The holy balm that centres there? 

 Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook 

 On those deserted scenes to look, 

 Where she so oft had marked her child, 

 With all a mother's joy and smiled, 

 For not a shrub, or tree or flower, 

 But brought to mind some happy hour, 

 And called to life some vision fair. 

 When her young hope stood smiling there. 

 But he was gone! and what had she 

 To do with love, or hope, or pride, 

 For every feeling, warm and free, 

 Had left her when young Duncan died; 

 And she had nought on earth beside. 

 One single throb was lingering yet, 

 And that forbade her to forget; 

 Forget! what spell can calm the soul? 

 Should memory o'er its pulses roll 

 Through almost every night of grief, 

 We still hope for the morrow; 

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