The Lady of the Mount

A lonely lady mourns upon the land
Where Mount St. Michael guards the Atlantic wave;
A pale brow drooping on a wasted hand, —
The Lady Katherine Gordon — she who gave
All that a bard could hymn or warrior crave
To Warbeck, vaunted heir of York's true line.
She loved him well in life, and o'er his grave,
Hear it, ye misbelievers ! as a shrine
She breath'd into his soul a passion all divine !

Slowly she dies ! and, one by one, the hues
Pass from her shining cheek, till all is pale ;
Tears fall thereon — the unavailing dews
Impearl those leaves that wave beneath the gale.
Fame, worship, wealth and what could these avail ?
He for whom all were dear was far away —
Yet the proud name he gave shall none assail,
Our bards still call'd her, in their honouring lay,
The White Rose of Old England, unto her dying day.

The White Rose of Old England ! at that name
Our hearts shall burn within us. Tales they tell
Of a grey band of monks that seaward came
From the rich Loire ; and where these surges swell
They rear'd, in memory of their native cell,
Walls, where St. Michael still might honour'd be.
At the Eighth Harry's breath their cloister fell : —
Therefore the storied rock and girdling sea,
Thou Lady of the Dead ! we consecrate to thee !