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 pro nounced 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," "1 That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, 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 enrol. 1 Pope's Windsor Forest.-R. B. 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 In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest. Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; I was the Queen o' bonnie France, My son! my son! may kinder stars Remember him for me! Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns Nae mair light up the morn! And the next flowers that deck the spring Bloom on my peaceful grave! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine - no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH IN NOVEMBER. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle!1 I wad be laith2 to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie,thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 5 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,6 And never miss't. Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, |