Cottage Poems | Page 8

cottage, be thine!
Nor think that I'll treat you with scorn;
Whoever reads verses of mine

Shall hear of the Cabin of Mourne;
And had I but musical strains,
Though humble and mean in your station
You should smile whilst the
world remains,
The pride of the fair Irish Nation.
In friendship, fair Erin, you glow;
Offended, you quickly forgive;
Your courage is known to each foe,
Yet foes on your bounty might live.
Some faults you, however, must
own;
Dissensions, impetuous zeal,
And wild prodigality, grown
Too big for your income and weal.
Ah! Erin, if you would be great,
And happy, and wealthy, and wise,
And trample your sorrows, elate,
Contend for our cottager's prize;
So error and vice shall decay,
And concord add bliss to renown,
And you shall gleam brighter than
day,
The gem of the fair British Crown.
TO THE REV. J. GILPIN, ON HIS
IMPROVED EDITION OF
THE "PILGRIM'S PROGRESS."
When, Reverend Sir, your good design,
To clothe our Pilgrim gravely
fine,
And give him gentler mien and gait,
First reached my ear, his
doubtful fate
With dread suspense my mind oppressed,
Awoke my
fears, and broke my rest.
Yet, still, had England said, "You're free,

Choose whom you will," dear sir, to thee,
For dress beseeming

modest worth,
I would have led our pilgrim forth.
But when I viewed him o'er and o'er,
And scrutinized the weeds he
wore,
And marked his mien and marked his gait,
And saw him
trample sin, elate,
And heard him speak, though coarse and plain,

His mighty truths in nervous strain,
I could not gain my own consent

To your acknowledged good intent.
I had my fears, lest honest John,
When he beheld his polished son

(If saints ought earthly care to know),
Would take him for some Bond
Street beau,
Or for that thing--it wants a name--
Devoid of truth, of
sense and shame,
Which smooths its chin and licks its lip,
And
mounts the pulpit with a skip,
Then turning round its pretty face,
To
smite each fair one in the place,
Relaxes half to vacant smile,
And
aims with trope and polished style,
And lisp affected, to pourtray
Its
silly self in colours gay--
Its fusty moral stuff t' unload,
And preach
itself, and not its God.
Thus, wishing, doubting, trembling led,
I
oped your book, your Pilgrim read.
As rising Phoebus lights the skies,
And fading night before him flies,

Till darkness to his cave is hurled
And golden day has gilt the
world,
Nor vapour, cloud, nor mist is seen
To sully all the pure
serene:
So, as I read each modest line,
Increasing light began to
shine,
My cloudy fears and doubts gave way,
Till all around shone
Heaven's own day.
And when I closed the book, thought I,
Should Bunyan leave his
throne on high;
He'd own the kindness you have done
To Christian,
his orphan son:
And smiling as once Eden smiled,
Would thus
address his holy child:--
"My son, ere I removed from hence,

I spared nor labour nor expense

To gain for you the heavenly prize,
And teach you to make others
wise.
But still, though inward worth was thine,
You lay a diamond

in the mine:
You wanted outward polish bright
To show your pure
intrinsic light.
Some knew your worth, and seized the prize,
And
now are throned in the skies:
Whilst others swilled with folly's wine,

But trod the pearl like the swine,
In ignorance sunk in their grave,

And thence, where burning oceans lave.
Now polished bright, your
native flame
And inward worth are still the same;
A flaming
diamond still you glow,
In brighter hues: then cheery go--
More
suited by a skilful hand
To do your father's high command:
Fit
ornament for sage or clown,
Or beggar's rags, or kingly crown.
THE COTTAGE MAID.
Aloft on the brow of a mountain,
And hard by a clear running
fountain,
In neat little cot,
Content with her lot,
Retired, there lives a sweet
maiden.
Her father is dead, and her brother--
And now she alone with her
mother
Will spin on her wheel,
And sew, knit, and reel,
And cheerfully
work for their living.
To gossip she never will roam,
She loves, and she stays at, her home,
Unless when a neighbour
In sickness does labour,
Then, kindly, she
pays her a visit.
With Bible she stands by her bed,
And when some blest passage is
read,
In prayer and in praises
Her sweet voice she raises
To Him who for
sinners once died.
Well versed in her Bible is she,
Her language is artless and free,

Imparting pure joy,
That never can cloy,
And smoothing the pillow
of death.
To novels and plays not inclined,
Nor aught that can sully her mind;
Temptations may shower,--
Unmoved as a tower,
She quenches the
fiery arrows.
She dresses as plain as the lily
That modestly glows in the valley,
And never will go
To play, dance or show--
She calls them the
engines of Satan.
With tears in her eyes she oft says,
"Away with your dances and
plays!
The ills that perplex
The half of our sex
Are owing to you, Satan's
engines."
Released from her daily employment,
Intent upon solid enjoyment,
Her time she won't idle,
But reads in her Bible,
And books that
divinely enlighten.
Whilst others at wake, dance, and play
Chide life's restless moments
away,
And ruin their souls--
In