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[719] at large, and have In mind the landscape, as if still in sight; 5 The river glides, the woods before me wave; Then why repine that now in vain I crave[720] Needless renewal of an old delight? Better to thank a dear and long-past day For joy its sunny hours were free to give 10 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! FOOTNOTES: [719] The following is from the same MS., and gives an account of the visit to Bothwell Castle here alluded to:-- "It was exceedingly delightful to enter thus unexpectedly upon such a beautiful region. The castle stands nobly, overlooking the Clyde. When we came up to it, I was hurt to see that flower-borders had taken place of the natural overgrowings of the ruin, the scattered stones and wild plants. It is a large and grand pile of red freestone, harmonising perfectly with the rocks of the river, from which, no doubt, it has been hewn. When I was a little accustomed to the unnaturalness of a modern garden, I could not help admiring the excessive beauty and luxuriance of some of the plants, particularly the purple-flowered clematis, and a broad-leafed creeping plant without flowers, which scrambled up the castle wall, along with the ivy, and spread its vine-like branches so lavishly that it seemed to be in its natural situation, and one could not help thinking that, though not self-planted among the ruins of this country, it must somewhere have its native abode in such places. If Bothwell Castle had not been close to the Douglas mansion, we should have been disgusted with the possessor's miserable conception of _adorning_ such a venerable ruin; but it is so very near to the house, that of necessity the pleasure-grounds must have extended beyond it, and perhaps the neatness of a shaven lawn and the complete desolation natural to a ruin might have made an unpleasing contrast; and, besides being within the precincts of the pleasure-grounds, and so very near to the dwelling of a noble family, it has forfeited, in some degree, its independent majesty, and becomes a tributary to the mansion: its solitude being interrupted, it has no longer the command over the mind in sending it back into past times, or excluding the ordinary feelings which we bear about us in daily life. We had then only to regret that the castle and the house were so near to each other; and it was impossible _not_ to regret it; for the ruin presides in state over the river, far from city or town, as if it might have a peculiar privilege to preserve its memorials of past ages, and maintain its own character for centuries to come.