THE THREE SONS.

203

Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart

may prove

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love!

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must

dim,

God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

I have a son, a third sweet son! his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months, where he is gone to dwell.

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were

given,

And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.

I cannot tell what form he has, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph

brow;

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,

Are numbered with the secret things which God will not

reveal;

But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at

rest,

Where other blessèd infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast;

I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever

fresh.

204

THE THREE SONS.

I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering wings,

And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every

eye.

Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease;

Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain

peace.

It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss

may sever,

But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for

ever.

When we think of what our darling is, and what we still

must be ;

When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery;

When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,

Oh! we'd rather lose our other two than have him here

again.

J. MOULTRIE.

206

ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.

May thine angel-guards defend us,
Slumber sweet thy mercy send us,
Holy dreams and hopes attend us,
This livelong night!

HEBER.

On the Massacre of Glencoe.

H! tell me, harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe,
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody!
Say, harpest thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,

Or to the eagle that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"

"No, not to these, for they have rest;
The mist-wreath hath the mountain-crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountains grey,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day

Could screen from treacherous cruelty.

ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.

207

"Their flags were furled, and mute their drum,

The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.

His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,

To tend her kindly housewifery.

"The hand that mingled in the meal At midnight drew the felon-steel,

And

gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly heart which warmed that hand,
At midnight armed it with the brand,
And bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

"Then woman's shriek was heard in vain,
Nor infancy's unpitied plain,

More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery.

The winter wind that whistles shrill,
The snows that night that choked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than Southron clemency.

Long have my harp's best notes been gone,

Few are its strings and faint their tone,

They can but sound in desert lone

Their grey-haired master's misery.