Up Aldham’s flowery steep the biers

Up Aldham’s flowery steep the biers Ascend, in a long dusky line, Where, tow’ring o’er their dark compeers, The warriors’ glancing helms shine; And golden mitres lustre shed Upon each bishop’s ancient head.

First solemn walk’d, behind the pall, Conwal, that priest austere and tall, Who dwelt by Clutha’s winding stream; His loins were girdled round with hair: For such like penance he did deem Useful to fit his soul for prayer. He was St Baldred’s friend in youth, St Mungo train’d them both to truth; And ne’er do tears sincerer flow Than those which early friends bestow, When weeping o’er some parted shade In life’s luxuriant prime decay’d. Ah! who would wish to linger here When those who made life sweet are gone, When loves and friendships disappear Beneath the dark sepulchral stone; And all we know of sage and fair, Is the dull record that—they were!

Upon his right, with martial brow, Appeared the young Prince Derili, Who wept in Baldred’s relics now A lost preceptor, and did sigh While running o’er instructive hours— Which now, alas! too quick had sped— As oft in Dirleton’s ivied towers He listen’d to the honour’d dead, And heard truths morally sublime, That purified his soul from crime, And bade him afterwards atone For errors that were not his own; And in Loch Leven’s lonely isle To heaven bequeath a holy pile.

St Conwal, on his left, was led By Asaph—soon to suffering bred, A zealous man, who did adorn The holy church, for which he’d borne The martyr’s faggot-blaze; Unburthening his soul of guilt Three hundred times a-day he knelt In silent deeds of praise; So oft he’d paced the altar’s bound, His steps had worn the marble ground! He was supported by that sage, Who ’midst the others shone So venerable in his age, The Priest of Garmilton. Idan came next of Lindisfarn, In demon-conflicts bold, Who, on the gloomy rocks of Fern Did secret vigils hold, And afterwards, upon that shore, The bishop’s pastoral crosier bore. While Eta, abbot of Melrose, The bishop’s stoled ranks did close. Then follow’d those of less degree, Yet not less famed for sanctity; There stalk’d Dricthelmus the austere, Who one dread night in death’s arms slept, And saw Heaven’s mystic visions fair, As o’er the golden walls he crept, When, lo! a weight of earthly sin, Like Eden-cherub’s flaming brand, Just as he leap’d to enter in, Drove him to this terrestrial land!— There also walk’d those monks profound, With eye devout upon the ground, The followers of St Benedict, In sanctimonious manners strict. While wander’d in the rabble’s van, That sadly lone Aemonian! Where’er this gentle hermit went Still followed him a sacred cow, Whether he trod the sandy bent, Or clomb the mountain’s heathery brow.