THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 101 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. 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 of the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! 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 con tent! 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 heart; 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 ! He that loves a rosie cheek, LAKE, WITH LAWNY BANKS THAT SLOPE. 103 But a smooth and steadfast mind, LAKE, WITH LAWNY BANKS THAT SLOPE. “ LAKE, with lawny banks that slope To the water's edge, Thy long grass and sedge. “ Thou hadst been a gem of earth Couched amid these hills, pure rills " Whence thy hidden life is drawn. Why thus fretteth he, Thy tranquillity ?" Were the waters pressed, Issued from their breast. Be it genie, be it fate, I know not, - but know Ever turbid flow. Earth may smile like Eden round, Heaven may open blue, Child of sullied parentage Gives not back their hue. 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 Born with inward strife.” 66 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. DEEP, DEEP WITHIN THE OCEAN'S BREAST. 105 I came again, a river, Princely, calm, and clear, love from fear. Heaven and earth were showed therein, The dark source defiled Sent a noble child. DEEP, DEEP WITHIN THE OCEAN'S BREAST. DEEP, deep within the ocean's breast A coral isle was shrined, Float with white arms entwined. The centre of this little isle Was fixed a stony tree; Like foliage, quiveringly. In rigid pride the coral stone Surveyed its firm estate, “ I floated, too, of late. “ But now no chance or change can come To me ; mature in form, I cool no more nor warm. |