Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Scotland: Vols. VI–VIII. 1876–79.
Holyrood
By Lydia Huntley Sigourney (17911865)O
When erst, in regal state arrayed,
The mitred abbots told their beads,
And chanted ’neath thy hallowed shade,
Revel and dance and pageant led,
And trump to tilt and tourney called,
And royal hands the banquet spread;
Though age on age has o’er thee rolled,
Since good King David reared thy walls,
With turrets proud and tracery bold.
Its interlacing blends sublime
With Gothic columns’ clustered strength,
Where foliage starts and roses climb.
And Salisbury Crag in ledges rise,
Where love the hurtling winds to shriek
Wild chorus to the wintry skies.
And paved with tombstones damp and low,
Yon gloomy vault, whose grated doors
The bones of prince and chieftain show
In armor decked, or antique crown,
A strange interminable line
Of Scotia’s kings looks grimly down.
But most, of Scotia’s fairest flower,
Old Holyrood with mournful grace
Doth every withered petal hoard,
And dwell on each recorded trace.
Where green Carlisle its turrets rears,
And mused on Mary’s grated cell,
Her smitten hopes, her captive tears,
From Langside’s transient gleam of bliss,
She threw herself on queenly faith,
On kindred blood,—for this! for this!
Her stinted walk mid soldiers grim,
Or, listening, caught the burst of woe
That mingled with her vesper-hymn;
In vision seen the faded eye,
The step subdued, the prayer devout,
The sentenced victim led to die.
That in this palace-chamber lie,
Of woman’s lot and woman’s care,
Touch tenderer chords of sympathy,—
By her own busy needle wrought;
The couch, where oft her throbbing brow
For sweet oblivion vainly sought;
So rich, her own serene employ,
While o’er each lovely feature glowed
A mother’s yet untasted joy;
Beside whose flickering midnight flame
In sad communion still she bent
With genial France, from whence it came;
The wreaths that Love around her threw,
The homage of a kneeling realm,
The misery of her last adieu!
The swords that through the arras gleam,
Rude Darnley’s ill-dissembled joy,
Lost Rizzio’s shrill, despairing scream,
The royal bride, with flushing cheek,
Triumphant Bothwell’s hateful glance,—
Alas! alas! what words they speak!