XI.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court But pens the lazy steer and sheep, Thy turrets rude and tottered keep, Have been the minstrel’s loved resort. Oft have I traced within thy fort, Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, Scutcheons of honour or pretence, Quartered in old armorial sort, Remains of rude magnificence. Nor wholly yet had time defaced Thy lordly gallery fair; Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, Adorn thy ruined stair. Still rises unimpaired below, The courtyard’s graceful portico; Above its cornice, row and row Of fair hewn facets richly show Their pointed diamond form, Though there but houseless cattle go To shield them from the storm. And, shuddering, still may we explore, Where oft whilom were captives pent, The darkness of thy massy-more; Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, May trace, in undulating line, The sluggish mazes of the Tyne.