The Cloisters: The Church in Scotland

More pure the gale where the wild thistle rears
His mountain banner on his stony tower,
Than odorous breath of cultivated bower ;
More true to nature o'er its armed spears
The mountain rose its lonely chalice bears,
Than many-folding cups of cherish'd flower ;
And, traversing those wilds with silvery shower,
E'en Winter's moon more clear and free appears !
Such is thy sister of the northern hills,
Less honour'd, not less holy ; bow'd with ills,
But not destroy'd ; pure branch of the true vine,
Drinking her nurture from the barren rock,
Of pitiless elements she braves the shock,
And hath less earthly beauty — more divine.