« AnteriorContinuar »
Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's
avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ;
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How his first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by
Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope “ springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal
sphere. VOL. II.-I
Compared with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display, to congregations wide,
Devotion's every grace except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, (soul;
May hear, well pleased, the language of the And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way;
The yougling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs, That makes her loved at home, revered abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
“An honest man's the noblest work of God :" And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! Oh Scotia! my dear, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil [content!
Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.
Oh Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide [heart ;
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die the second glorious part (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!), Oh never, never Scotia's realm desert :
But still the patriot and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem;
T'hou bonnie gem.
Wi’ spreckled breast,
The purpling east.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
O'clod or stane,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er!
To mis’ry's brink,
He, ruin'd, sink !
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom !
TO J. 8****
SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lash;
Some rhyme to court the kintra clash,
An' raise a din;
I rhyme for fun.
But in requit,
Something cries “ Hoolie! I red you, honest man, tak tent!
Ye'll shaw your folly.
A' future ages ;
Their unknown pages.”
Are whistling thrang,
My rustic sang.
Then, all unknown,
Forgot and gone!