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346

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps "Dundee's" wild-warbling measures rise, Or plaintive" Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame;

The tickled car no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

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 Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven'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;

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

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,

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While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compared 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 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 enroll.

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 springs,
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!

348

DISDAIN RETURNED.

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, O, 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-loved isle.

O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted
heart;

Who dared 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!

DISDAIN RETURNED.

- Carew.

HE that loves a rosie cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

LAKE, WITH LAWNY BANKS THAT SLOPE.

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But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

LAKE, WITH LAWNY BANKS THAT SLOPE

"LAKE, with lawny banks that slope

To the water's edge,

Softly rustles the wind thro'

Thy long grass and sedge.

"Thou hadst been a gem of earth

Couched amid these hills,

But some evil water-sprite

Troubles the pure rills

"Whence thy hidden life is drawn.

Why thus fretteth he,

Who should be thy good genie,

Thy tranquillity?"

Lightly by a ruffling wind.

Were the waters pressed,
And a liquid, swaying voice
Issued from their breast.

Be it genie, be it fate,

I know not, - but know

That the waves from yonder stream
Ever turbid flow.

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LAKE, WITH LAWNY BANKS THAT SLOPE.

Earth may smile like Eden round,
Heaven may open blue,
Child of sullied parentage

Gives not back their hue.

66 Stream, that feed'st the lake, there beams On thee a living sun;

Rapid, dark, thou rushest by;

Wouldst thou doom outrun ?"

Hoarsely thus the hurrying wave
Answered, foaming on,

"Suns may beam, or skies may lower,
I may stay for none.

"I am fed by those that draw
From depths hid from me
Their mysterious energies,
And I am not free.

"Peaceful mission is not mine;

Springs that give me life

Burst from this strange earth, as if

Born with inward strife."

“Turbid lake, thou must flow on,

There is no redress,
And the river fed by thee
Know unworthiness."

Ignorant, I grieved to see

Nothing could be pure,
All must be as all had been,
While it should endure.

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