COMPOSED IN ROSLIN CHAPEL, DURING A STORM

The wind is now thy organist;— a clank

( We know not whence ) ministers for a bell

To mark some change of service. As the swell

Of music reached its height, and even when sank

The notes, in prelude, ROSLIN! to a blank

Of silence, how it thrilled thy sumptuous roof,

Pillars, and arches,— not in vain time-proof,

Though Christian rites be wanting! From what bank

Came those live herbs? by what hand were they sown

Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown?

Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche

Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown,

Copy their beauty more and more, and preach,

Though mute, of all things blending into one.