Classic Poem

Here let me sit at midnight hour,
Where Sempill lords are sleeping;
While moonbeams show'r thro' ruin'd tower,
The stars their watch are keeping,
And wand'ring winds, like weary things,
Thro' long rank grass are wailing,
Like shadows lone of warriors gone
On misty moonbeams sailing.

Now Ruin haunts these lordly halls,
Where Mirth and Joy resounded;
Where warriors dwelt, and captives knelt,
And harps to Glory sounded.
Proud Eliotstoun's a ruin grey,
With none to tell her story,
Save winds of eve that come to grieve
O'er wreck of ancient glory.

Where are the minstrels old and grey,
That sung to Beauty's daughters?
They've past away with list'ners gay,
Like music on the waters:
The jocund bard of old Belltrees
In moss-grown grave is lying;
The songs he sang till Scotia rang
Are echoes faintly dying.

And lowly lies that warrior lord,
Who oft so gaily bounded
On dapple grey in war array,
While trump to battle sounded.
There's no one left of that proud race
That climb'd the steep of glory;
Their might's a tale of grandame frail,
A ruin old and hoary.