HYMN.

WHAT though no flow'rs the fig-tree clothe,

Though vines their fruit deny,

The labour of the olive fail,

And fields no meat supply?

Though from the fold, with sad surprise,
My flock cut off I see;

Though famine pine in empty stalls,

Where herds were wont to be?

Yet in the Lord will I be glad,
And glory in his love;

In him I'll joy, who will the God
Of my salvation prove.

He to my tardy feet shall lend
The swiftness of the roe;
Till, rais'd on high, I safely dwell
Beyond the reach of wo.

God is the treasure of my soul,
The source of lasting joy;
A joy which want shall not impair,
Nor death itself destroy.

ROBERT BURNS.

BORN 1759-DIED 1796.

BURNS can neither be called a serious nor a sacred poet; but it would be as absurd as unjust to deny that the author of the Cotter's Saturday Night possessed warm devotional feelings, and a fine perception of the beauty of Christianity.

The early impressions of piety which he received from the instructions and example of his parents, and from the religious education common in Scotland, were never effaced; and his fancy sometimes flowed forth in devotional strains, in which his heart for the moment sincerely participated. Some of the finest productions of Burns exhibit that union of religious feeling with impassioned affection which may be traced in many of the higher poets. He addresses the mistress of his young affections "In Heaven;" and again in the address to Edinburgh,

"Fair Burnett strikes th' adoring eye,

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine,

I see the Sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!"

In a lighter vein, what heaven is may be guessed by the divine sparkling of a maiden's eyes. This was a peculiarity in the love-verses of the Troubadours; and it has arisen of late among those bards who have sprung from the bosom of Scotland, and brought all their feelings from an unalloyed mother-source. A young woman stands at preaching-time "so saintly and so bonny," that she steals her lover's heart from heaven: and a lover vows at once "by his God and the lily-white hand of his mistress." This, though any thing but religious poetry, is a species of poetry which might be expected among a religious and imaginative people; and though the intermixture may often be injudicious, and sometimes indecent, it is, upon the whole, less objectionable than that vulgar alloy of the common-place phrases of courtship and endearment by which some verses professedly sacred are debased,

FAMILY WORSHIP.

THE cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide!
The Sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big Ha' Bible, ance his father's pride:

His bonnet rev'rently istaid 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 worship GOD!' he says, with solemn air.

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 heav'n-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame:

The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie

Beneath 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.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, 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 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 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.

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.

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,

* Pope's Windsor Forest.

For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

THE BEADSMAN OF NITHSIDE.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,
Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,

Fear not clouds will always lower.

As youth and love with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air

May delude the thoughtless pair:
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale ?

Life's proud summits would'st thou scale?

Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold,

Soar around each cliffy hold,

While cheerful peace, with linnet song,

Chants the lowly dells among.