By Mrs Harriet Stuart Menteath

[When on his deathbed the saintly pastor of Anwoth was cited to appear before  Parliament at Edinburgh. He told the herald, "Tell them that sent you that I have got summons already before a superior judge and judicatory, and I behove to answer to my first summons, and 'ere your day come, I will be where few kings and great folks come." He died 29th of March 1661 and was buried next day at St. Andrews]

Tread lightly through the darkened room, for a sick man lieth there,
And mind the dimness, only stirs the whispered breath of prayer;
As anxious hearts take watch by turns beside the lowly bed,
Where sleep the awful stillness wears that soon must wrap the dead!

Hour hath he unknown of fevered pain, but now his rest is calm,
As though upon the spirit worn distilled some healing balm.
It may be that his dreaming ear, wakes old accustomed words,
Or drinks once more the matin song of Anwoth’s “blessed birds!”

O! green and fresh upon his soul, those early haunts arise,
His Kirk, his home, his wild wood walk, with all their memories;
The very rushing of the burn, by which so oft he trod,
The while on eagle wings of faith his spirit met its God!

A smile hath brightened on his lips– a light around his brow
Oh! surely, “words unspeakable,” that dreamer listeth now;
And glories of the upper sky, his raptured senses steep,
Blent with the whisperers of his love who gives His loves ones sleep!

But hark!–a sound!–a tramp of horse!–a loud, harsh, wrangling din,
Oh! rudely on that dream of heaven, this world hath broken in.
In vain affection’s earnest plea–the intruders forwards press;
And with a struggling spasm of pain, he wakes to consciousness!

Strange lights are streaming through the room; strange forms are round his bed.
Slowly his dazzled sense takes in each shape and sound of dread.
“False traitor to thy country’s laws and to thy Sovereign Lord,
I summon thee to meet thy doom, thou felon Rutherford!”

Feebly the sick man raised his hand–his hand so thin and pale,
And something in the hollow eye, made that rude speaker quail;
“Man! thou hast sped thine errand well! yet it is wasted breath,
Except the great ones of the earth can break my tryst with death!

“A few brief days, or briefer hours and I am going home
Unto mine own prepared place where but few great ones come.
And to the Judgment seat of Him, who sealed me with His seal;
‘Gainst evil tongues, and evil men, I make my last appeal!

“A traitor was his name on earth! A felons doom his fate
Thrice welcome were my Master’s cup, but it hath come too late.
The summons of that mightiest King, to whom all kings must bow,
Is on me for an earlier day–is on me even now!

“I hear–I hear–the chariot wheels, that bring my Savior nigh;
For me He bears a golden crown–a harp of melody;
For me He opens wide His arms–He shows His wounded side–
Lord! ’tis my passport into life! I live–for Thou hast died!

They give his writings to the flames; they brand his grave with shame,
A hissing in the mouth of fools becomes his honoured name;
And darkness wraps awhile the land, for which he prayed and strove,
But blessed in the Lord his death, and blest his rest above!