The world hath nothing to bestowFrom our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, A paradise below. Our babes shall richest comforts bring; Whence pleasures ever rise; We'll form their minds with studious care To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, No borrow'd joys, they're all our own, Or by the world forgot; And bless our humble lot. Our portion is not large, indeed ; We'll therefore relish with content To be resign'd when ills betide, And pleased with favors given Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead; While conscience, like a faithful friend, NATHANIEL COTTON. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. "Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise; To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier. there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end,— Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Their master's and their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warnèd to obey; Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, Comes hame; perhaps, to show a braw Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's.wiles, can spy And each for other's welfare kindly What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae spiers: grave; The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view; shears, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new: The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found: O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond com pare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this de clare, "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas ure spare One cordial in this melancholy vale,— 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth! Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beets the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's, holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame: That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling, smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their dis- But now the supper crowns their simple board, raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; food; The sowpe their only hawkie does afford, That, 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb- How He, who bore in Heaven the second 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 ev'ry 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 enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral 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 clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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 kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven | While his hale old wife, with busy care, is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil sweet content! Was clearing the dinner away; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, WINIFREDA. AWAY! let naught to love displeasing, "Don't smoke!" said the child; "how it What though no grants of royal donors makes you cry!” The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the manteltree Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, CHARLES G. EASTMAN. MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS. WHEN I upon thy bosom lean, And fondly clasp thee a' my ain, I glory in the sacred ties That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith, The tender look, the meltin' kiss; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss. Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee! I ken thy wish is me to please; Our moments pass sae smooth away That numbers on us look and gaze; Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; And aye when weary cares arise, Thy bosom still shall be my hame. I'll lay me there and tak' my rest; And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away, And beg her not to drop a tear. Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain! United still her heart and mine; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin. JOHN LAPRAIK. |