 | The Battle of Largs |  |
60
THE PRELUDE.
Unheard, in Secresy's low vaulted cell,
The lonely Muse attun'd the sounding shell.
No temple's Echo to her voice reply'd,
Where awful shades with Memory reside;
Yet through the clefted rocks romantic form,
Kindling the clouds that drifted on the storm,
The setting sun would glare a fiery light,
And milder moonshine tinge the gloom of night.
The lonely Muse attun'd the sounding shell.
No temple's Echo to her voice reply'd,
Where awful shades with Memory reside;
Yet through the clefted rocks romantic form,
Kindling the clouds that drifted on the storm,
The setting sun would glare a fiery light,
And milder moonshine tinge the gloom of night.
The solemn hymns by holy organs peal'd
From ancient abbeys half in trees conceal'd,
And bugle-blasts of chivalry and war,
From the high battlement resounding far,
Swell'd on her ear, and blending in her thought,
A mimic strain of minstrel rudeness taught.
From ancient abbeys half in trees conceal'd,
And bugle-blasts of chivalry and war,
From the high battlement resounding far,
Swell'd on her ear, and blending in her thought,
A mimic strain of minstrel rudeness taught.
| The Battle of Largs | |