Chapter IV: Preface: To the (3)

HOW fair is childhood; like the ray
Of summer morn, the blush of day.
Bright scions of a noble race,
Blooming in love and youthful grace,
In innocence and beauty's pride!
As rosebuds blossoming at ease,
Showering their beauties on the breeze,
On some green mountain's side.

High thoughts are with that lovely boy,
In whose dark eye beams radiant joy;
May blessings on his years attend,
And Heaven its choicest favours send!
Hope of an honourable line,
With feeling heart and mind endued,
May health, and peace, and every good,
And length of life, be thine.

Oh! love it is a blessed thing,
And to the heart doth comfort bring;
But the fond throb that for a brother
A sister feels, excels all other,
Save only that by parents known:
Sweet maid, a pure affection cheers
Thy gentle heart, and still endears
Thy very smile and tone.

No cares upon those brows of light,
Round which the tresses cluster bright,
Like mossy flowers 'mong sunshine blended,
Have yet, with envious trace, descended:
But all is happiness and mirth,--
Ye look like cherubs sent from Heaven,
With hope, and joy, and beauty given,
To cheer this weary earth.

1838.

THE MARTYRS.

FAITHFUL to God, 'mid persecutions dire,
The lion-hearts of old still firmly stood,
Unawed by terrors of the block or fire,
For truth and freedom freely gave their blood;
The path of duty lay before them plain,
And boldly they advanced, nor turned again.

A throne cast down, erected was once more,
An exiled king, a nation, welcomed back;
Planted in blood it was, and tears, and gore,
Its only props the scaffold and the rack;
And there the brave and good did nobly fall,
That Christ the Saviour might be all in all,

Calmly the martyr Guthrie met his fate,
A victim to oppression's cruel laws,
Nor would, for proudest prelate's form and state,
A traitor turn to his dear Master's cause;
With him no joy on earth so great could be,
As thus to die for Christ's supremacy.

On the lone mountains of their native land,
Where blooms the heather fragrantly and fair,
In the green valleys waved by breezes bland,
Struck mercilessly down while met in prayer,
Lie Scotland's martyrs in their nameless moulds,
Sustained by Him who the great worlds upholds. (8)

CALEDONIA, MY COUNTRY!

CALEDONIA, my country! How bright is the fame,
Like a halo of glory, that circles thy name;
When thy children remember their fathers' renown,
Can they, faithless, consent e'er to sully thy crown?

In the battles of freedom, the hot fields of fight,
Thy great men of old stoutly fought for the right;
By their conquering swords, blessed and aided by Heaven,
The hosts of the foe from our country were driven.

In the fair realms of song thy sons also excel,
Midst the gifted of earth do their memories dwell;
And of praise of thy minstrels, from nations around,
Still the echo returns, with a flattering sound.

But purer, and brighter, and higher, by far,
Than of those that have triumphed in song or in war,
Are the names,--never breathed but with love they are heard,--
Of thy fearless Reformers, thy Martyrs revered.

Now thy sword is at rest, and thy harp is laid by,
But the sword of the Spirit still waves from on high,
And the harp of the Lord sounds in majesty forth,
As of yore it was heard from the lands of the north.

Again, oh, my country! on thy hills of renown,
Oppression, relentless, has darkly come down--
On the breeze of the mountain is borne the loud wail,
And the lowlands reply to the wrongs of the Gael.

From the dark page of history shadows are cast,
And the woes of the future loom out from the past;
There are omens of evil, enshrouded in blood,
But in midst of them all, there are tokens of good.

I CANNA SLEEP.

_Written in 1833. Contributed to the Book of Scottish Song._