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
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! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil [tent! Be blest with health and peace and sweet conAnd, 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, [Isle. And stand a wall of fire around their much loved
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart! Who dared 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!
Festus in pratis vacat otioso
The leisure village, jocund in the fields,
Keeps holiday, together with the steer,
Loosen'd from toil.
THERE is a sabbath for the man of cares:
Then wail not, thou whom daily toils oppress!
There is a resting-place for him who fares
Upon the rugged road to happiness!
Scorn, if ye will, ye sons of carelessness,
Who eat your bread with worldly plenty's leaven,
This day, the poor man's joy-your heaviness;
To shun its thoughtful calm, by uproar driven,
Your ways bespeak, I ween, ill neighbourhood
with Heaven!
Scorn, if ye will! though never mote ye feel That scorn return'd into each thoughtless breast, Whene'er that Searcher of the heart shall steal Into its chambers, where unweeting rest
Each virtue lulls, and Vice her painted crest
Nods o'er the couch-Yet, if I read aright,
That heavenly watchman will pursue his quest
With his lamp-burning spirit, 'till the night
Of evil, ye have loved, stand trembling in its light!
O, could ye learn to love the simple joys,
Simple, but pure, which I have chanced to find,
As wandering, I have fled the city's noise
To quiet fields, there most to dwell inclined
Among the swainlike folks and shepherd kind:
There hath the world's most ancient holiday
Oft led my footsteps mid their cots to wind;
And there, the muse, framing her rustic lay
To oaten pipe, thus rudely did of late essay.
The Sabbath's dawn, bright peering on the skies,
From orient hills, the gladsome peasant sees;
Who deems it time from sleepy couch to rise,
Waked by the carols in his cottage trees.
And certes much his rising thoughts must please,
That, after all his weekly hard turmoil,
This morn will bring another day of ease; [toil,
Bless'd day! which Heaven itself has freed from
And hallow'd into rest for him who delves the soil.
Right gleeful wight, the welcome morn he hails,
In which no sound of busy din he hears;
No echoing barn resounds the thumping flails;
No labouring team across the plain appears;
Ne voice of early hind salutes his ears:
Nought, save the bell, which from yon ivied tower
(That scant its humble time-worn summit rears
O'er many an elm, which does its walls embower),
Bids village swains prepare to meet at sermon hour.
Soon all appear, in Sunday's trim bedight,
In seely hat, with buckle and with band;
The clean round frock, all dazzling, snowy white,
And shoen, all nicely kept by careful hand
Of thrifty dame, who well does understand,
And mouchel loves economy in all;
And wonts them ever bear this strict command
In mind, lest foul mishap their clothes befall,
To keep their decent plight, ne use them ill at all.
The lasses too, full trimly dight, I ween,
In straw-wove hat, with ribbons passing gay,
In flower'd gowns and figured kerchiefs clean,
Their morning meal fordone, themselves array,
And take, at call of bell, to church their way;
(Their bosoms deck'd with many a nosegay sweet,)
With sires and dames, whose eld mote cause delay;
Yet, at the porch, nath'less their pastor meet,
Whom many a lifted hat and comely curtsie greet.
Eftsoones they entrance make, with reverence due,
Befitting those in solemn worship found:
Each takes his wonted place in oaken pew,
And makes response, while all the walls resound.
Then finds that text the preacher shall expound;
Who haply teaches each attentive breast
How all to keep the Sabbath Day are bound,
And reads them how it aye was deemed best
To make this day a day of worship and of rest.
Ah me! that such there be, whose pride disdains (When these some metred psalm do use to sing), The artless measure of the' unletter'd swains, Who, chanting praises to the' Eternal King,
All' they no fine harmonious numbers bring;
Nath'less, I ween, in Heaven's impartial sight,
Are sweet as loftiest changes art can ring;
Since these, through nature, undisguised quite,
Speak with a soul devout, that weens to speak
aright.
And sooth to say, the lowly peasant finds
In practised piety a covert bower,
For shelter from neglect's cold frequent winds,
And from the surquedry of passing stower.
And in the sunshine of his happiest hour,
(Like happy hours, O! many him betide,)
He loves to gaze upon this fadeless flower,
E'en then more dear to him than all beside,
And wears it in his breast as rose that never died.
Possessed of this, he learns how false the fear
Of man, in him who builds on things above;
Heeds not the sceptic's doubts, nor feels the sneer
Of infidelity his faith remove:
Him, hope shall centre in Eternal Love,
Nor shall the vapid ore, opinion's mine
Yields to the worldling, aught of this disprove;
For never will that swain his peace resign
For phantasies of vice, or folly's mad design.
Soon as the wonted time of service o'er,
Homeward with sober step and talk they tread;
Where the good dame well skill'd in housewife lore,
Full daintily the whiten'd cloth has spread,
And all in order meet the table laid;
Where soon is pight the savoury pudding rare,
And tempting rashers, streak'd with glowing red:
The which, while all the rustic household share,
Some praise the sermon past,and all the present fare.
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