The hill worship of the Covenanters is also described with much beauty and pathos.
"With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doomed
To death—old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, 'See where the Lord
Was laid,' joyous arose—to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they sought
The upland moors, where rivers, there but brooks
Dispart to different seas. Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scooped, a plat
With greensward gay, and flowers that strangers seem
Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foiled
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws;
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array
That in the times of old had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,
Yet ranged itself to aid his son dethroned,)
The lyart veteran heard the Word of God
By Cameron thundered, or by Renwick poured
In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise; the wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad.
And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear
Caught doubtfully at times, the breeze-borne note.
But years more gloomy followed, and no more
The assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead
Of night, save when the wint'ry storm raved fierce,
And thunder peals compelled the men of blood
To crouch within their dens, then dauntlessly
The scattered few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'ercanopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: he, by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning, oped the sacred Book,
And words of comfort spoke: over their souls
His accents soothing came—as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when at the close of eve
She gathers in her mournful brood, dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings, close nestling 'neath her breast
They cherished, cower amid the purple blooms."
This is finely pictured; and, coming from a member of the Episcopal Church, does honor to his heart and head. Sir Walter Scott has somewhat injured the memory of the Scottish Covenanters, by presenting the darker features of their character, and forgetting utterly their earnest piety, their generous fervor, their heroic endurance. Many of them, doubtless, were deficient in high-bred courtesy and learned refinement. Others were narrow-minded and superstitious. But the great mass of them were men of lofty faith, of generous self-sacrifice. They feared God, and perilled their lives for freedom, in the high places of the field. "Lately," says a vigorous writer in Blackwood's Magazine, "the Mighty Warlock of Caledonia has shed a natural and a supernatural light round the founders of the Cameronian dynasty; and as his business was to grapple with the ruder and fiercer portion of their character, the gentle graces of their nature were not called into action, and the storm and tempest and thick darkness of John Balfour of Burley, have darkened the whole breathing congregation of the Cameronians, and turned their sunny hillside into a dreary desert." It requires men of no ordinary character to become martyrs for principle, especially when that principle is one of the highest order, and has been chosen calmly, deliberately, and in the fear of God. When such men go forth to defend the right, and shed their life's blood for its enthronement, their's is no vulgar enthusiasm, no unnatural and infuriate fanaticism. Read the following from James Hislop, once a poor shepherd boy, and afterwards a school-teacher, written near the grave of the pious and redoubtable Cameron, and several of his followers, slain by tyrants in the moor of Aird's-moss, and say whether such martyrs for truth are worthy of our reverence!
"In a dream of the night I was wafted away
To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay,
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen,
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'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.
'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew,
Glistened there 'mong the heath bells and mountain flowers blue.
And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud,
And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,
Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones, who with Cameron were lying
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heathfowl was flying,
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering.