Roslin and Hawthornden

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FAIR Roslin Chapel, how divine
The art that reared thy costly shrine!
Thy carven columns must have grown
By magic, like a dream in stone.

Yet not within thy storied wall  
Would I in adoration fall,
So gladly as within the glen
That leads to lovely Hawthornden:

A long-drawn aisle, with roof of green
And vine-clad pillars, while between  
The Esk runs murmuring on its way,
In living music, night and day.

Within the temple of this wood
The martyrs of the convenant stood,
And rolled the psalm, and poured the prayer,  
From Nature’s solemn altar-stair.

© Henry Van Dyke