Roslin and Hawthornden

Fair roslin Chapel, how divine The art that reared thy costly shrine! Thy carven columns must have grown By magic, like a dream in stone. Yet not within thy storied wall Would I in adoration fall, So gladly as within the glen That leads to lovely Hawthornden: A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green And vine-clad pillars, while between The Esk runs murmuring on its way, In living music, night and day. Within the temple of this wood The martyrs of the convenant stood, And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer, From Nature’s solemn altar-stair.

Collection: 
English
Henry Van Dyke

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