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And persecution, obloquy, and wrong,
Until my heart grew bitter. I have made
The desert, and the mountain snow, my bed-
Spoken strange tongues, and congregated with
The lameless savage of the wilderness,
Until I felt as tameless as himself.
The morning of my life has passed away,
And clouds and dimness rest upon its shapes
Of pain or pleasure. I am well content.
The golden stars that smile above my head
The planel-peopled heaven-and the sea
Glorious in terror or in beauty-all
or brilliant and magnificent on earth,
Have yet a charm for me--and more than all,
My quiet home ;-and she who makes that home
A living paradise, will cheer me on-
And I will live, and sing my humble strain,
Although the cold world close its careless ears
Unto the quiet music of my song.





I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to hae sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,

Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world fu’ soon, my lad,

And, Andrein, dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,

E'en when your end's attained :
And a' your views may come to nought,

Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And e'en the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended;
An Atheist's laugh 's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!



When ranting round in pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded ;
Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest driv'n,

A conscience but a canker
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven,

Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting; May prudence, fortitude, and truth,

Erect your brow undaunting!
In ploughman's phrase, “God send you speed,"

Still daily to grow wiser !
And may you better reck the rede,
Than ever did the adviser !




A VISION. In visions which are not of night, a shadowy vale

I see, The path of pilgrim tribes, who are, who have been,

or shall be ; At either end are lowering clouds, impervious to

the sight, And frequent shadows veil, throughout, each gleam

of passing light. A path it is of joys and griefs, of many hopes and

fears; Gladdened at times by sunny smiles, but oftener

dimmed by tears.

Greon leaves are there, they quickly fade-bright

flowers, but soon they die; Its banks are lav'd by pleasant streams, but soon

their bed is dry; And some that roll on to the last with undiminish'd

force, Have lost that limpid purity which graced their

early source; They seem to borrow in their flow the tinge of dark

ening years, And e'en their mournful, murmuring sound befits

the vale of tears,



Pleasant that valley's opening scenes appear to

childhood's view, The flowers are bright, the turf is green,

the sky above is blue; A blast may blight, a beam may scoreh, a cloud

may intervene, But, lightly marked and soon forgot, they mar not

such a scene; Fancy still paints the future bright, and Hope the

present cheers, Nor can we deem the path we tread leads through

a vale of tears.

But soon, too soon, the flowers that deck'd our

early pathway side Have drooped and withered on their stalks, and one

by one have died; The turf by noon's fierce heat is sear'd, the sky is

overcast, There's thunder in the torrent's tone, and tempest

in the blast; Fancy is but a phantom found, and hope a dream

appears, And more and more our hearts confess this life a

vale of tears.

Darker and darker seems the path! how sad to

journey on, When hands and hearts which gladdened ours ap

pear forever gone!

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