<If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In others arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale.' Is there, in human form, that bears a heart- Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; They chant their artless notes in simple guise; The tickl'd ears no heart-felt 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 other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 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: 1 Pope's Windsor Forest. 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; [sphere. While circling time moves round in an eternal Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart! The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 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 clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 lov'd at home, rever'd 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 heav'nly 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 refin'd! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! [tent! A virtuous populace may rise the while, [Isle. And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart! Who dar'd so nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A Dirge. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force give nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn, Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn. VOL. I. |