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came from out the silent glen, The mingled prayer of armed men; Their swords in sheath for one calm day, "And let us worship God," they say. They met—in fear, but not of man; In hope—but not of human aid; In faith—that dreads no mortal ban; In trust—mid perils undismayed. As wearied travellers seek the brook, They ask refreshment from "the Book!" The fountain gives them strength for strife, And Freedom will be bought with life.

No Temple made by human hands Is that in which the Pastor stands; Around him mighty mountains rise, Pillars to yon vast roof, the skies; But Freedom consecrates the glen; And girlhood, boyhood, age, and youth, Utter or breathe a stern "Amen" To words that Reason stamps with Truth; For God and Nature bade them be All—like their free forefathers—free; Such message yon good Pastor brings— A message from the King of kings!

Say, grandsire—thou should'st know it best— Say, matron, with the babe at breast; Say, girl—thy lover still is near— Can Patriot-passion banish fear? Old man, what counsels thy grey hairs? Mother, what dost thou tell thy son? Boy, know'st thou what thy father dares? Girl, say how must thy heart be won? answer, with a shout and sigh, "Go strike for freedom—do, or die! Nor let your children's children name Old Scotland's mountain-men with shame!"

Thanks, Painter, for a lesson taught! Thanks for a pictured store of thought! Thus works out her great design, Shapes the rough ore of Nature's mine; Gives Beauty a perpetual youth; Bids Virtue teach and never tire; Shows that a halo shines round Truth; Tells what to shun and what desire; And makes hear to ages— More forceful than a thousand pages— Of good or ill, a painted story To warn from shame, or win for glory.



Peggy one morning was dancing on dew, When the fairies came by, and they took her away, And she lived with the fairies a whole year through, And came back to her cabin next Midsummer day. They brought her the charms that no mortal can bring, She was pretty before—she was beautiful then; But they made her as proud as a young rose in spring, And they harden'd her heart against all sorts of men.

Patrick came with his simper, and Dermot with sighs, And Jerry with jokes, and with blarney came Mike, And Darby with laughter in both his bright eyes, And a crowd of the boys bade her take which she like; But she shunn'd them, the tender, wild, simple, and sage, And lived by herself while her fairy gift fades; And this was the prayer of her lonely old age, "Heaven keep from such fairy gifts all merry maids!"





Oh! the mountain maid is the maid for me; Her step is light and her heart is free,— Light and free as the breeze that passes. Oh! a rosy cheek and a rounded form, And a pulse that's neither too cold nor warm, Is the dowry they bring, these mountain lasses.

They have no jewels, they have no gold, But health and truth, and a spirit bold,— Bold and true as their rocky masses. As Nature is kind, and pure, and free, So children of Nature, so are ye, Ye happy and merry mountain lasses. 