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 pre side. 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 Birge. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care; Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 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. A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land Many and sharp the num'rous ills Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-- If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and pow'r A PRAYER IN PROSPECT OF DEATH. Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man, O death! the poor man's dearest friend, Welcome the hour my aged limbs A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause In whose dread presence, ere an hour, If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast, Thou know'st that thou hast formed me And list'ning to their witching voice 151 |