XII. The Church in Scotland.
Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall, I shall arise;
when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.
More pure the gale where the wild thistle rears
His mountain banner on his stony tower,
Than odorous breath of cultivated bower;
More true to nature o'er its armed spears
The mountain rose its lonely chalice bears,
Than many-folding cups of cherish'd flower;
And, traversing those wilds with silvery shower,
E'en Winter's moon more clear and free appears!
Such is thy sister of the northern hills,
Less honour'd, not less holy; bow'd with ills,
But not destroy'd; pure branch of the true vine,
Drinking her nurture from the barren rock,
Of pitiless elements she braves the shock,
And hath less earthly beauty—more divine.
