Page:Prophecies of Thomas the Rhymer (3).pdf/24

 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 power 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 then secret homage pay
 * And offer up to heaven the warm request:

That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
 * And deck's the lily fair in flow'ry 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 reside.

O ! my most 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 oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
 * From Luxury's contagion weak and vile!

And from each Cot, may pray'r and praise be sent,
 * To God's high throne, that He may deign to smile,

And like a wall of fire surround our much lov'd Isle.