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 Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 1 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. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, Devotion's every grace, except the heart! May hear, well-pleased, the language of the. soul; And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 1 Pope's Windsor Forest. Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm requestThat 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! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! 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. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted Who dared so nobly stem tyrannic pride, But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, SONNET, Written on the 25th January, 1793, the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush sing, in a Morning Walk. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough; So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments-bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou, whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, Shakspeare. WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-darkening through the flaky shower, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Listening, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, O' winter war, And through the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, An' close thy ee? E'en you on murdering errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, 'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! Than heaven-illumined man on brother man be See stern oppression's iron grip, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, want, and murder o'er a land! E'en in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, |