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On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew Glistened sheen’mong the heathbells and mountain flowers


And far up in heaven, in the clear shining cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud:
And in Glenmuir’s wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed nothing but glad

ness; The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness ; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of green July's bright morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank nought from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow,

'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were

crying, For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces were pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un

breathed : With eyes raised to Heaven, in meek resignation, They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;

But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the hosts of th' ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist, and in darkness, and fire they were

shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded ; Their dark eyes shot lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the lightning is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming; The heavens were dark, and the thunder was rolling, While in Wellwood's dark moorlands the mighty were


When the righteous were fallen, and the combat had

ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended, Its attendants were angels, and cherubs of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned upon axles of brightness ;

A seraph unfolded the doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the paths of the thunder the horsemen are

riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits, the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory.



And this is, death! how cold and still,

And yet how lovely it appears ! Too cold to let the gazer smile,

And yet too beautiful for tears. The sparkling eye no more is bright,

The cheek has lost its rose-like red; And yet it is with strange delight

I stand and gaze upon the dead.

But when I see the fair wide brow,

Half-shaded by the silken hair, That never looked so fair as now,

When life and health were laughing there, I wonder not that grief should swell

So wildly upward in the breast, And that strong passion once rebel, · That need not, cannot be suppressed.

I wonder not that parents' eyes,

In gazing thus, grow cold and dim, That burning tears and aching sighs

Are blended with the funeral hymn; The spirit hath an earthly part,

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies, And heaven would scorn the frozen heart

That melts not when the infant dies.

And yet, why mourn? that deep repose

Shall never more be broke by pain; Those lips no more in sighs unclose,

Those eyes shall never weep again.

For think not that the blushing flower

Shall wither in the churchyard sod, 'Twas made to gild an angel's bower

Within the paradise of God.

Once more I gaze-and swift and far

The clouds of death and sorrow fly, I see thee like a new-born star

Move up thy path-way in the sky: The star hath rays serene and bright,

But cold and pale compared with thine; For thy orb shines with heavenly light,

With beams unfading and divine.

Then let the burthened heart be free,

The tears of sorrow all be shed, And parents calmly bend to see

The mournful beauty of the dead; Thrice happy—that their infant bears

To heaven no darkening stains of sin; And only breathed life's morning airs

Before its noon-day storms begin.

Farewell! I shall not soon forget!

Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, My memory warmly treasures yet

Thy features calm and mildly sweet; But no, that look is not the last,

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, Where love no more deplores the past, Nor breathes that withering word—Farewell!



God of the earth's extended plains !

The dark green fields contented lie; The mountains rise like holy towers

Where man might commune with the sky; The tall cliff challenges the storm

That lours upon the vale below,
Where shaded fountains send their streams

With joyous music in their flow.

God of the dark and heavy deep!

The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm

Hath summoned up their thundering bands; Then the white sails are dashed like foam,

Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale

Serenely breathes, depart in peace.

God of the forest's solemn shade!

The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale,

Lifts up admiring eyes to thee; But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To weave on high their plumes of green,

And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air !

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow;

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