XIV. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 120 XV. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 130 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 Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's com mand. XVI. 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. XVII. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 140 The Pow`r, incensed, the pageant will desert, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in the book of life the inmates poor enrol. XVIII. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. XIX. From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs, Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; XX. 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 bless'd 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, 150 160 170 And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. 180 XXI. O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, TO A MOUSE. ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murdering pattle! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, For I maun crush among the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; 20 |