Bleak was
the winter Sabbath morn,

And dreary was the sky,

When the persecuted left their caves,
To worship the Most High.

An unfrequented mountain-gorge
Received a trembling flock

Their canopy was mist and clouds—

Their altar was the rock.

Meeting in th hills


And from
that lonely, rugged spot,
Ascended, rich and rare,

The incense of the contrite heart—

The sacrifice of prayer.

And angels, from the heights of heaven,

Did look complacent down

On the honour’d heads that soon should wear

The martyr’s glorious crown.

And grey-hair’d
sires forget their griefs,

And all their wrongs forgave,

When they heard of Him whose power burst
The barriers of the grave.

And widows, poor and desolate
And homeless orphans pray`d
For pardon from the throne on high
On their oppressor`s head.


The Bond against attending Conventicles.