FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[46]Sir Adam Ferguson.[47]The Duke of Montrose.[48]A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.

[46]Sir Adam Ferguson.

[47]The Duke of Montrose.

[48]A worthy old hostess of the author’s in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.

“My son, these maxims make a rule,And lump them ay thegither;The Rigid Righteous is a fool,The Rigid Wise anither:The cleanest corn that e’er was dightMay hae some pyles o’ caff in;So ne’er a fellow-creature slightFor random fits o’ daffin.”

Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

[“Burns,” says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, “has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted.” Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.]

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,Sae pious and sae holy,Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tellYour neibor’s fauts and folly!Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,Supply’d wi’ store o’ water,The heaped happer’s ebbing still,And still the clap plays clatter.

II.

Hear me, ye venerable core,As counsel for poor mortals,That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s doorFor glaikit Folly’s portals;I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,Would here propone defences,Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,Their failings and mischances.

III.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,And shudder at the niffer,But cast a moment’s fair regard,What maks the mighty differ?Discount what scant occasion gave,That purity ye pride in,And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)Your better art o’ hiding.

IV.

Think, when your castigated pulseGies now and then a wallop,What ragings must his veins convulse,That still eternal gallop:Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,Right on ye scud your sea-way;But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,It makes an unco lee-way.

See social life and glee sit down,All joyous and unthinking,’Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grownDebauchery and drinking;O would they stay to calculateTh’ eternal consequences;Or your more dreaded hell to state,D—mnation of expenses!

VI.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,Ty’d up in godly laces,Before ye gie poor frailty names,Suppose a change o’ cases;A dear lov’d lad, convenience snug,A treacherous inclination—But, let me whisper, i’ your lug,Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

VII.

Then gently scan your brother man,Still gentler sister woman;Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,To step aside is human:One point must still be greatly dark,The moving why they do it:And just as lamely can ye mark,How far perhaps they rue it.

VIII.

Who made the heart, ’tis He aloneDecidedly can try us,He knows each chord—its various tone,Each spring—its various bias:Then at the balance let’s be mute,We never can adjust it;What’s done we partly may compute,But know not what’s resisted.

“An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”

Pope.

[Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a good song, a social glass, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy: when Tam heard o’ this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. “This poem has always,” says Hogg, “been a great country favourite: it abounds with happy expressions.

‘In vain the burns cam’ down like waters,An acre braid.’

What a picture of a flooded burn! any other poet would have given us a long description: Burns dashes it down at once in a style so graphic no one can mistake it.

‘Perhaps upon his mouldering breastSome spitefu’ moorfowl bigs her nest.’

Match that sentence who can.”]

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?Or great M’Kinlay[50]thrawn his heel?Or Robinson[51]again grown weel,To preach an’ read?“Na, waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel,Tam Samson’s dead!Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,An’ sigh, an’ sob, an’ greet her lane,An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean,In mourning weed;To death, she’s dearly paid the kane,Tam Samson’s dead!The brethren o’ the mystic levelMay hing their head in woefu’ bevel,While by their nose the tears will revel,Like ony bead;Death’s gien the lodge an unco devel,Tam Samson’s dead!When Winter muffles up his cloak,And binds the mire like a rock;When to the lochs the curlers flock,Wi’ gleesome speed,Wha will they station at the cock?Tam Samson’s dead!He was the king o’ a’ the core,To guard or draw, or wick a bore,Or up the rink like Jehu roarIn time o’ need;But now he lags on death’s hog-score,Tam Samson’s dead!Now safe the stately sawmont sail,And trouts be-dropp’d wi’ crimson hail,And eels weel ken’d for souple tail,And geds for greed,Since dark in death’s fish-creel we wailTam Samson dead.Rejoice, ye birring patricks a’;Ye cootie moor-cocks, crousely craw;Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw,Withouten dread;Your mortal fae is now awa’—Tam Samson’s dead!

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?Or great M’Kinlay[50]thrawn his heel?Or Robinson[51]again grown weel,To preach an’ read?“Na, waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel,Tam Samson’s dead!

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,An’ sigh, an’ sob, an’ greet her lane,An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean,In mourning weed;To death, she’s dearly paid the kane,Tam Samson’s dead!

The brethren o’ the mystic levelMay hing their head in woefu’ bevel,While by their nose the tears will revel,Like ony bead;Death’s gien the lodge an unco devel,Tam Samson’s dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,And binds the mire like a rock;When to the lochs the curlers flock,Wi’ gleesome speed,Wha will they station at the cock?Tam Samson’s dead!

He was the king o’ a’ the core,To guard or draw, or wick a bore,Or up the rink like Jehu roarIn time o’ need;But now he lags on death’s hog-score,Tam Samson’s dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,And trouts be-dropp’d wi’ crimson hail,And eels weel ken’d for souple tail,And geds for greed,Since dark in death’s fish-creel we wailTam Samson dead.

Rejoice, ye birring patricks a’;Ye cootie moor-cocks, crousely craw;Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw,Withouten dread;Your mortal fae is now awa’—Tam Samson’s dead!

That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’dSaw him in shootin’ graith adorn’d,While pointers round impatient burn’d,Frae couples freed;But, Och! he gaed and ne’er return’d!Tam Samson’s dead!In vain auld age his body batters;In vain the gout his ancles fetters;In vain the burns cam’ down like waters,An acre braid!Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin’, clatters,Tam Samson’s dead!Owre many a weary hag he limpit,An’ ay the tither shot he thumpit,Till coward death behind him jumpit,Wi’ deadly feide;Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet,Tam Samson’s dead!When at his heart he felt the dagger,He reel’d his wonted bottle swagger,But yet he drew the mortal triggerWi’ weel-aim’d heed;“L—d, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger;Tam Samson’s dead!Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father;Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather,Marks out his head,Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming bletherTam Samson’s dead!There low he lies, in lasting rest;Perhaps upon his mould’ring breastSome spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest,To hatch an’ breed;Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest!Tam Samson’s dead!When August winds the heather wave,And sportsmen wander by yon grave,Three volleys let his mem’ry craveO’ pouther an’ lead,’Till echo answer frae her caveTam Samson’s dead!Heav’n rest his soul, whare’er he be!Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me;He had twa fauts, or may be three,Yet what remead?Ae social, honest man want we:Tam Samson’s dead!

That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’dSaw him in shootin’ graith adorn’d,While pointers round impatient burn’d,Frae couples freed;But, Och! he gaed and ne’er return’d!Tam Samson’s dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;In vain the gout his ancles fetters;In vain the burns cam’ down like waters,An acre braid!Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin’, clatters,Tam Samson’s dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,An’ ay the tither shot he thumpit,Till coward death behind him jumpit,Wi’ deadly feide;Now he proclaims, wi’ tout o’ trumpet,Tam Samson’s dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger,He reel’d his wonted bottle swagger,But yet he drew the mortal triggerWi’ weel-aim’d heed;“L—d, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger;Tam Samson’s dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;Ilk sportsman youth bemoan’d a father;Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather,Marks out his head,Whare Burns has wrote in rhyming bletherTam Samson’s dead!

There low he lies, in lasting rest;Perhaps upon his mould’ring breastSome spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest,To hatch an’ breed;Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest!Tam Samson’s dead!

When August winds the heather wave,And sportsmen wander by yon grave,Three volleys let his mem’ry craveO’ pouther an’ lead,’Till echo answer frae her caveTam Samson’s dead!

Heav’n rest his soul, whare’er he be!Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me;He had twa fauts, or may be three,Yet what remead?Ae social, honest man want we:Tam Samson’s dead!

EPITAPH.

Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies,Ye canting zealots spare him!If honest worth in heaven rise,Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, an’ canter like a fillyThro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie,Tell ev’ry social honest billieTo cease his grievin’,For yet, unskaith’d by death’s gleg gullie,Tam Samson’s livin’.

FOOTNOTES:[49]When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields.”[50]A preacher, a great favourite with the million.Videthe Ordination, stanza II[51]Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza IX.

[49]When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields.”

[50]A preacher, a great favourite with the million.Videthe Ordination, stanza II

[51]Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza IX.

“Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!And sweet affection prove the spring of woe.”

Home.

[The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. “This was a most melancholy affair,” says the poet in his letter to Moore, “which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality.” Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was “written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham’s darling sweetheart alighting him and marrying another:—she acted a wise part.” With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady’s wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.]

O thou pale orb, that silent shines,While care-untroubled mortals sleep!Thou seest a wretch who inly pines,And wanders here to wail and weep!With woe I nightly vigils keep,Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam,And mourn, in lamentation deep,How life and love are all a dream.

II.

A joyless view thy rays adornThe faintly marked distant hill:I joyless view thy trembling horn,Reflected in the gurgling rill:My fondly-fluttering heart, be still:Thou busy pow’r, Remembrance, cease!Ah! must the agonizing thrillFor ever bar returning peace!

III.

No idly-feign’d poetic pains,My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim;No shepherd’s pipe—Arcadian strains;No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:The plighted faith; the mutual flame;The oft-attested Pow’rs above;The promis’d father’s tender name;These were the pledges of my love!

IV.

Encircled in her clasping arms,How have the raptur’d moments flown!How have I wish’d for fortune’s charms,For her dear sake, and hers alone!And must I think it!—is she gone,My secret heart’s exulting boast?And does she heedless hear my groan?And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,So lost to honour, lost to truth,As from the fondest lover part,The plighted husband of her youth!Alas! life’s path may be unsmooth!Her way may lie thro’ rough distress!Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,Her sorrows share, and make them less?

VI.

Ye winged hours that o’er us past,Enraptur’d more, the more enjoy’d,Your dear remembrance in my breast,My fondly-treasur’d thoughts employ’d,That breast, how dreary now, and void,For her too scanty once of room!Ev’n ev’ry ray of hope destroy’d,And not a wish to gild the gloom!

VII.

The morn that warns th’ approaching day,Awakes me up to toil and woe:I see the hours in long array,That I must suffer, lingering slow.Full many a pang, and many a throe,Keen recollection’s direful train,Must wring my soul, ere Phœbus, low,Shall kiss the distant, western main.

VIII.

And when my nightly couch I try,Sore-harass’d out with care and grief,My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,Keep watchings with the nightly thief:Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright:Ev’n day, all-bitter, brings relief,From such a horror-breathing night.

IX.

O! thou bright queen, who o’er th’ expanseNow highest reign’st, with boundless sway!Oft has thy silent-marking glanceObserv’d us, fondly-wand’ring, stray!The time, unheeded, sped away,While love’s luxurious pulse beat high,Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,To mark the mutual kindling eye.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!Scenes never, never to return!Scenes, if in stupor I forget,Again I feel, again I burn!From ev’ry joy and pleasure torn,Life’s weary vale I’ll wander thro’;And hopeless, comfortless, I’ll mournA faithless woman’s broken vow.

[“I think,” said Burns, “it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, and loves an embodied form in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease.” He elsewhere says, “My passions raged like so many devils till they got vent in rhyme.” That eminent painter, Fuseli, on seeing his wife in a passion, said composedly, “Swear my love, swear heartily: you know not how much it will ease you!” This poem was printed in the Kilmarnock edition, and gives a true picture of those bitter moments experienced by the bard, when love and fortune alike deceived him.]

Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,A burden more than I can bear,I set me down and sigh:O life! thou art a galling load,Along a rough, a weary road,To wretches such as I!Dim-backward as I cast my view,What sick’ning scenes appear!What sorrows yet may pierce me thro’Too justly I may fear!Still caring, despairing,Must be my bitter doom;My woes here shall close ne’erBut with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life,Who, equal to the bustling strife,No other view regard!Ev’n when the wished end’s deny’d,Yet while the busy means are ply’d,They bring their own reward:Whilst I, a hope-abandon’d wight,Unfitted with an aim,Meet ev’ry sad returning nightAnd joyless morn the same;You, bustling, and justling,Forget each grief and pain;I, listless, yet restless,Find every prospect vain.

III.

How blest the solitary’s lot,Who, all-forgetting, all forgot,Within his humble cell,The cavern wild with tangling roots,Sits o’er his newly-gather’d fruits,Beside his crystal well!Or, haply, to his ev’ning thought,By unfrequented stream,The ways of men are distant brought,A faint collected dream;While praising, and raisingHis thoughts to heav’n on high,As wand’ring, meand’ring,He views the solemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac’dWhere never human footstep trac’d,Less fit to play the part;The lucky moment to improve,And just to stop, and just to move,With self-respecting art:But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,Which I too keenly taste,The solitary can despise,Can want, and yet be blest!He needs not, he heeds not,Or human love or hate,Whilst I here, must cry hereAt perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable, early days,When dancing thoughtless pleasure’s maze,To care, to guilt unknown!How ill exchang’d for riper times,To feel the follies, or the crimes,Of others, or my own!Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,Like linnets in the bush,Ye little know the ills ye court,When manhood is your wish!The losses, the crosses,That active man engage!The fears all, the tears all,Of dim declining age!

"THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT."“THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT.”

“Let not ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure:Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,The short and simple annals of the poor.”

Gray

[The house of William Burns was the scene of this fine, devout, and tranquil drama, and William himself was the saint, the father, and the husband, who gives life and sentiment to the whole. “Robert had frequently remarked to me,” says Gilbert Burns, “that he thought there was something peculiarly venerable in the phrase, ‘Let us worship God!’ used by a decent sober head of a family, introducing family worship.” To this sentiment of the author the world is indebted for the “Cotter’s Saturday Night.” He owed some little, however, of the inspiration to Fergusson’s “Farmer’s Ingle,” a poem of great merit. The calm tone and holy composure of the Cotter’s Saturday Night have been mistaken by Hogg for want of nerve and life. “It is a dull, heavy, lifeless poem,” he says, “and the only beauty it possesses, in my estimation, is, that it is a sort of family picture of the poet’s family. The worst thing of all, it is not original, but is a decided imitation of Fergusson’s beautiful pastoral, ‘The Farmer’s Ingle:’ I have a perfect contempt for all plagiarisms and imitations.” Motherwell tries to qualify the censure of his brother editor, by quoting Lockhart’s opinion—at once lofty and just, of this fine picture of domestic happiness and devotion.]

My lov’d, my honour’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 work unknown, far happier there, I ween!

II.

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 labour goes,This night his weekly moil is at an end,Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,And weary, o’er the moor, his course does homeward bend.

III.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;Th’ expectant wee-things, toddlin’, stacher thro’To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin’ noise an’ glee.His wee bit ingle, blinkin’ bonnily.His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie Wifie’s smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee,Does a’ his weary kiaugh and care beguile,An’ makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

IV.

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,At service out amang the farmers roun’:Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rinA cannie errand to a neebor town:Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,In youthfu’ bloom, love sparkling in her e’e,Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw 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,An’ each for other’s welfare kindly spiers:The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnotic’d, fleet;Each tells the unco’s that he sees or hears;The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;Anticipation forward points the view.The Mother, wi’ her needle an’ her shears,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new;The Father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due.

VI.

Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command,The younkers a’ are warned to obey;And mind their labours wi’ an eydent hand,An’ ne’er, tho’ out of sight, to jauk or play:“And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray,Implore His counsel and assisting might:They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord aright!”

VII.

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same,Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor,To do some errands, and convoy her hame.The wily Mother sees the conscious flameSparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek,With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;Weel pleas’d the Mother hears it’s nae wild, worthless rake.

VIII.

Wi’ kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben;A strappan youth; he taks the Mother’s eye;Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en;The Father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye.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 spyWhat makes the youth sae bashfu’ and sae grave;Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave.

IX.

O happy love! Where love like this is found!O heart-felt raptures!—bliss beyond compare!I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round,And sage experience bids me this declare—“If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure 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 ev’ning gale.”

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 honour, virtue, conscience, all exil’d?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?

XI.

But now the supper crowns their simple board,The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia’s food:The soupe their only hawkie does afford,That ‘yont the hallan snugly chows her cood:The dame brings forth in complimental mood,To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell,An’ aft he’s prest, an’ aft he ca’s it guid;The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell.

XII.

The cheerfu’ supper done, wi’ serious face,They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;The Sire turns o’er, with patriarchal grace,The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride;His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside,His lyart haffets wearing thin an’ bare;Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,He wales a portion with judicious care;And ‘Let us worshipGod!’ he says, with solemn air.

XIII.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise;They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:Perhaps Dundee’s wild-warbling measures rise,Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name;Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays:Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame;The tickl’d ear no heart-felt raptures raise;Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise.

XIV.

The priest-like Father reads the sacred page,How Abram was the friend of God on high;Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wageWith Amalek’s ungracious progeny;Or how the royal bard did groaning lieBeneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire;Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire;Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

XV.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;HowHe, who bore in Heaven 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.

XVI.

Then kneeling down, toHeaven’s eternal King,The Saint, the Father, and the Husband prays:Hope ‘springs exulting on triumphant wing,’[52]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.

XVII.

Compar’d 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 Pow’r, incens’d, the pageant will desert,The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;But haply, in some cottage far apart,May hear, well pleas’d, the language of the soul;And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

XVIII.

Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way;The youngling cottagers retire to rest:Their Parent-pair their secret homage pay,And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,ThatHe, 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.

XIX.

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