Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 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 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way, And proffer up to heaven the warm request, 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: ' 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! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 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. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, То spare Thou bonnie gem. Alas! its no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north, Scarce reared above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thou liftst thy unassuming head But now the share uptears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless maid, And guileless trust; Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid Such is the fate of simple bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is given, Till wrenched of every stay but heaven, Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, |