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, was lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab’lon’s doom pronounced by Heaven’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. 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 enrol. Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heav’n the warm request, That He who stills the raven’s clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery 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. From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs, That makes her loved at home, revered 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 refin’d! 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 much-loved isle.