Classic Poem

There is not a spot in Mona's Isle
Has purer charms for me
Than yonder lonely, mouldering pile,
Which beams in the bright sun's parting smile,
Ere he sinks in the western sea:
'Tis a hallow'd spot, with its turrets of light
That gleam in the glassy wave,
Where its image is mirror'd so calmly bright,
You'd think it the work of enchanter's might,
Rais'd up from the ocean's grave.

There beams each hoary, time-worn tower,
All bent with the weight of years,
Like goodly Age in his dying hour,
Whilst sunny Hope's triumphant power
Dispels his doubts and fears.
There stands the holy, mouldering fane,
Where rest the sleeping dead,
Where they for ages long have lain,
And slept the sleep that knows no pain,
Each in his grassy bed.

But roofless now is that holy pile,
And its arches rent and riven;
Yet I love to tread its lonely aisle,
Where the footfall only is heard the while,
And muse on the things of heaven;
For who could cherish dark thoughts of gloom
In a scene so bright and fair,
Where the sunbeams lighten the place of the tomb,
And gild the wild flowers that around us bloom,
Which offer their incense there?

But let us explore the ruins around,
And the Castle's lone dungeon cells,
Where the royal lady lay fettered and bound, —
Till ling'ring death her chains unwound, —
Accus'd of dark magic spells;
And the room near the dim portcullis-door,
Where the night-watch oft was scar'd
By the " spectre hound " so fam'd of yore,
As told in his lay of minstrel lore
By Scotia's brightest bard.