Then kneeling down to Heaven’s eternal King— The _saint_, the _father_, and the husband prays— Hope “springs exultant on triumphant wings,” That thus they all shall meet in future days: Thus 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 on eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor! religion’s pride In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion’s every grace, except the _heart_! The _Power_ incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some _Cottage_, far apart, May hear well pleased the language of the soul, And in his _Book of life_ the inmates poor enroll! And how exalted that love of country which utters this fine supplication: 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 pence, and sweet content. And O, may heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion weak and vile, Then, howe’er crowns end coronets be rent, A virtuous populace will rise the while, And stand a wall of fire round their much loved isle.