I woke, but, lo! this vestal maid

I woke, but, lo! this vestal maid Had vanish’d to her native shade; When leaving Baldred’s sacred rill, And winding round by Hamer’s hill, Beside her ancient church I stood, And the blithe priests of Holyrood Came, marshalling, in merry mood. But soon they flit, an aerial train, Like rustling of the wind; And, though the harp’s lone chords complain; Deign not to look behind. I sought St Mary’s chapel fair,— The holy font was dry! No priests were there to mutter prayer For pilgrim passing by; All, tomb-like, was her silent quire, As when the ruthless Edward came, And gave, in retributive ire, The lady’s white-robed church to flame, When on these shores he saw his navy driven, And strove with mortal arm to strike at heaven!