THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 77

ངོང་

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 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 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 pro

vide;

But chiefly in their hearts with grace,divine preside.

78 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

ངང་ཞིག་ཏ

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.

1 Pope's Essay on Man.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 79

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!

Robert Burns.

SIT and listen through the day,
To sounds 'tis joy to hear;
I feel the touch of baby hands
My bosom clinging near.

And warm red lips and baby breath
Come softly to my cheek,

Content am I with all that makes
My heart so warm and meek.

If I could bid my life stand still
Just when, or where, or how,-
Baby is sleeping on my breast,
I think I'd have it

now.

Of varied sweetness life is full,

Of what to woman's best,

Of love of husband, child, and home, Of work with this sweet rest.

THE MOTHER'S WISH.

81

Will they float away, these sweet, sweet joys,

As the fleeting years go by?

Can time dim pleasure to the heart,

Or will their memories die?

Will the prattling sounds of babyhood,
The joy of childhood's ways,
Be equalled in a mother's heart
By the joy of other days?

Will the words sound half as sweetly
When the boy can say them plain,
Or my heart beat happier, prouder,
When my baby is a man?

Can I give the man such comfort
In need of mind and heart,

As by kissing baby's finger,

Which the pin has made to smart?

They will pass away, these bright, bright days, But their joys must ne'er depart;

I will bind them round in sheaves of love, And gather them in my heart.

Lord, make my mother-heart grow large,
That I may hold them all,

Nor feel them slipping from my grasp
As coming years shall fall.