Poems Old and New by Charles D. Bell

That Scottish Star Chamber, “The Court of High Commission,” holding a court at Wigton on the 13th April, 1685, condemned to death by drowning three humble women whose names are immortalized in the history of Scotland. The names of these women were Margaret M`Lauchlan, Margaret Wilson, and her sister Agnes Wilson. Margaret M`Lauchlan was a widow about sixty-three years of age; Margaret Wilson was about eighteen, and her sister Agnes not more than thirteen years of age. The last-named girl was condemned to death, but was liberated on her father, who had conformed to Episcopacy, going to Edinburgh and giving a bond for a hundred pounds to produce her person on demand. Their crime was the frequenting conventicles, and the

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refusing to take an oath which they believed to be sinful. They denied the right of James II. to dictate to them what religion they should profess. The dreadful sentence, pronounced on the 13th April, was not executed till the 11th May, when it was carried out, to the lasting shame of the Government of the King.

Come, listen while I tell once more,
Here, sitting by the Solway shore,

A tale that I have often told,
Of dark deeds done in days of old.

A blacker never was there done
Than this in face of yonder sun.

For me, I was a young man then,—
Now more than threescore years and ten;

But though I lived for years to be,
This deed would in my memory

For ever hold a place apart,
Burnt like a scar upon my heart.

Come, listen to me, lend your ears,
As I recall the bygone years,
And touch the fount of burning tears,

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And if I flush your cheeks with flame,
Because I tell of deeds of shame,

Yet shall your spirit throb and glow
To think what grace of God can do,—

How it can make the weakest strong,
And put in dying lips a song.

I tell of times when holy men
Were driven forth to hill and glen,

To moor and moss and lonely heath,
Hunted for conscience-sake to death.

Their temple was the open air,
Where on bent knee, with forehead bare,
They sent to God their fervent prayer.

The shadows of the forest dim
Heard solemn psalm and sacred hymn;

While murm'ring ripple, sweet and low,
Of streamlet singing in its flow,

Blent with the voice of solemn song
That floated on the air along.

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We never knew when we might hear
The tramp of soldiers drawing near,

To stop our worship with the sword,
And drag us thence with scoffing word,

To throw us on some dungeon floor,
Never again to pass its door.

Oft have I seen the gallows rise,
Where hung the good, the great, the wise.

On castle gate, in ghastly rows,
Oft have I marked the heads of those

Who willingly for Christ's dear sake
Had braved the dungeon and the stake;—

I've seen them bleaching in the sun,
As through long months the weeks did run,—

The winter's wind, the summer's rain,
Returned to find them there again.

The whole West Lowlands had become
For holy men a gloomy tomb.

The persecutor spared not age,
Nor sex, nor worth;—his bitter rage

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Pursued the innocent and just,
And law was trampled in the dust.

O Christ! that trampling on Thy word,
Men in Thy name by deeds abhorr'd
Should think to honour Thee, their Lord!

But to my heavy tale of woe,—
E'en as I speak mine eyes o'erflow,
Although it chanc'd so long ago.

I knew the women, knew them well,
The sainted two of whom I tell.

One was a widow, old and grey,
Who long had trod the heav'nward way;

Humble she was, and good, and grave,
And of a noble soul, and brave.

Well, the vile soldiers of the Graham,
Dead to sweet pity and to shame,

Heard of this woman's loyal faith,
And doomed her to a dreadful death.

Her house they entered,—found her there,
Low kneeling at God's feet in prayer,—

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And haled her,—oh, the foul disgrace!
Before the wicked judge's face,
A man remorseless, ruthless, base.

“Death!” was the sentence that he gave,—
Her fate to find a martyr's grave
Beneath the Solway's cruel wave.

She heard the sentence, and was still,
And bowed her head to God's high will.—

I saw men shake like the aspen leaf,
And women wring their hands in grief,

As passed she through the open door
To doom and death by Solway's shore.

There was another woman there,
A maiden young, and sweet, and fair,
With deep-blue eyes and amber hair;

As good as comely,—just eighteen;—
Ah, God! it seems but yestere'en!

I loved her better far than life,
And hoped she would have been my wife

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Dear Margaret! I see her now,
With that calm look upon her brow.

The cruel Graham—(at his name,
Still swells my heart with wrath and shame,

That one who called himself a man,
Should do as only devils can!)—

'Tis said, and I believe it well,
Some souls are damned ere yet in hell—

He came with soldiers clad in steel;
They had no pity, could not feel,

But tore her from her friends and home,
To undergo a dreadful doom,
Beneath the cold waves' charnel gloom.

She struggled not,—was pale and calm,
And from her lips there thrill'd a psalm.

She followed where the troopers led,
Patient her step, erect her head.

Men blessed her as they saw her go,
From hearts all overcharg'd with woe.

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Helpless they felt,—they could not save,
However willing, true, and brave.

'Gainst Graham and his wicked crew
What could a few poor burghers do?

The cries of women rent the sky,
Who prayed and sobb'd as she passed by;

And I,—I that had died to save
That dear life from a cruel grave,

Could only weep and tear my hair
And curse in frenzy of despair.

Once, mad with horror, pity, dread,
I said, scarce knowing what I said:

“O Margaret! 'tis a harmless thing,—
Oh speak, and say, ‘God save the King.’

“By all that's holy,—all that's dear,
For my sake, Margaret,—Margaret, hear!”

She paused a moment in her place,
And turned a pleading, piteous face,

With such reproach in her sad look,
That all my spirit thrilled and shook.

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This passed,—the bitter strife was o'er,
And moved we onward to the shore,

Where rushed the tide with angry force,
Swift to the sands, like some racehorse

That holds its way 'gainst bit and rein,
With foam upon its streaming mane.

When we had reached the roaring strand,
We saw the elder woman stand

Amid the waves,—staked out at sea,
The waters risen to her knee;

Lost to the present did she seem,
As if things passing were a dream,

And the great surging crowd was gone,
And she with God were all alone.

Fast to a stake her arms were tied;
The ravening billows, far and wide,

Surging around in cruel play,
Against her brake in foam and spray.

Then at the wicked marshal's word,
Which smote me like a sharp-edged sword,

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Their hands the soldiers rudely laid
On Margaret, and bound the maid

Fast to another stake at sea,—
O God! that such dread things could be!—

There watched she with unshrinking eyes
The waters ever rise and rise.

On, on they rushed, white, strong, and fleet,
Until they kissed her naked feet.

On, on they rushed, with swirl and sweep,
And to her knees they foaming leap.

And now a soldier waded in,
From Margaret assent to win,

Thinking that she would not be loth
To swear and take the solemn oath.

He then unbound her from the stake,
Offered her life if she would take
The oath, pleading for mercy's sake.

“For God's sake, take the oath,” he said,—
She shook, but did not turn her head.

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“Nay, nay, for dear life, do this thing,
And say at once, ‘God save the King!’”

But she, with look of kindling fire,
“'Tis his salvation I desire.”

And with a bowed and reverend head:
“God save him, an He will,” she said.

“This is my one, my constant prayer,
That He will save all, here, and there.”

Then with a ringing cry the crowd
Spake to the officer right loud:

“Has she not said the loyal word?—
Oh, set her free!—praised be the Lord!”

“But will she take the oath?” he said.
“Never,” she answered,—“Christ is Head.—
Now let the sea be my death-bed.”

Seeing his efforts were in vain,
He turned towárd the shore again.

We saw the flood advancing rise,
Saw all aghast, with spell-bound eyes.

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The restless waves, with angry haste,
Reached now the girdle of her waist,

And Death rode on their snowy crest,
And soon they wash'd her tender breast.

Then came there floating o'er the wave
A sweet clear voice, as firm as brave,

Singing a lofty hymn of faith,
That quelled all fear of pain and death.

'Twas Margaret's voice rose o'er the waste
Of billowy waters rushing past,
In praise of Him, “the First, the Last,”

Who died upon the cross to save
From sin, from death, and from the grave.

Her life for Him she now laid down,
To take instead the martyr's crown.

But we with horror in our eyes
Still watch'd the waters rise and rise,—

Watch'd as the waves in one white storm
Rolled over her still less'ning form.

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And Windram now, with taunt and jeer,
Hoping to wound her by his sneer,

Pointed to her staked out the first,
While the great sea o'er Margaret burst,

And to her mocking cried aloud,
In tones that reached the weeping crowd,

“What see you there?” And Margaret turn'd,
And in her eyes a strange fire burn'd,—

“I see Christ suffering,” she said,
“Dear Christ,—His people's loving Head,
Wrestling in one for whom He bled.”

We saw her gasping sore for breath,
We saw her grappling hard with death.

Anon there came a gurgling cry,
A moan of bitter agony,

As one who moaned against her will;—
Now came a silence,—awful,—still.

Nothing was heard but angry roar
Of ocean rushing to the shore—
The martyr's agony was o'er.

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Then one great cry rose on the air,
Of horror, anguish, and despair,
From those who watched the death-throes there.

For me, my life was henceforth vain;
Through months I had a wand'ring brain,
Was tossed on bed of fever'd pain.

Since that sad day long years have fled,
Many who saw that scene are dead,
Happy that low is laid their head.

But I—I lived—I live on still,—
Yet murmur not,—'tis God's good will.

My heavy tale has now been told,—
Weary I feel, and weak, and old,—

But sore I yearn for that blest day
When, passing from this earth away,

My Margaret, my virgin bride,
Shall welcome me to Christ's dear side,
With her in bliss for aye to bide.

University of Virginia Library

THE WIGTON MARTYRS.