Slow sank the red sun down to rest


Amid a stormy bank of cloud


That gathered deep'ning in the west,


As forming for that sun a shroud,


In which to quench the last faint ray


That shed a glory o'er departing day.



That setting sun was but a form

And shadowy type of one that vied,

In closing with as wild a storm

As that wherein the daylight died:

The glowing heath was stained with gore

That oozed from out life's waning store


From him who dying lay, in that deep glen,

Where silence had resumed her reign.

 The death-shot's rattle over then,

And all was hushed and mute again,

 Save rustling reed and sobbing stream,

That only broke upon the closing scene.


Low stretched upon a heathy bank,

That crimsoned deeper with each stain,

Which, falling from his bosom sank

Upon the purple flowers like rain,

While cold and pallid was the hue

Thar o'er the sharp'ning features grew.


One hand was clasping to his side

The Sacred Book of God

The hope by which he lived and died;

The other grasped the sword,

Which oft, like lightning flashing high,

Sprang to the Covenant battle-cry‑


"The Lord our righteousness ! " 'Twas Fast,

The voice and strength were o'er;

Yet holy courage to the last

The martyr's soul upbore‑

" Jesus, my trust, in thee I live,

My fleeting spirit now receive."


Low laid within his narrow bed

The martyr's form will rest,

Till death shall yield her myriad dead

From out her cumbered breast.

When that last awful hour is nigh,

" The Lord our righteousness ! " shall be his cry.


When wand'ring in the twilight gloom,

Some lonely herd may spy

That half-defaced and moss-grown tomb,

And pause, in passing by,

To lay the rude inscription clear,

And read, "A Covenanter sleepeth here."




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