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.

death-shot’s rattle over then,

And all was hushed and
mute again,

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

The martyr’s soul upbore‑

” Jesus, my trust, in
thee I live,

My fleeting spirit now


Low laid within his narrow bed

The martyr’s form will

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.


wand’ring in the twilight gloom,

Some lonely
herd may spy

half-defaced and moss-grown tomb,

And pause, in
passing by,

To lay the
rude inscription clear,

And read, “A
Covenanter sleepeth here.”