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Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
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
Heav'n's command.


Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing','
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
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;

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
Devotion's every 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 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 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.



WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?

Began the rev'rend sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.

O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;'
Which tenfold force give nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

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
Are wretched and forlorn;

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav'n-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

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