Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/117

92 HAWTHORNDEN. Loud pealing from those caverns drear,
 * In old disastrous times,

The Covenanter's nightly hymn
 * Upraised its startling chimes;

Here, too, they stoutly stood at bay,
 * Or, frowning, sped along,

To meet the high-born cavalier
 * In conflict fierce and strong.

And here's the hawthorn-broidered nook,
 * Where Drummond, not in vain,

Awaited his inspiring muse,
 * And wooed her dulcet strain.

And there's the oak, beneath whose shade
 * He welcomed tuneful Ben,

And still the memory of their words
 * Is nursed in Hawthornden.

Flowers! flowers! How thick and rich they grow,
 * Along the garden fair,

And sprinkle on the dewy sod
 * Their gifts of fragrance rare.

Methinks from many a heather bell
 * Peeps forth some fairy lance,

And then a tiny foot protrudes,
 * All ready for the dance;

Methinks neath yon broad laurel leaf
 * They hold their revels light,

Imprinting with a noiseless step
 * The mossy carpet bright;