O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer—
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close,-heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,-
Clinging to death.
Or mark that female face,
The faded picture of its former self,—
The garments coarse, but clean ;-frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckoned by some kindly hand to sit.
She has seen better days; there was a time,
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet is she happy, aye, and she is wise,
(Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,)
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well-spent life-
Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path
In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure :-
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mixed.
The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of him,
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures less:
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.
FROM ENGLISH LYRICS, BY SMYTH.
HE ball of last night, say, my Emily, say,
'Twas not the bright region, which once it had been,
When we fluttered around it, to see and be seen.
In thy looks, (I could read them) were painfully shewn,
The thoughts of thy bosom-the thoughts of my own.
And still on those looks, tho' the morning is here,
Soft tinges of lingering sadness appear;
For the tale of thy heart is too heavy with truth,
-Gone, gone, are the hours of enchantment and yout;
They smiled as they pass'd-but so gaily they flew,
That we heard them not bid us for ever adieu.
Yet say, do not others advancing appear?
Oh! turn and behold them, more kind, more sincere,
More gentle are these, and tho' modest their mien,
Tho' near them no frolics, no raptures are seen,
Content, the calm pleasures, the virtues are nigh,
And a form that instructs them and points to the sky.
A world have I known thy attractions admire,
And thy spirits no toil, and no gaiety tire;
Thy triumphs I shar'd-yet must youth pass away,
And life, as it blossom'd, mature and decay,
Regret for the past may the present destroy,
But no art can their pleasures united enjoy.
When the fruits of the autumn thy senses invite,
No longer can spring with her promise delight,
When the hearth brightly blazes, the winter to cheer,
When the song, and the dance, and the viol we hear,
Ask not for the beams which the summer adorn,
The soft sighs of eve, or the smiles of the morn.
Look, Emily, look, thro' creation's wide range,
All is life and extinction, succession and change;
Advancing-retiring-our pleasures we see,
They are fleeting, my love, and as fleeting are we;
The reasoner may sigh, and the beauty repine,
'Tis the law of our being, enjoy and resign.
Yet come, ye cold glooms, and ye clouds gather round, My bosom a refuge, a shelter has found,
Thee, Emily, thee; swiftly rolls on the year,
But it finds thee more honoured, and leaves thee more dear:
To thee my heart turns in all changes unmoved,
And when dying shall bless thee-as living it loved.
HE towering thought, the living lyre,
The soul that wings the song with fire,
The listening world, the deathless name,
Are these fond youth, thy daring claim?
Then take thy wreath-yet calm survey
The perils of the muse's sway;
And while for thee I twine the bays,
Oh! hear the warning voice I raise.
Ne'er shall the temperate virtues find
A welcome in thy thoughtless mind;
Those virtues that maturely rise
To shield the good, and grace the wise:
Each feverish hope-each fretful woe,
Each passion wild, thy heart shall know;
Nor feel the self-controlling power,
That counsels for the distant hour.
Thy soaring spirit shall despise
Each humble bliss, that life supplies;
To thee the world shall withered seem,
When dragged from fancy's finer dream ;
Yet must thy heart be doomed to share
The ills thy fellow mortals bear;
And vain thy sickly wish to fly
From tasteless cold reality.
Thou canst not tread, ('twere sorrow vain)
The tedious path of lowly gain ;
Yet proudly shall thy jealous mind;
Repel the aid of bounty kind;
Friendship in vain shall o'er thee bend,
Nor know to counsel or defend;
E'en they, who love the muse's lyre,
Shall from thy helpless woes retire.
Wayward and lone, the nectar'd bowl
Gives thee the trance of soft control,
The pause from care, the rest from pain,
Which hapless thought no more can gain:
-But on thy waking eyes shall glare
Disease, and anguish, and despair,
And poverty with squalid mein
And feeble cry, shall close the scene.
Who then shall for thy genius feel,
Thy virtues rouse, thy spirit heal?
Dulness shall see thy vessel torn,
And safe on shore shall smile in scorn;
The world, that loved to hear thy woe
Melodious in thy numbers flow,
Shall careless from thy misery turn,
Nor further seek thy griefs to learn.
In vain by thee this world unkind
It charmed, instructed, and refined;
It leaves thee by thy worth alone
To build an happiness thine own;
And sunk in ruins shall expire
The mind that winged the song with fire,
Tho' still the song may live to fame,
And guard the hapless poet's name.
Why draining deep the poison'd bowl,
With flashing eye, and bursting soul,
Ah! why did Chatterton expire,
-He struck the muse's fatal lyre-
What heart but felt his powerful sway,
Who mourned o'er Auburn swept away!
But what the meed which genius gave?
A life enslaved-an early grave.
And he whose voice of Jaffier sung,
And he, whose harp the passions strung,
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