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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 pronounc'd 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.
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 every 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 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 refin’d!
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, 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-lov'd Isle.
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.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
Along the banks of Ayr,
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?
Began the rev’rend sage;
Or youthful pleasures rage?
Too soon thou hast began
The miseries of man!
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
Twice forty times return;
That man was made to mourn,
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time! Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Licentious passions burn;
That man was made to mourn.
Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Supported is his right:
With cares and sorrows worn,
Show man was made to mourn.
A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest ;
Are likewise truly blest.
Are wretched and forlorn;
That man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
Regret, remorse, and shame!
The smiles of love adorn,
Makes countless thousands mourn !