Cottage Poems | Page 7

now, gentle reader, approve
The ardour that glowed in each breast,
As kindly our cottagers strove

To cherish and welcome their guest.
The dame nimbly rose from her wheel,
And brushed off the powdery snow:
Her daughter, forsaking the reel,
Ran briskly the cinders to blow:
The children, who sat on the hearth,
Leaped up without murmur or frown,
An oaken stool quickly brought
forth,
And smilingly bade me sit down.
Whilst grateful sensations of joy
O'er all my fond bosom were poured,
Resumed was each former
employ,
And gay thrifty order restored:
The blaze flickered up to the crook,
The reel clicked again by the door,
The dame turned her wheel in the
nook,
And frisked the sweet babes round the floor.
Released from the toils of the barn,
His thrifty, blithe wife hailed the sire,
And hanging his flail by her
yarn,
He drew up his stool to the fire;
Then smoothing his brow with his
hand,
As if he would sweep away sorrow,
He says, "Let us keep God's
command,
And never take thought for the morrow."

Brisk turning him round with a smile,
And freedom unblended by art,
And affable manners and style,
Though simple, that reached to my heart,
He said (whilst with ardour
he glowed),
"Kind sir, we are poor, yet we're blest:
We're all in the steep, narrow
road
That leads to the city of rest.
"'Tis true, I must toil all the day,
And oft suffer cold through the night,
Though silvered all over with
grey,
And dimly declining my sight:
And sometimes our raiment and food
Are scanty--ah! scanty indeed:
But all work together for good,
So in my blest Bible I read.
"I also have seen in that Book
(Perhaps you can tell me the place?)
How God on poor sinners does
look
In pity, and gives them His grace--
Yea, gives them His grace in vast
store,
Sufficient to help them quite through,
Though troubles should whelm
them all o'er;
And sure this sweet promise is true!
"Yes, true as the snow blows without,

And winds whistle keen through the air,
His grace can remove every
doubt,
And chase the black gloom of despair:
It often supports my weak
mind,
And wipes the salt tear from my eye,
It tells me that Jesus is kind,
And died for such sinners as I.
"I once rolled in wealth, without grace,
But happiness ne'er was my lot,
Till Christ freely pitied my case,
And now I am blest in a cot:
Well knowing things earthly are vain,
Their troubles ne'er puzzle my head;
Convinced that to die will be
gain,
I look on the grave as my bed.
"I look on the grave as my bed,
Where I'll sleep the swift hours away,
Till waked from their slumbers,
the dead
Shall rise, never more to decay:
Then I, with my children and wife,
Shall get a bright palace above,
And endlessly clothed with life,
Shall dwell in the Eden of love.
"Then know, gentle stranger, though poor,
We're cheerful, contented, and blest;
Though princes should pass by
our door
King Jesus is ever our guest;
We feel, and we taste, and we see

The pleasures which flow from our Lord,
And fearless, and wealthy,
and free,
We live on the joys of His word."
He ceased: and a big tear of joy
Rolled glittering down to the ground;
Whilst all, having dropped their
employ,
Were buried in silence profound;
A sweet, solemn pause long
ensued--
Each bosom o'erflowed with delight;
Then heavenly converse
renewed,
Beguiled the dull season of night.
We talked of the rough narrow way
That leads to the kingdom of rest;
On Pisgah we stood to survey
The King in His holiness dressed--
Even Jesus, the crucified King,
Whose blood in rich crimson does flow,
Clean washing the crimson
of sin,
And rinsing it whiter that snow. {225}
But later and later it's wearing,
And supper they cheerfully bring,
The mealy potato and herring,
And water just fresh from the spring.
They press, and they smile: we
sit down;
First praying the Father of Love
Our table with blessings to crown,

And feed us with bread from above.
The wealthy and bloated may sneer,
And sicken o'er luxury's dishes,
And loathe the poor cottager's cheer,
And melt in the heat of their wishes:
But luxury's sons are unblest,
A prey to each giddy desire,
And hence, where they never know rest,
They sink in unquenchable fire.
Not so, the poor cottager's lot,
Who travels the Zion-ward road,
He's blest in his neat little cot,
He's rich in the favour of God;
By faith he surmounts every wave
That rolls on this sea of distress:
Triumphant, he dives in the grave,
To rise on the ocean of bliss.
Now supper is o'er and we raise
Our prayers to the Father of light
And joyfully hymning His praise,
We lovingly bid a good-night.--
The ground's white, the sky's
cloudless blue,
The breeze flutters keen through the air,
The stars twinkle bright on
my view,
As I to my mansion repair.
All peace, my dear