Poem by Amanda Maria Corey Edmond

Loch Leven Castle

PROUD ruin on Loch Leven’s stream,
Whose waters dance with silver gleam,
  Beneath the gentle breezes’ swell,
    That bear upon their downy wing
  The fragrance of the heather bell,
    On every wild hill blossoming,

With ivied battlement and tower,
And remnant rude of kingly power,
  Thou standest as in days of yore,
    When pensive Mary, Scotland’s Queen,
  A prisoner on the castled shore,
    Gazed on the lake of sparkling sheen.

Thy name with hers is woven yet,—
And who shall Mary’s name forget,
  Though thou may’st crumble from the view,
    And Leven’s waters cease to run,
  Reflecting from their breast of blue
    The silver moon and golden sun?

No warden’s fire shall e’er again
  Illume Loch Leven’s bosom fair,
Nor clarion shrill of armored men
  The breeze across the lake shall bear.
But while remains a stone of thine,
  It shall be linked to royal fame,
For there a Rose of Stuart’s line
  Hath left the fragrance of her name.

Lydia Sigourney Loch Leven Castle ("THOU rude and ancient pile")

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