 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
78
THE COVENANTER'S GRAVE.
The setting sun is sleeping wideOn Pentland's rude and heathery side;
In purple shadow, broad and still,
Distinctly looms each mighty hill,
While every burn is sparkling bright
In liquid lines of silver light.
But not one ray can pierce the gloom
That veils the martyred peasant's tomb—
So dark, so sad, so deeply laid
In yon ravine's unhallowed shade.
No shepherd's footsteps e'er intrude
To break the glen's wild solitude;
No sounds the slumbering echoes wake,
Save the throstle's carol from the brake,
Save the stream's ripple, or the cooing
Of some lorn dove's enamoured wooing.
The rude gray stones, that hide his clay,
Sink like their tenants in decay;
But one lone alder's branches wave
In pensile verdure o'er his grave,
While sadly, from her nest above,
The cushat pours her lay of love.
They laid him there, in that lone spot,
Unhonored and unknown, there to rot—
No anthems o'er his relics pealing,
No friends around his cold corpse kneeling;
Yet shall a country's blessing dwell
About that low and nameless cell,
Appeal forever to the Christian's God.
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |