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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.

Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING,

The saint, the father, and the husband prays:

Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"1

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,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
1 Pope's Windsor Forest - B.

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The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;

But, haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the

soul;

And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol

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
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 thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

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 muchloved isle.

Oh Thou! who poured the patriotic tide, That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart,

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!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

"Oh prince, oh chief of many throned powers,

That led th' embattled seraphim to war!"— MILTON

The Address to the Deil appears to have been produced in early winter, probably before the month of November had expired. Gilbert recollected his brother repeating the poem to him as they were going together with their carts to bring coal for the family fire.

OH thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,1
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,
Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,2

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
And let poor d―d bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

dashes

1 A Scotch appellative of Satan, from his cloven feet or cloots.

2 Burns here imagines a foot-pail, called in Scotland a cootie, as employed by Satan in distributing brimstone over the unfortunates under his care.

To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
And hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, and great thy fame;
Far kenned and noted is thy name;
And though yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

beat

[flaming hollow

And, faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur. bashful

slow

- easily scared

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey a' holes and corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruined castles gray
Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.

Uncovering

fearful moan

When twilight did my grannie summon,
To say her prayers, douce honest woman! sobe
Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin',

Wi' eerie drone;

dreary

Or, rustlin', through the boortrees comin', elder-trees

Wi' heavy groan.

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