Not here need my desponding rhyme
Lament the ravages of time,
As erst by Newark’s riven towers, 35
And Ettrick stripp’d of forest bowers. 
True,—­Caledonia’s Queen is changed,
Since on her dusky summit ranged,
Within its steepy limits pent,
By bulwark, line, and battlement, 40
And flanking towers, and laky flood,
Guarded and garrison’d she stood,
Denying entrance or resort,
Save at each tall embattled port;
Above whose arch, suspended, hung 45
Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
That long is gone,—­but not so long,
Since, early closed, and opening late,
Jealous revolved the studded gate,
Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 50
A wicket churlishly supplied. 
Stern then, and steel-girt was thy brow,
Dun-Edin!  O, how altered now,
When safe amid thy mountain court
Thou sitt’st, like Empress at her sport, 55
And liberal, unconfined, and free,
Flinging thy white arms to the sea,
For thy dark cloud, with umber’d lower,
That hung o’er cliff, and lake, and tower,
Thou gleam’st against the western ray 60
Ten thousand lines of brighter day.

Not she, the Championess of old,
In Spenser’s magic tale enroll’d,
She for the charmed spear renown’d,
Which forced each knight to kiss the ground,—­
Not she more changed, when, placed at rest, 66
What time she was Malbecco’s guest,
She gave to flow her maiden vest;
When from the corselet’s grasp relieved,
Free to the sight her bosom heaved; 70
Sweet was her blue eye’s modest smile,
Erst hidden by the aventayle;
And down her shoulders graceful roll’d
Her locks profuse, of paly gold. 
They who whilom, in midnight fight, 75
Had marvell’d at her matchless might,
No less her maiden charms approved,
But looking liked, and liking loved. 
The sight could jealous pangs beguile,
And charm Malbecco’s cares a while; 80
And he, the wandering Squire of Dames,
Forgot his Columbella’s claims,
And passion, erst unknown, could gain
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane;
Nor durst light Paridel advance, 85
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charm’d, at once, and tamed the heart,
Incomparable Britomane!

So thou, fair City! disarray’d
Of battled wall, and rampart’s aid, 90
As stately seem’st, but lovelier far
Than in that panoply of war. 
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne
Strength and security are flown;
Still as of yore, Queen of the North! 95
Still canst thou send thy children forth. 
Ne’er readier at alarm-bell’s call
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall,
Than now, in danger, shall be thine,