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Page 179 - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Page 86 - The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep, The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
Page 83 - Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood ; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying.
Page 208 - He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey. With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down.
Page 87 - They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
Page 85 - A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended, Its drivers were angels, on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining ; All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.
Page 85 - The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming ; The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
Page 86 - The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed — Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure— her triumphs are by: And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased.