102 THE NECROPOLIS AT GLASGOW.
Or deep in dust the reverend pastor lay, Whose pure example taught to Heaven the way.
Approach through winding paths yon terrace high, Whose statued column strikes the traveller s eye, Or rove from cell to cell, whose marble door The inhospitable tenants ope no more, Or on their tablets read the labored trace, That asks remembrance from a dying race, Or mark the flowers, whose lips with fragrance flow. The sweetest tribute to the loved below.
Poor child of Judah, exiled and oppressed, How wrapped in shades thy lowly spot of rest ! Type of thy fate, for whom no sunbeam falls In peace and power, on Zion s sacred walls ; But by strange streams thy silent harp is hung, And captive numbers tremble on thy tongue. Dark is yon gate, through which thy mourners pass To hide their idols neath the matted grass, And sad the dirge, no Saviour s name that knows To gild with glorious hope their last repose. Oh ! turn thine eye from Sinai s summit red, Our Elder Sister, fly its thunders dread ; List to the lay that flowed o er Bethlehem s plain, When star and angel warned the shepherd train ; Thou lov st our Father s Book, its seers believe, To thy torn breast the Holy Cross receive,
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