Puslapio vaizdai

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 Power, 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 enroll.

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;
But, chiefly, in their hearts, with grace divine preside.



WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure!

Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet !2

Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

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The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield,

1 Dust. 2 Wetness. 3 Peeped.

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In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n,

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Even thou, who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!


THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;

1 Shelter. 2 Barren. 3 Stubble.

The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd covies meet secure,
While here I wander prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,

She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

"T is not the surging billow's roar,
"T is not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.



Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' many a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae ;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,

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As blythe lay down at e'en:

And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,

And monie a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never ending care.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend
Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring

Bloom on my peaceful grave!



INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains,
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.


Born 1765-Died 1811.

GRAHAME was born in Glasgow, and enjoyed from his parents the invaluable privileges of an early religious education. From the grammar school he entered the University of Glasgow, and after passing through the usual course of study, devoted himself to the profession of the law. In his practice as a lawyer he exhibited the virtuous singularity of being unwilling to advocate any cause which was without foundation in equity and truth; when it was manifestly unjust he would return both his brief and fee, and positively refuse to undertake it.

In 1804 he published his poem of the Sabbath, with so much secrecy and caution, that for a long time no individual suspected the author, and he had the satisfaction of hearing its praises repeated in all companies, and of finding his own wife among its warmest admirers. He was so delighted with the enthusiasm of her applause, and with the manner in which she would point out to him its beautiful passages, that at length on one of these occasions he could not avoid confessing himself its author. The Sabbath was followed at different intervals with various other poems.

On the death of his father, Grahame, who had entered the profession of the law chiefly out of respect to the wishes of that parent, turned his attention to the study of Divinity, on which his predilections had always rested, and resolved to give himself up to the service of religion. He was accordingly ordained and appointed to a curacy by the Bishop of Norwich in 1809. After pleasantly describing the situation of his parish in a letter to his friends, he declares himself as happy as he could be at a distance from them, and at the close of a short account of his "temporalities," adds "The church is very an

cient and crazy. In the steeple there are three sweet toned

bells and an owl."

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