THE SPIRIT IS EVERYWHERE.
In our dreams of heaven, whate'er they be,
Of golden vista or moonlight sea,
Where the stars are borne on fiery wings,
And space with celestial cadence rings;
In the earnest breathings of nightly prayer,
The spirit of God is there, is there.
In the coral reefs of the wild South Sea,
In the small green leaves of the amber tree;
Where the journeying air to the wind-flower sighs
Of unfading bloom in paradise;
Where gems are sparkling in beauty rare,
The spirit of God is there, is there.
As the dew that falls on the twilight bough,
We know not where, and we know not how,
As cherished tones round the heart which play
Of one beloved in our life's sweet May,
As viewless music in viewless air,
The spirit of God is everywhere.
SEASONS OF PRAYER.
To prayer! to prayer! for the morning breaks,
And earth in her Maker's smile awakes,
His light is on all below and above,
His light of gladness, and light of love:
O! then on the breath of this early air
Send upwards the incense of grateful prayer.
To prayer! for the glorious sun is gone,
And the gathering darkness of night comes on;
Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows
To shade the couch where his children repose:
Then kneel while the watching stars are bright,
And give your best thoughts to the Guardian of night.
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies;
Hour of bliss, when the heart o'erflows,
With rapture a mother only knows;
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer,
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with a trembling hand;
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.
Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith;
He hath bidden adieu to his earthly friends,
There is peace in his eye that upwards bends :
There is peace in his calm confiding air:
For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier,
A voice to sustain, to soothe, to cheer,
It commends the spirit to God who gave;
It lifts the thoughts from the cold dark grave:
It points to the glory where he shall reign
Who whispered, Thy brother shall rise again.'
The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer than rose from this;
The ransom'd shouts to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing-
But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake! and gird up thy strength,
To join that holy band at length
To him who unceasing love displays,
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of Prayer is the life of Heaven.
CONTENTMENT.
Its no in titles nor in rank;
Its no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
Its no in making muckle moir,
Its no in books, its no in lear,
To make us truly blest;
If happiness have not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest.
Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay,
That makes us right or wrang.
Seest thou the trees that rise around
The distant waterfall;
The flowers that gem th' enamell'd ground?
My Father made them all.
Hear'st thou the thunder's awful crash?
Does it thine heart appal?
And seest thou the lightning's flash?
My Father made them all.
The seas around, the skies above,
Each object should recall
One wandering, cold, forgetful love,
For God has made them all.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
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 worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;
The short'ning winter day is near a close ;
The miry beasts retreating frae the plough;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
This night his weekly toil 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.
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 and glee,
His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him .quite forget his labour an' his toil.
Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers round,
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin
A cannie errand to a neighbor town;
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Čomes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, Or deposite her sair-won penny fee,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' 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 uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view,
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their masters' an' their mistress's command,
The younker's a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand,
An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play;
'An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' 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.'
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, who 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 flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek,
With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflings is afraid to speak;
Weel pleased the mother hears, its nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;
A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit no ill ta'en ;
The father cracks of horses, pleughs and kye, The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But blate and bashfu', scarce can weel behave
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.
O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary mortal round,
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