[17] The family of Cospatrick, a powerful Northumbrian nobleman, took refuge in Scotland after the death of Harold at Hastings, and in 1072 had extensive lands in the Merse and Lothian gifted them by Malcolm Canmore. They continued to be one of the most opulent and powerful houses in the east of Scotland for a considerable period, as evidenced by their donations, noted in the chartularies of Coldingham, Newbottle, Dryburgh, Kelso, Melrose, and Soltra. Founded on a steep rugged rock, within sea-mark, and communicating with the land through a covered passage, the castle of Dunbar might well, before the invention of gunpowder, have been deemed impregnable. It was often the theatre of warlike contention, and two great battles were fought in its immediate neighbourhood,--the first in 1296, when Earl Warenne defeated the army of Scotland sent for its relief; and the second in 1650, when Leslie was overthrown by Cromwell. It was often besieged, and as often bravely defended; but perhaps never so brilliantly as by Black Agnes against the Earl of Salisbury in 1337. VII. Weep through each grove, ye tearful rills! Ye ivied caves, which Echo fills With voice, lament! Ye proud, free hills, Where eagles wheel and soar, Bid noontide o'er your summits throw Storm's murkiest cloud! Ye vales below, Let all your wild-flowers cease to blow, And with bent heads deplore! VIII. Ye passions, that, with holy fire, Illume man's bosom--that inspire To daring deed, or proud desire, With indignation burn! Ye household charities, that keep Watch over childhood's rosy sleep, Ashes bestrew the hearthstone,--weep As o'er a funeral urn! IX. On--on they speed. Oh dreary day, That, like a vampire, drained away The blood from Scotland's heart--delay, Thou lingering sun to set! Rain, twilight! rain down bloody dews O'er all the eye far northward views; Nor do thou, night of nights! refuse A darkness black as jet. X. Heroic spirits of the dead! That in the body nobly bled, By whom the battle-field for bed Was chosen, look ye down,-- And see if hearts are all grown cold,-- If for their just rights none are bold,-- If servile earth one bosom hold, Worthy of old renown? XI. The pass-word given, o'er bridge of Tweed The cavalcade, with slackened speed, Rolled on, like one from night-mare freed, That draws an easier breath; But o'er and round it hung the gloom As of some dark, mysterious doom, Shadows cast forward from the tomb, And auguries of death. XII.