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Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
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 Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
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
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 Heav'n the warm request, That 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 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!) 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
I spy'd a man, whose agèd step
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
I've seen yon weary winter sun
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Look not alone on youthful prime,
But see him on the edge of life,
A few seem favorites of fate,