Classic Poem

At Ecclesmahin first this Prophet great
Had for a time his ministerial seat.
At Airth this silver trumpet long did sound,
To solemn feasts convening thousands round.
Stirling was bless'd next, e'er this herald's death,
With twelve years' warning of his dying breath.
But how he should with zeal proclaim the truth
Seem'd first to be predicted in his youth:
When bloody hands that gave the fatal blow,
Set up the martyrs' heads a public show;
To their disgrace, whose glory is their shame,
But to the suffering saints their standing name.
As C HRIST their Lord did on the cross subdue,
And made of all his foes an open show;
So these crown'd heads long over men of blood
On summities of ports triumphant stood.
When martyr'd G UTHRIE , famous and renown'd,
Had thus for many years been highly crown'd;
When, by his head expos'd in open place,
God mean'd his honour, devils his disgrace;
Our H AMILTON , inspir'd with early zeal,
Ev'n in his youth, against the gates of hell,
Mounting the port, brought, like a gallant soul,
That blessed head down from the dying pole.
Heav'n thus presaging how in very deed,
He should into the martyr's work succeed,
And bear his message as he bore his head.
" No, (might the martyr say) no hand but thine
Had ever pow'r to move this head of mine,
From this high post, to which it was preferr'd;
Thy zeal to see it decently interr'd,
Makes the fittest hand to go and bear
My last address a-new to Stirling's ear:
There 'mong my closet-papers mould'ring lies
My farewell sermon, bury'd from their eyes,
Heav'n shall forbid, whoe'er possession have,
All hands but thine, to raise it from the grave.
For that same hand that buries this my head
Shall be employ'd to raise it from the dead.
But as my head at rest, ere touch'd by thee,
Sleep'd in the Lord; so thine at rest shall be,
E'er mine this figur'd resurrection public see;
Yet thus far rais'd by thee shall from the press,
As from the public pole, its former place,
Stand up again, and witness to the following race.
And as thy feet on fellow's shoulders stood,
Risking thy life to make thy purpose good;
So shall thy feet on necks of brethren stand,
Till martyr'd truth be rescu'd by thy hand,
And this last step thy life and perils all disband. "
Grant then this honour'd head its honour lost,
When thus brought down from its exalted post,
Of witnessing as clearly after death,
As e'er it did before with vital breath:
Yea, witnessing as from a pulpit high,
By this long public preaching to the eye;
If Hamilton's brave hand did ought amiss,
This head from labour wholly to dismiss,
Or from its place of honour thus to rend;
Why, then, this bold adventure might portend,
The Martyr's pulpit last should all his labours end.
Fame also sounded once his fencing art,
So great that few could act the counter-part,
In's younger years; which might perhaps presage
The nobler wars of his advancing age;
For then, arm'd with the Spirit's sword in hand,
He kept antagonists at his command,
Nor while he flourish'd, did his nation yield
A greater champion on the gospel-field.
Blest Plenderlieth declar'd his dark eclipse,
Till conqu'ring light beam'd from his balmy lips.
His captious brethren, captives at his feet,
Gladly confess'd his vict'ry was complete:
Great Brisbane own'd himself his happy proselyte.
His arguings drew him, like a mighty chain,
Quite from the legal to the gospel-strain;
So bright, that henceforth he appear'd to all
Most accurately evangelical.
His doctrine too with wisdom well supply'd,
With magazines of learning fortify'd.
And henceforth these two souls were no more twain,
But knit with Johathan and David's chain,
He spent his breath in Hamilton's pure are,
As Hamilton did his at last in Brisbane's chair.
WhHen 'gainst the truth proud church-men were enrag'd,
He had the honour early to be stag'd;
But when arraign'd before fam'd committees
For purity of doctrine, could with ease
Teach his pretended teachers, and impart
Deep things of grace, surpassing shallow art.
His judges, learn'd enough, were forc'd to yield,
And crown their pannel Victor on the field.
Thus in the church, though not in worldly state,
This A LEXANDER may be term'd the great .
He testifying to his latest years
For Christian liberty in choosing seers.
Could never see the flock of Christ oppress'd,
And in their room nobility caress'd;
Nor under-rate a pearl was bought so dear,
To compliment a patron or a peer.
In conflicts very late he was the man
Who for the people's freedom led the van.
These were among (and mark it, careless age)
The last contendings of the dying sage.
The words and deeds of this departing saint
Impressions suiting with his zeal implant.
He carnestly contended for the faith,
By zealous testimonies to his death:
By him were witnesses for truth belov'd;
He all their proud opposers disapprov'd
And did his zeal for Reformation shew,
By daily prayer for the reforming Few:
His aptness in that cause to speak and write,
Made him the butt of ecclesiastic spite.
Yet 'gainst his face when furies fierce awoke,
What barking dogs and railing monsters spoke,
Could nor his passions, nor his smiles provoke.
When five in session male-content withdrew,
And courts superior countenanc'd the crew,
Into their hands depositing the helve,
Exauctorating all the other twelve:
His meek, and yet unanswerable plaint
Of this procedure, strange and violent;
" They have depos'd me from my sacred power
Of government, in this my watching tower;
Yet me they never heard, nor cited to an hour. "
Was he then equal to his worth esteem'd?
Or from reproach and calumny exeem'd?
No, no; hell furies did him hot pursue:
He was the scorn of an abandon'd crew.
Why with such fury, O malignant race!
Do ye to death the faithful watchmen chace?
Have patience, Gentlemen; have patience, pray;
Behold them flying fast enough away!
See Zion's battlements broke down in haste;
And temples glorious once, but now laid waste;
Flocks scatter'd, faithful shepherds turning rare,
And bleating lambs left to the foxes care!
The prophets do they live for ever? No!
See worthy Hamiltons, how fast they go!
Look to the north and south, the east and west,
Where's Cuthbert, Stuart, Webster, Boston, bless'd;
With Mair, M'Larine, Brisbane, and the rest!
Those that tormented you before your time
Are quickly moving to another clime.
You need not beat your brains how to lay waste
The zealous clergy; lo! themselves make haste
To get into the ark, before the cloud
That gathers thick, pour down a show'r of blood.
Well may we fear God is intending wars,
When calling home his great Ambassadors.
O Stirling, Stirling! Thou hast been the seat
Of famous martyrs and confessors great!
Some thou hast ston'd by thy fierce butcherous hive .
Which never since have had a day to thrive:
And others thou hast kill'd by thy contempt:
And few of them from cruel rage exempt.
How oft would heav'n have gathered thy poor race
Beneath the stretched wings of glorious grace?
But if thou wouldest not expect thy fate,
Thy temple left unto thee desolate.
But stay, is sovereign mercy's door of hope
Not wholly shut as yet, but partly ope?
Haste, haste, t' improve the light that shines about,
Ere vengeance blow thy hindmost candle out;
And God most high provoked to depart,
Give pastors not according to his heart,
But to thine own, unto thine endless smart.
Hear, hear, the quickening, yet the dying knell
Of grace, still fluttering, loath to bid farewell;
Lest stretching vain her pinions o'er the prey,
She quickly clap her wings, and soar away.