Oft hath the holy wine and bread
Been bless'd beneath thy murmuring tent,
Where many a bright and hoary head
Bow'd at that awful sacrament.
Now all beneath the turf are laid,
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.
Above that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently
To heaven, with all its dreams;
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heav'd bosom's purple gleams,
The dove's continuous murmurs flow;
A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe,
The voice so lonely seems.
TO THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
WHILE over many a Highland hill I stray,
And pick through many a glen my devious way,
On every side I cast my wandering eyes,
Where lakes expand, or rugged mountains rise;
And still I find new pleasures as I go,
Wherever hills ascend, or waters flow;
But backward oft my silent musings stray
Among the charming groves of Invera'y.
Not fresher lawns on Albion's bosom smile;
Not taller forests crown the fruitful isle;
Not bolder hills our southern skies invade,
Nor boast our winding vales a deeper shade.
Argyle! would other wealthy lords agree
To clothe with wood their naked plains like thee;
To bid the rocks with infant forests spring,
And call the birds on silent hills to sing;
The vacant hands of Poverty employ,
And fill their cottages with humble joy;
Then rocks, which now in barren pomp array'd,
Would cast o'er Scotia beauty's softest shade;
Among her hills then would the natives stray,
Nor seek for happier fortunes far away.
But not these bold luxuriant scenes confine My wandering search, or stay a heart like mine. I love to pierce the peasant's lowly cell, I love to see how all my brethren dwell; And sure it fits a social mind to trace The various lots assign'd to human race. Peace to the humble swain whose simple lot Is bounded by the narrow Highland cot; Joy to the noble, hospitable breast, Whose pillow sinks the stranger into rest;
Whose ready board his every want supplies, And converse bids his drooping spirits rise: Such have I found the Highland hills among; Such kindness well may warm my grateful song. Ye hills, farewell! If e'er I rest again
On the soft bosom of my native plain,
Of Highland scenes my tongue shall often tell,
My heart shall long on Highland kindness dwell.
Nor shall, I trust, oblivion soon efface,
From the remembrance of this generous race,
The pious toils my lov'd companion bore,
Where men like us were never seen before.
The voice of love their deepest valleys found,
Along the mountains ran the gospel sound;
Sweet was the sound, and powerful was the call
To heaven, within the happiness of all.
The modest Highland maid, the aged dame,
The cottager and chief together came :
Silent they sat; and marvell'd, when they knew
That gospel love so far its votaries drew.
THE ETERNAL AND UNCHANGEABLE.
O Thou! that reads't the secret heart,
And hear'st the suff'rer's softest sigh,
When I remember that THOU ART,
I feel each care, each sorrow,
THOU ART, to whom the sinner's moan
Was never yet breath'd forth in vain;
THOU ART, to whom each want is known,
Each hopeless wish, each fruitless pain.
And oh! while earthly loves grow cold,
And earthly comforts break away,
THOU ART the suff"rer's certain hold,
The same through one eternal day!
Thy smile of love beams always bright,
To cheer the contrite sinner's heart;
Nor can that soul be plung'd in night,
That knows, O Lord, and feels, THOU ART!
Occasioned by a fall of Snow on the last day of March.
THE breath of Spring was lately in the grove;
Her footsteps in our gardens; and around
Awoke, obedient to her voice of love,
The song of birds-the magic of sweet sound, Which, through the leafless trees, went up on high, The incense mild of Nature's piety.
Where'er she trod, the little flowers, that slept
Beneath the soil, arose, her steps to greet;
And all fair creatures, that the frosts had kept
In their cold prison, then were free to meet,
And welcome the fair visitant again,
Who mov'd so gently over hill and plain.
But whilst too sanguine of the promise fair,
We plann'd our rural walks among the vales,
Stern Winter came, and stripp'd our prospects bare,
And turn'd to chilling blasts the genial gales,
That lately murmur'd through the budding bow'rs,
And wanton'd careless with the infant flow'rs.
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