"With them each day was holy, every hour They stood prepared to die, a people doomed To death--old men, and youths, and simple maids. With them each day was holy; but that morn On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord Was laid,' joyous arose--to die that day Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways, O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem Amid the heathery wild, that all around Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws; There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array That in the times of old had scathed the rose On England's banner, and had powerless struck The infatuate monarch and his wavering host, Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,) The lyart veteran heard the Word of God By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased Her plaint; the solitary place was glad. And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note. But years more gloomy followed, and no more The assembled people dared, in face of day, To worship God, or even at the dead Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce, And thunder peals compelled the men of blood To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice, Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book, And words of comfort spoke: over their souls His accents soothing came--as to her young The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms."