That mission of murder full well fitted him,
For his black heart with malice boil'd up to the brim;
Remorse had his soul made like angels who fell,
And his breast was imbued with the spirit of hell.
A gleam of its flame in his bosom had glow'd,
Till his devilish delight was in cursing of God:
He felt Him a foe, and his soul took a pride
Bridle-deep through the blood of his sufferers to ride!
His heart hard as flint, was in cruelty mail'd;
No tear of the orphan with him ere prevail'd,
In the blood of its sire, while his sword was defil'd,
The red blade he wav'd o'er the widow, and smil'd.
My vision was changed, and I stood in a glen
Of the moorlands, remote from the dwellings of men,
'Mong Priesthill's black scenery, a pastoral abode,
Where the shepherds assembled to worship their God.
A light hearted maiden met there with her love,
Who had won her affections, and fix'd them above:
Concealed 'mong the mist on the dark mountain side,
Stood Peden the prophet, with Brown and his bride.
A silent assembly encircled the seer,
A breathless expectance bent forward to hear;
For the glance of his grey eye wax'd bright and sublime,
As it fixed on the far flood of fast coming time.
"Oh Scotland! the Angel of darkness and death
One hour the Almighty hath staid on his path:
I see on yon bright cloud his chariot stand still;
But his red sword is naked and ready to kill.
"In mosses, in mountain, in moor and in wood,
That sword must be bath'd yet in slaughter and blood,
Till the number of saints who shall suffer be seal'd,
And the breaches of backsliding Scotland be heal'd.
"Then a prince of the south shall come over the main,
Who in righteousness over the nation shall reign;
The race of the godless shall fade from the throne.
And the kingdom of Christ shall have kings of its own.
"But think not, ye righteous, your sufferings are past;
In the midst of the furnace ye yet must be cast;
