shalt thou gaze on thine own city spread Glorious beneath thee; like some aged she Lifting his grey and venerable head Above a new-ban race, a remnant of the dead ! Dear to the Scot is thy unconquered hill. As the lone dell where his forefather's lie,— And o'er thee Freedom breathes divinely still : The birds with ehainless wing around thee fly ; The breezes chant the songs of liberty With their wild voices; and thy martial band Still raise the war-note on thy ramparts high ; Thou art the Phyle of the Scottish strand— The boast of ancient days--the glory of the land !