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;
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 train, 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.

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 heart 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.

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.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure,
Thy slender stem;
thee now is past my power,

То spare

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet;
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' speckled 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 reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou beneath the random-bield,

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread;

Thou liftst thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies.

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred :
Unskilful he to note the card,

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er.

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven;
By human pride or cunning driven,
To misery's brink !

Till wrenched of every stay but heaven,
He, ruined, sink!

Even 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 crushed beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom.