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Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these

Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd

A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:

There, leaning on his spear, (one of th* array

That, in the times of old, had scath'd the rose

On England's banner, and had pow'rless struck

Th' infatuate monarch and his wav'ring host,

Yet rang'd itself to aid his son dethron'd,)

The lyart veteran heard the word of God

By Cameron (10) thunder'd, or by Renwick

(ll)pour'd
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceas'd
Her plaint;. the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear*

* Sentinels were placed on the surrounding hills, to give warning of the approach of the military.

Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy follow'd; and no more
Th' assembled people dar'd, in face of day, (12)
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wint'ry storm rav'd fierce,
And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood
To couch within their dens; then dauntlessly
The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning op'd the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: Over their souls
His accents soothing came,—as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve
She gathers in mournful her brood dispers'd
By murd'rous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast
They cherish'd cow'r amid the purple blooms.

But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale, The house of pray'r itself,—no place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day, Than does the field of graves, the land of rest:— Oft at the close of ev'ning-pray'r, the toll, The fun'ral-toll, announces solemnly The service of the tomb; the homeward crouds Divide on either hand: the pomp draws near; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, "I am the resurrection and the life." Ah me I these youthful bearers rob'd in white, They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years:—'twas she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not

give, With angel-tongue pleaded to those who could, With angel-tongue and mild beseeching eye,

That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,—
Rejoic'd to die; for happy. visions bless'd
Her voyage's last days,* and, hov'ring round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage

That heav'n was nigh: O what a burst

Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy

Her heav'nward eyes suffus'd! Those eyes are

clos'd: Yet all her loveliness is not yet flown: She smil'd in death, and still her cold pale face Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,

* Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence feems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds at first hovering round the ship, and then lighting on the rigging.

In which the wint'ry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heav'n unchang'd,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
Again that knell! The slow procession stops:
The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick-emboss'd
With melancholy ornaments,—(the name,
The record of her blossoming age,)—appears
Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown,
The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound!
Upon thelower'd bier the shovell'd clay
Falls fast, and fills the void.—

But who is he
That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye,
As if he coveted the closing grave?
And he does covet it; his wish is death:
The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right-hand

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