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Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
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.
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride
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 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 preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
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,
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 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!
1 Pope's Windsor Forest.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
WHEN chill November's surly blast
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
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,
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 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
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
More pointed still we make ourselves,
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!