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The precepts fage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Şaw in the fun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd

by Heav'n'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 figh, or shed the bitter tear,


* Pope's Windsor Forest,

Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear; While circling Time moves round in an eter

nal sphere.


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 facerdotal 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 en



Then homeward all take off their sey'ral way;

The youngling Cottagers retire to rest : The Parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heav'n 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



From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur

springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:


Princes and Lords are but the breath of kings,

. An honest man's the nobleft work of God;' And certes, in fair Virtue's heav'nly road,

The Cottage leaves the Palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp! a cumbrous load,

Difguifing oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refin'd!


O Scotia! my dear, my native soil !
For whom my warmest wish to Heav'n is

sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, Be bleft with health, and peace, and sweet

content! And, O! may Heav'n, their fimple lives pre

vent 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

lov'd Isle.


0 Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted

heart; Who dar'd to, nobly, ftem 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 !

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