Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, adds fuel to The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise;
Nae unison ha'e 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 how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

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 banishèd,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

no, have

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,"
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

TO A MOUSE.

On turning up her Nest with the Plough.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

Oh what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion
And fellow-mortal!

would, loath, run ploughstaff

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave

'S a sma request:

I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive,
And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!

sometimes must

ear of corn, 24 sheaves

small

rest

little, house

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! weak, walls, winds

And naething now to big a new ane

O' foggage green,

And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,

build, one

rank grass

both sharp

And weary winter comin' fast,

And cozie here, beneath the blast.
Thou thought to dwell,

comfortable

Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed
Out through thy cell.

ploughshare

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

stubble many

without, hold

endure, drizzle hoar-frost, cold

alone

go oft wrong leave