IMMURED in Bothwell’s towers, at times the Brave
         (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn
         The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.
         Once on those steeps 'I’ roamed at large, and have
         In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
         The river glides, the woods before me wave;
         Then why repine that now in vain I crave
         Needless renewal of an old delight?
         Better to thank a dear and long—past day
         For joy its sunny hours were free to give
         Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost.
         Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
         Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:
         How little that she cherishes is lost!

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