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Not here need my desponding rhyme

       Lament the ravages of time,

       As erst by Newark’s riven towers,

       And Ettrick stripped of forest bowers.

       True—Caledonia’s Queen is changed,

       Since on her dusky summit ranged,

       Within its steepy limits pent,

       By bulwark, line, and battlement,

       And flanking towers, and laky flood,

       Guarded and garrisoned she stood,

       Denying entrance or resort,

       Save at each tall embattled port;

       Above whose arch, suspended, hung

       Portcullis spiked with iron prong.

       That long is gone,—but not so long,

       Since, early closed, and opening late,

       Jealous revolved the studded gate,

       Whose task, from eve to morning tide,

       A wicket churlishly supplied.

       Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,

       Dunedin! Oh, how altered now,

       When safe amid thy mountain court

       Thou sitt’st, like empress at her sport,

       And liberal, unconfined, and free,

       Flinging thy white arms to the sea,

       For thy dark cloud, with umbered lower,

       That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower,

       Thou gleam’st against the western ray

       Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

       Not she, the championess of old,

       In Spenser’s magic tale enrolled,

       She for the charmed spear renowned,

       Which forced each knight to kiss the ground -

       Not she more changed, when, placed at rest,

       What time she was Malbecco’s guest,

       She gave to flow her maiden vest;

       When from the corslet’s grasp relieved,

       Free to the sight her bosom heaved;

       Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,

       Erst hidden by the aventayle;

       And down her shoulders graceful rolled

       Her locks profuse, of paly gold.

       They who whilom, in midnight fight,

       Had marvelled at her matchless might,

       No less her maiden charms approved,

       But looking liked, and liking loved.

       The sight could jealous pangs beguile,

       And charm Malbecco’s cares a while;

       And he, the wandering squire of dames,

       Forgot his Columbella’s claims,

       And passion, erst unknown, could gain

       The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;

       Nor durst light Paridel advance,

       Bold as he was, a looser glance.

       She charmed at once, and tamed the heart,

       Incomparable Britomarte!

       So thou, fair city! disarrayed

       Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid,

       As stately seem’st, but lovelier far

       Than in that panoply of war.

       Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne

       Strength and security are flown;

       Still as of yore Queen of the North!

       Still canst thou send thy children forth.

       Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call

       Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,

       Than now, in danger, shall be thine,

       Thy dauntless voluntary line;

       For fosse and turret proud to stand,

       Their breasts the bulwarks of the land.

       Thy thousands, trained to martial toil,

       Full red would stain their native soil,

       Ere from thy mural crown there fell

       The slightest knosp or pinnacle.

       And if it come—as come it may,

       Dunedin! that eventful day -

       Renowned for hospitable deed,

       That virtue much with Heaven may plead

       In patriarchal times whose care

       Descending angels deigned to share;

       That claim may wrestle blessings down

       On those who fight for the good town,

       Destined in every age to be

       Refuge of injured royalty;

       Since first, when conquering York arose,

       To Henry meek she gave repose,

       Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe,

       Great Bourbon’s relics, sad she saw.

       Truce to these thoughts!—for, as they rise,

       How gladly I avert mine eyes,

       Bodings, or true or false, to change,

       For Fiction’s fair romantic range,

       Or for tradition’s dubious light,

       That hovers ‘twixt the day and night:

       Dazzling alternately and dim,

       Her wavering lamp I’d rather trim,

       Knights, squires, and lovely dames, to see

       Creation of my fantasy,

       Than gaze abroad on reeky fen,

       And make of mists invading men.

       Who love not more the night of June

       Than dull December’s gloomy noon?

       The moonlight than the fog of frost?

       And can we say which cheats the most?

       But who shall teach my harp to gain

       A sound of the romantic strain,

       Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere

       Could win the royal Henry’s ear,

       Famed Beauclerc called, for that he loved

       The minstrel, and his lay approved?

       Who shall these lingering notes redeem,

       Decaying on Oblivion’s stream;

       Such notes as from the Breton tongue

       Marie translated, Blondel sung?

       O! born Time’s ravage to repair,

       And make the dying muse thy care;

       Who, when his scythe her hoary foe

       Was poising for the final blow,

       The weapon from his hand could wring,

       And break his glass, and shear his wing,

       And bid, reviving in his strain,

       The gentle poet live again;

       Thou, who canst give to lightest lay

       An unpedantic moral gay,

       Nor less the dullest theme bid flit

       On wings of unexpected wit;

       In letters as in

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