THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. THE PROBLEM. I LIKE a church; I like a cowl I love a prophet of the soul; Not from a vain or shallow thought Know'st thou what wove yon wood bird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? 682 These temples grew as grows the grass- To the vast soul that o'er him planned; Girds with one flame the countless host, RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 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. My loved, my honored, 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 sequestered 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. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 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 perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 691 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page: Points to the parents fondling o'er their Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage traction wild? But now the supper crowns their simple board: The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The soup their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud; ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme: How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, How He, who bore in Heaven the second To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell, An' aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it good; The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants spedThe precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing" No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear- Compared with this, how poor religion's pride, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the name; Devotion's every grace except the heart! May hear, well pleased, the language of the (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art— enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered That's hallowed ground where, mourned and abroad. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings"An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 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 muchloved isle. O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part— missed, The lips repose our love has kissed:- A kiss can consecrate the ground Is hallowed down to earth's profound, For time makes all but true love old; What hallows ground where heroes sleep? Or genii twine beneath the deep But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind |