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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, [command. And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's

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.

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Then homeward all take off their 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.




Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stour

Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie Lark, companion meet !
Bending thee ʼmang the dewy weet !

Wi' speckled breast,
When upward springing, blythe to greet

The purplin 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

O'clod or stane,
Adorns't the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snowy bosom sunward spread,

Thou lift'st 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 flow'ret 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 and 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 thineno distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight
Shall be thy doom !


Thou lingering star, with lessening ray

That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my heart was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love ! Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined am'rous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every sprayTill too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakos,

And fondly broods with miser care!




Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast!




O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above!

I know thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love

I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary siremthe mortal stroke,

Long, long be pleased to spare ;
To bless his filial little flock,

And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes

With tender hopes and fears,
0, bless her with a mother's joys,

But spare a mother's tears !

Their hope their stay--their darling youth

In manhood's dawning blush-
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,

Up to a parent's wish!

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