A pilgrim of the wilds to-day,
I lie by Cameron's stone,
And let my fancy roam and play,
And take sweet flights alone.
Air's Moss lies stretching out its bound,
All wild and weird to see;
And all the silence round and round
Falls like a spell on me.
From Wellwood's low and distant vale,
By fits a sudden wind
Comes upward with a weary wail,
That still no rest can find.
The heath-fowl wing their rapid flight,
The sailing curlew screams,
And on Cairntable's distant height
A speck of sunshine gleams.
But here I lie and dream and brood,
By Cameron's simple stone,
With all the soul of solitude
In converse with my own.
O, sacred spot whereon I rest!
The heather, with its bloom,
Seems conscious that its purple crest
Is on a martyr's tomb.
For here stern men in one small band
Set foot upon the sod,
And with red swords within their hand
Stood up for faith and God.
But that dread time has fled away,
As sinks a flooded stream,
And will not come again to-day,
Except within a dream.
Down drops the mist upon the moss,
As if God from on high
Had flung His winding sheet round those
Whose hour was come to die.
Yet stern and firm they stood like men
Who in the spirit knew
That, though the mist was all around,
God's face was gleaming through.
And hark, like incense rising up,
To deepen all the calm,
The voice of Hebrew David yet
Within the grand old psalm.
And far across the moss it floats,
Low, plaintive, wild, and sweet—
The music of the soul to God
That rolls around His feet;
The heath-fowl stop their flight to hear,
The curlews cease to scream,
And Nature listens all the while
As if in one wide dream.
The wailing wind sinks down, and like
A chidden thing is mute;
The very heather seems to feel
The red dew at its root;
Ay, ere another hour be past,
The red dew will be seen,
And with its purple stain the heath
And make a darker green.
But still the glorious psalm goes forth,
And fills the earth and sky,
Like some wild threnody for men
To sing before they die.
Roll on, thou melody of God,
And, wafted by the wind,
Take up to heaven the hearts of those
Whose souls will come behind.
The psalm has died away, but hush!
A deeper sound is heard,
At which rough cheeks flush up, and hearts
Grow strangely touched and stirred.
It is the voice of Cameron
That rises upward now—
I tell thee there is nought on earth
Can blanch that fearless brow.
Mark ye the Bible in his hand,
He holds it with such might
That, as he lifts it up on high,
The finger tips grow white—
God's truth is graven on his heart
As if by living fire,
He quails not, though each moment brings
The wild, fierce troopers nigher;
The very moss beneath his feet
Becomes as solid stone,
Whereon he stands erect to brave
The world's worst wrath alone.
Talk not to me of noble deeds,
When thou hast in thy land
A Covenanter on the hill,
The Bible in his hand.
O, grandest manhood yet on earth!
The dim far sunken time
Comes back again until we stand
With angels in our prime.
O, failing one whose faith unfixed
With every movement sways,
Look back, and in thy spirit kneel
With Cameron as he prays.
Hush! far across the moss there comes
The sudden neigh of steed,
As the rough trooper reins him in,
And checks his hasty speed.
The clank of scabbard, too, on heel,
The voice of high command,
That seems an echo warrant come
To capture all the band.
And Cameron heard that sound, nor paled,
But raised his hand on high—
'My God, be near to us this day,
And teach us how to die.'
Then, turning to his band, he said,
'The Bibles to your breast;
The hour is come in which your faith
Must stand the last dread test.
'Unsheath your swords and fling at once
The useless sheaths away,
The Bible is no shield 'gainst those
Who come to kill and slay.
'Come, Hamilton, lift up thy head,
Unbend that gloomy brow;
I tell thee, man, the crown of heaven
Is half upon it now.
'I know it. In a dream last night
Heaven's doors were opened wide;
I saw myself before the Throne,
And eight were by my side.
'I knew them. Each had on his brow
The martyr's diadem—
Ay, Paterson, thou well mayest look,
For thou wert one of them.
'Dick, Fowler, Gray, and Gemmel, too,
Stood in that mighty light,
And where each blood spot had been on
That place grew wondrous bright.
'Then, lo! methought the same sweet psalm
That we have sung this hour
Rose up and rolled through heaven's court
A miracle of power.
'It ceased; and, kneeling down, I felt
Laid on me ere I wist,
Soft as a summer's mid-day wind,
The mighty palm of Christ.
'I tell thee Watson, when I woke,
That touch was glowing there;
I could not sleep, but rose in awe,
And passed the night in prayer.
'I prayed, and all the weight of earth
Fell from me like a clod,
My very soul went out, and rose
Half way to heaven and God.
'And all this day that touch of heaven
Is on my head and brow;
It is the nail-pierced hand of Christ,
I feel it even now.
'It burns and glows to strengthen me
In this one hour so grim,
Nor will He take it off until
I pass to stand by Him.
'Enough. Gird up your loins who stand
By Cameron's side to-day;
Shame on us if we shrink and let
The props of faith give way!
'Lo, in the coming time, they yet
Will point it out to men,
When God Himself set down His foot
On moor and in the glen.
''Here,' they will say, 'our fellows stood
Girt in their glorious faith,
And with the psalm upon their lips
Went up to God through death.'
'In that time mighty iron things
Will bound be into yoke,
And make their pathway through these hags
Half hid in fire and smoke.
'But now—we stand like sentinels
Within the waning night,
To seal with blood the law that gives
Our kindred wider right.
'Then let them these poor hands cut off,
And nail them up to view,
So be it that they point to Heaven,
I care not what they do.
'Lift up this head upon a spike,
Though but a clayey clod
It still may seem a finger-post
To point the way to God.'
Yes, noble Cameron, speak thou on,
And nerve thy little band;
The sword is not one space too soon
Within their strong right hand.
For lo, as if the taint of hell
Were in the moorland calm,
There rises up with shout and oath
The devil's godless psalm—
And leaping curses smite the air,
And shouts come thick and fast,
As on they rush upon the band
Still faithful to the last.
But, hark, 'For God and Covenant,'—
That glorious battle cry,
Hear how it peals from out the heart,
And strikes against the sky.
Yea, let the horde of Satan come—
They come to feel and see
How strong within the sight of God
His faithful few can be.
They come with sudden plunge and shock,
The foremost but to reel—
By heavens! Earlshall shrinks back
At Covenanters' steel!
His eye fills up with deeper thirst,
His brow takes darker hue—
'The black fiend seize these singing knaves,
They fight like devils too.'
Ay, double thrice that band, and they
Would tame thy troopers' pride,
And show how Scotsmen fight for God
Upon the mountain side—
But back they rush like wolves on sheep;
Hear Cameron's voice again—
'Lord, take the ripe unto Thyself,
And let the green remain.'
Thou glorious one! fight on, nor faint—
The buckler of the Lord
Must surely be before the breast
When faith takes up the sword.
Dick, Gray, and Gemmel by his side,
Strike out with dripping glaive;
At each firm stroke of their right hand
A trooper finds his grave.
The God of Jacob sees them fight,
The Mighty One who stands
And holds the earth and seas within
The hollow of His hands.
The Lord of Hosts He will not turn
From us His face to-day,
Though swift and strong on every side
The devil comes to slay.
Back, Cameron, back! man, see you not
Brave Hamilton is down?
'Yea, said I not that brow of his
Felt heaven's golden crown?
'And, Watson, too, stretched at my feet,
With bloody cheek and brow;
If there be truth in dreams, how bright
Must be his raiment now!
'And Michael, he has fallen too,
That Christ his wounds may bind;
Come, Paterson, stand thou by me,
We will not lag behind.'
O, well the mist upon the moss
May darkly settle down,
And hide the struggle yet to be
Ere Cameron wins the crown;
For in its folds the fight goes on,
Swift blow on blow is dealt—
Steel rings against blue steel, and the
Death-grips of men are felt.
The shout, 'For God and Covenant,'
Still rings against the sky,
While for each Covenanter dead
Three troopers by him lie.
'Curse on that knave,' hissed Earlshall,
And darker grew his frown,
'What, will that braggart fear us all?
Press on and cut him down.'
Now, Cameron, by thy faith in God,
Take with no coward hand
The crown of martyrdom, and head
In heaven thy sainted band.
Think on thy dream last night, and feel
Once more within the mist
Upon thy head, as though thou wert
A child, the hand of Christ.
Ay, let me catch that eye of thine
That, flashing, sees afar
The heavens unfold and show the throne
By which thy fellows are.
The crown at last! he sinks, my God!
The very moorland calls
Up to the misty sky above
That noble Cameron falls.
He falls, but not within his blood,
Upon the mossy sod,
He falls into the arms of Christ
That lift him up to God.