Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 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, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere 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; And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 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, 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, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN A DIRGE WHEN chill November's surly blast Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or, haply, prest with cares and woes To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, I've seen yon weary winter sun 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. A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great |