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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 thall meet in future days: There ever balk in uncreated rays,

No more to figh or thed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet fill 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 inethod and of art, When men display to congregations wide

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,

The poinpous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But baply in some Cottage far apart,

May hear, well-pleas’d, the language of the foul; And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way;

The youngling Cottagers retire to rest : The Parent-pair their secret hoinage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, That He who ftills the raven's clam'rous neft,

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 soenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad :

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

« An honeft 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,

Disguifin; oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd! O Scotia ! my dear, my native foil!

For whom my warmelt wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of ruftic toil,

Be bleft with health and peace, and sweel content! And, O! may Heaven their imple lives prevent

From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile' Then, howe'er crowns and coronets he rent,

A virtuous Populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d ide. o Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart; Who dar'd to, nobly, siem 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 realın desert,

But still the Patriot and the Patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornainent and guard!

On turning one down with the plough, in April 1786
W EE, modest, crimson-tipped Flow'r!
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the foure

Thy Nender stem:
To spare thee now is paft my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neehor sweet,
The bonie Lark, companion meet !
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,

Wi' spreckl'd breast,
When upward-Springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling East.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce reard above the parent earth

nder forin.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods an’ wa's maun thield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie ftibble field,

Unseen, alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bofom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;
But now the share up-tears thy bed,

And low thou lies.
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade !

By love's fimplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,
Till the, like thee, all soild, is laid

Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of fimple Bard,
On life's rough océan, luckless starr'd !
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore;
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suff'ring Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To Mis’ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, ank.
E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no diftant date ;
Stern Ruin's plough-fhare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till, cruth'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy dooin.




TO SPRING. Iis past ; the iron North has spent his rage;

Stern Winter now religns the length’ning day; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,

And warm o'er ether weltern breezes play.

Oi genial heat and cheerful light the fource,
· From southern climes, beneath another fky,
The sun, returning, wheels his golden course;

Before bis beains all noxious vapours fly.

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Far to the north grim Winter draws his train

To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen 'thore; Where thron'd on ice, he holds eternal reign; Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempelis

roar. Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground

Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around,

Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. Behold! the trees new-deck their wither’d boughs;.

Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty alb disclose;

The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lity of the vale, of Powers the queen,

Puts on the robe The neither few'd nor fpun; The birds on ground, or on the branches green,

Hop to and fro and glitter in the fun. Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,

From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; And, cheerful linging, up the air she steers;

Still high she mounts, liill loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms,

That fill (be air with fragrance all around: The linnet fits, and tricks his glossy plumes,

While o'er the wild, his broken notes resound.

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