Summer at the Lake of Monteith

158 The Lake of Monteith.
MONTEITH.
Alas, Monteith! where's now thy name,
Thy ancient glory, and thy fame?
In thee, when reign'd thy halcyon morn,
Old Scotia's truest sons were born.
Stewart, and Drummond, and the Graeme —
Who swelled the foremost ranks of fame —
Saw first the light within thy strand,
And first brought honour to thy land.
When Norway, teeming with her hosts,
Launched bearded hordes on Largu's coasts,
The Stewart, from their native heath,
Led forth thy bravest sons, Monteith;
And there, amid the battle tide,
Smote the grim Norsemen in the Clyde.
When Bruce, who hated Edward's sway,
Whispered brave Drummond to the fray,
From mountain, lake, and river side
Burst forth that glorious living tide
That, fighting for an empire just,
Laid England's legions in the dust;
And gave them still a mightier urn
In the dread trench at Bannockburn.
The Graeme — his name is wide and far
In deeds of honour and of war,
And needs not my poor humble spell
To waft his fame, his glories tell; —
Suffice it that his spirit still
Hallows the lonely lake and hill.
But fortune fair has ceased to smile:
Gray ruin reigns on every isle! —
Talla is now a mouldering dome,
Glory has fled from Inchmahome;