David Macbeth Moir


SEE! from this hill, where through the vale there runs
The river, sparkling in the setting sun;
And yon gray church which stands amid the trees,
Beneath whose silent shade full many a mound
Entombs some noble heart; see! that bright field,
Where waves a harvest full of golden grain,
Sprung from a soil made rich by human blood;
As if it strove, but strove in vain, to pay
The debt it owed to beauty’s fairest queen,
When from yon rising ground she saw, with tears,
The flower of all her chivalry dispersed,
And bade her last fond cherished hopes adieu!
And whither did she fly? ah! this recalls
My thoughts when wandering through that stately pile,
Where Britain, like a mother, fondly stores
The mouldering relics of her noblest sons,
And of her fairest daughters; there I saw
A face, in marble even beautiful;
Made yet more fair by contrast with a foe
To whom she fled for safety, but alas!
Found less than when she stood defeated on that field.

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