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The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy:

Bút blate 16 and laithfu 17, scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi’ a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu’an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like

the lave 18

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,

A wretch ! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth!

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exild? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction

wild ?

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o’er, wi' påtriarchal grace,

The big ha 19 bible, ance his father's pride. His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets 20 wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

He wales 21 a portion with judicious care; And,“ Let us worship God!" he says, with so

lemn air.

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, how the royal bard did groaning lie

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ;

16 Bashful.
19 Great bible.

17 Shy. 18 The rest, others.
20 Grey temples.

21 Chooses.

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;

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 heav'n 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 Bab’lon's doom pronounc'd 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. 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; Butchiefly, in their hearts with grace divine.preside. 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.

SONNET.

Written on the summit of Plinlimmon. With pensive heart and trembling steps I tread These savage heights, with Alpine horrors

crown'd; While eagles scream around their stormy head,

And the hoarse torrents pour a solemn sound. 'Tis awful! here no grovelling thought can dwell,

Where all is vast, magnificent and high; I feel, I feel the ascending spirit swell,

Though faint the foot, and wearied be the eye. Ah! treacherous heart, by earth-born cares de

press'd, Why rove thy thoughts the sordid throng, Where sensual pleasures clog each vulgar breast,

And gold and glory trail their pomp along ? Oh! mount at length to heaven on rapid wing,

There in thy native empyrean glow; And, blest with peace, and bright in endless spring,

Smile at the clouds that shade a world below.

A MONASTIC ODE.

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HAIL, Solitude! how sweet thy shade,
For holy contemplation made !
Far from the world, no more I see
That stage of sin and vanity.

While nations rage, my ravish'd sight
I lift to realms of peace and light,
And hear celestial voices sing
The praise of their Immortal King.
Here would I sit, to peace consign'd,
And leave a troubled world behind,
Till angels waft me hence, to rest
In Paradise among the blest;
With hermits there to taste of bliss,
Who walk'd with God in shades like this.

THE END.

LONDON:

PRINTBD BY R. GILBERT,

ST. JOHN'S SQUARE,

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