Classic Poem

Preaching in the Scotch Block.

Gentle , dove-like Peace is brooding
O'er the woods this Sabbath morn;
Save the ox-bell's distant tinkle
No sound on the air is borne —
Not a breath the leaves to rustle,
Not a breath to stir the waves,
Oh! how deep the quiet hanging
O'er these green, forgotten graves!

There the church in her grey glory —
Deeper is the holy shade
Round the sacred spot where all the
Ancient foresters are laid.
Hush! there's something 'mong the willows,
Whisp'ring to the silent dead;
Yea, the heart hears their communing —
Hears, tho' not a word is said.

Surely 'tis not idle fancy
That still whispers in my breast,
Spirits of the dead are with us
On the hallow'd morn of rest.
Hark! the bell's deep hollow summons,
Calling Scotia's sons to pray'r —
See! from wood and field they're coming,
With a deep devotional air.

Mountaineers, with deep mark'd features,
Tartans showing clannish pride;
Shepherds from the Vale of Ettrick,
Peasants from the Strath of Clyde.
There old Donald Bane, from Badenoch —
Whose grandsire at Preston fell —
Of the hapless house of Stuart,
Weeping, still the tale he'll tell.

These are kindred of Rob Ruadh,
From Loch Lomond's sounding shore;
Still they wear their hero's tartan,
Tho' his hills they'll see no more.
Old John, from the Braes of Yarrow,
In his shepherd's plaid appears;
Its warm folds around his bosom
Wake the thoughts of other years,

Till he hears the lark in heaven,
Sees the sheep among the hills,
Hears the Yarrow, till his dim eye
With the tear of mem'ry fills.
And tho' his clear'd fields have cost him
Years of labor and of pain,
He would give them all to be but
A poor shepherd boy again.

In the rudely-fashion'd pulpit
Now a little man appears,
Resolute in soul, tho' bending
'Neath the weight of eighty years.
He had fought beside great Chalmers
'Gainst the tyranny of state,
Left the Church — yea, of his fathers —
More in sorrow than in hate.

Rude in voice, and rough in feature,
Nothing gentle is within;
On his brow is plainly written:
" There's no quarter here for sin. "
Nothing flow'ry in his language —
Yea, it is sublimely bare —
Rude as are his country's mountains,
Yet a naked grandeur's there!

He tells of the unbelieving
Spirit of the present time,
Which would rob us weary mortals
Even of the hope sublime.
He denounces Mammon's worship,
Yea, the god of this vain age;
How the veins start in his forehead
As he points to history's page!

To the covenanting heroes,
To the mighty men of old —
Listen! for he speaks of peasants
Who could not be bought or sold.
" Sons of sires who did a tyrant
With his myrmidons withstand,
Let the faith of your great fathers
Guide you in this forest land.

" Sons of sires who did a bigot
Even on his throne rebuke,
Cling ye to their faith, which torture
Never for a moment shook.
'Mid the Church's desolation,
Still they put in God their trust;
Rallied they round Zion's banner,
Torn and trampled in the dust.

" For amid the lonely moorlands,
In the deep, sequestered glen,
God has heard the pray'r at midnight
Of these persecuted men.
Heavy is the tyrant's burden,
Cruel is oppression's rod,
Yet these humble peasants dreaded
Nothing save the wrath of God.

" Why should they the passing mandate
Of a dying king obey?
Had they not a higher edict,
Which shall never pass away?
Why should they dread men's death-warrant?
Is not death the common road
Either to the nether regions
Or the city of our God?

" Had they not a higher mandate,
Which knows neither change nor time,
Issued amid smoke and thunder
On the trembling Mount sublime?
They were men of earnest natures,
Looking to the soul of things;
What cared they for crowns and sceptres?
What cared they for earthly kings?

" What cared they for passing splendor?
They had gleams of the divine!
What to them were stars and garters,
Evil as the sparkling wine?
Were they not the heirs of glory
Earthly kings might never see?
Were they not the priests and prophets
Of a higher dynasty?

" Crowns depart and princes perish,
Empires crumble and decay;
But the Truth endures forever,
And shall never pass away.
Still the cairn among the mountains
Marks the spot whereon they fell;
Still with swelling heart the shepherds
Love upon their deeds to dwell.

" May their mem'ry never perish,
May their graves be ever green;
They were peasants, and such peasants
As the world has rarely seen.
Go! and may their God go with you —
Yea, the God of the opprest.
Plant their faith, the Faith of Freedom,
'Mong these forests of the West. "