Cottage Poems | Page 7

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 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