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For faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
THE COVENANTERS' SABBATH.
'Twas Sabbath morn, a lovelier nover rose,
And nature seem'd in holy calm repose;
No cloud was seen along the azure sky,
And the pure streamlet glided softly by;
From tree to tree the warbling minstrels sung,
And heav'n's bright arch with nature's praises rung.
Tho' all was still, yet persecution's rage,
With awful fury scourg'd a bleeding age:
Then Scotland groan'd beneath a tyrant's yoke,
Till her proud spirit seem'd for ever broke;
Her sons were haunted from the abodes of men,
To savage wilds, or some sequester'd glen:
Justice stood mute, for dæmons gave the law,
And many a bloody scene her mountains saw.
What tho' this morning rose so calmly bright,
The eye which saw it, trembled at its light;
On Loudon's braes the bird might find a nest;
On Pentland'st hills the wounded deer might rest;
But terror there her gloomy watch did keep,
Like the death storm which overhangs the deep;
And homeless man from place to place was driven,
Bereft of hope, and every stay but heaven.
Where the Covenanter's often met for worship.
+ The melancholy associations connected with Pentland, are too well known to require further notice; and for a full history of the sufferings of the Church of Scotland under t rage of Popery and Prelacy, we would refer our reader the "Scots Worthies," and Woodrow's History.
No gladsome bell announc'd the Sabbath day,
The solemn temples moulder'd with decay;
God's people met, amidst the lonely wild,
Like wretched outcasts from a world exil'd;
In a lone cave, the eagle's drear abode,
They met to worship, and to praise their God
The fretted rocks around their temple hung,
And echoed back the praises as they sung;
Tho' half supprest the thrilling accents rise,
To God who hears, and answers in the skies;
The preacher rose, and ev'ry voice grew still,
Save echoing breezes round the lonely hill;
With solemn awe he opes the blessed book,-
Earnest in voice, and heavenly in his look;
While from his lips the soothing accents flow,
To cheer his flock, and mitigate their woe;
For who could tell how soon the sent'nel's breath
Might give the signal of approaching death;
For ev'ry moment seem'd to them the last,
And days to come, more gloomy than the past.
Within that place, the sacramental board
Was spread in memory of their risen Lord,
While the deep thunder rent the thick'ning cloud,
And light'ning flash'd along the mournful crowd;
And when with lowly hands the bread was broke,
The sheeted flame fell on the living rock;
Illum'd the table with its symbols spread,
As if heaven's brightness rested on their head:
With placid looks they saw the dark'ning cloud,
Which hid Jehovah in his awful shroud;
And when the voice fell deafening on the ear,
No murm'ring word proclaim'd them men of fear.
But calm and sweet the heaven tun'd "Martyrs"
Like zephyrs sighing at the tempest's close. [rose.
*The Psalm Tune, said to have been sung in caves deserts, by the persecuted Covenanters, and no person c
Near to this place where mountain torrents flow
Thro' broken rocks, to calmer scenes below,
How oft was heard the tender infant's sigh,
Its name pronounc'd midst breezes passing by;
While all-unconscious of the holy rite,
It smil'd amidst the dangers of the night.
In caves and glens their Sabbath hours were spent,
Till the pale moon illum'd the firmament;
And there they wander'd at the dead of night,
When the dims tars withheld their glimmering light;
And Oh! how oft their wild retreat's been found
By those who sought them like the blood-train'd
And made that place, their oft frequented cave,
The holy Martyrs' solitary grave;
Where nought but winds their dreary death-knell
And the scar'd bird their mournful requiem sung:
Yet heaven wept, and bade their spirits rise
On angel wings, from sorrow to the skies;
While all they suffer'd shall be ne'er forgot,
Their grave be hallow'd, and their dying spot;
For they to Scotland gave her church, her laws,
And fell like patriots in their country's cause.
Peace to their mem❜ry, let no impious breath
Soil their fair fame, or triumph o'er their death:
Let Scotia's grateful sons their tear-drops shed,
Where low they lie in honour's gory bed;
listen, even at the present day, to its exquisite pathos, and heart-touching melody, without feeling emotions of no ordinary kind. Thank God, the days of persecution, for conscience' sake, have passed away; but we should remember, that amidst the calmness and beauty of our civil and religious horizon, that it was to those Martyrs for the cause of Trut and of Freedom, that we are now indebted for all that we enjo
Rich with the spoils their glorious deeds had won,
And purchas'd freedom to a land undone ;
A land which owes its glory and its worth
To those whom tyrants banish'd from the earth.
HONOUR and happiness unite
To make the Christian's name a praise;
How fair the scene, how clear the light,
That fills the remnant of his days!
A kingly character he bears,
No change his priestly office knows;
Unfading is the crown he wears,
His joys can never reach a close.
Adorn'd with glory from on high,
Salvation shines upon his face;
His robe is of th' ethereal dye,
His steps are dignity and grace.
Inferior honours he disdains,
Nor stoops to take applause from earth;
The King of kings himself maintains
Th' expenses of his heav'nly birth.
The noblest creature seen below,
Ordain'd to fill a throne above;
God gives him all he can bestow,
His kingdom of eternal love!
My soul is ravish'd at the thought!
Methinks from earth I see him rise,
Angels congratulate his lot,
And shout him welcome to the skies!
For thou wert born of woman! thou didst come,
O Holiest to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;
And not by thunders strew'd
Was thy tempestuous road;
Not indignation burnt before thee on thy way.
But thee, a soft and naked child,
Thy mother, undefil'd,
In the rude manger laid to rest,
From off her virgin breast.
The heav'ns were not commanded to prepare
A gorgeous canopy of golden air;
Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high;
A single silent star
Came wand'ring from afar,
Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky;
The Eastern Sages leading on,
As at a kingly throne,
To lay their gold and odours sweet
Before thy infant feet.
The earth and ocean were not hush'd to hear
Bright harmony from ev'ry starry sphere;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all the cherub choirs,
And seraph's burning lyres
Pour'd through the host of heav'n the charmed
One angel troop the strain began,
Of all the race of man,
By simple shepherds heard alone,
That soft Hosanna's tone.
And when thou didst depart, no ear of flame
To bear thee hence in lambent radience came