The Village Church In Ruins!

(A decayed Church, a faithful Minister, a Gospel Sermon, a cold wind, a rainy day, and ten hearers!)

Alas, for our mother, whom age hath o'ertaken, Her champions are sleeping beneath the cold sod; She seems both by lover and friend quite forsaken, Her total dependance is now on her God!

By tribute to Cæsar her battlements crumble, Her grey headed Elders may weep in despair; Her once lovely fabric's now ready to tumble, While no one arises her breach to repair!

Alas, for the spot where our ancestors bended, In humble devotion, and brotherly love, Where early petitions like incense ascended, And blessings in answer came down from above.

Alas, for that spot where our tribes did assemble, In youthful succession, both healthy and gay, Which then did the Temple of Zion resemble,-- But briers and thorns have now choked up the way.

The voice of her Elders in prayer seems to falter, And her bells ring dolefully over her dead, Her priest may lament from the porch to the altar, Her pews are deserted, her virgins are fled.

Among her old timber, the hollow winds whistle, And carve out a track for the frost or the snow; Her walls, while they preach her departing epistle, Are cover'd with gloom, both above and below.

Dim through her old windows the daylight is peeping, The damp floor hath driven the hearers away; A drop through the roof seems as if it were weeping, To think how her beauty is gone to decay.

Of her milk and her honey she still might have boasted, And offer'd to all in abundance, and free, But her funds by the drones are now nearly exhausted, In craftily clipping the wings of the Bee.

Still thanks be to God, the Gospel is publish'd, With precept on precept, and line upon line; Still Ten there are found, who come to be furnish'd, With heav'nly instruction, in lectures divine.

The Minister boldly the tidings reported, And wisely distinguish'd the bad from the good; Of the present or absent who die unconverted, That worm eaten pulpit is clear of their blood!

POETICAL REFLECTIONS.

(Composed during a visit from the West.)

Once more, my muse, resume thy wonted seat, And ask permission of the wise and great, To admit, as tribute due, thy warbling song, In thy own land, and in thy mother tongue.

Once more the happy region I behold, Where I have oft experienc'd joys untold; Where cattle graze, and crystal fountains flow, And rivers glide, and healthy breezes blow.

Here my enraptur'd fancy playful roves, And walks 'mong flowery banks, or shady groves, Or nimbly climbs the rugged mountain's height, And views yon plains with ever new delight.

Sometimes in fertile orchards I attend, Where mellow fruits the loaded branches bend; Sometimes I see old Esk in fury roll, Or fish, or walk, or swim the silent pool.

Here did I spend the morning of my days, And learn'd by grace, to walk in wisdom's ways, Its scenes can court my soul's affections yet, Their charms are such they cannot be forgot.

O yes, the cottage once again I see, Which oft has prov'd a safe retreat for me, From wintry tempest, or my neighbour's frown, From piercing frost, or scorching sun at noon:

Its walls my castle, and its roof a guard, As from the cloud the forked lightning glared. Here did I notice first with wond'ring eye, The rainbow's beauty, and the bright blue sky;--

The morning sun, or the pale evening star, The moon's eclipse, or comet's sign of war! Here oft our little tribe have muster'd up, And from each eye have wiped the crystal drop;--

Each other cheer'd when dark misfortune frown'd, As we our little fire have circled round! What each had read, or heard in times before, Each eager open'd out his little store;--

Of fairy stories, stormy seas, or sands, Rocks, woods, or caves, or dens in foreign lands, Enchanted castles, weapons, sceptres, crowns, Of friars, giants, hermits, smiles and frowns!

Thus oft our lonely evenings pass'd away, Till glad we welcom'd in the morning ray;-- Ours might have been the cottage of content, But we an absent Father did lament.

Now wide dispers'd whom nature so endear'd, No evening song, no conversation's heard! The garden walls we did so often climb, Are desolated by the hand of time!

Oft on yon sunny bank our feet have been, Or skimm'd the frozen pond upon the green; Where I may wander now, and sigh alone, O'er pleasures past, and never to return!

O Land belov'd! Thou still art dear to me! I still behold a comeliness in thee, Which to express I cannot language find, Nor vent the deep emotions of my mind!

Though transient joys have ta'en their lasting flight, In thee I see a permanent delight,-- A secret sympathy I can't express, Which seems to feed the flame of happiness!

But what is best of all, religion thrives, The desert sings, the work of God revives! Cold, frozen hearts have felt the melting flame Of Jesu's love, and spread abroad the same!

Sing on, ye tribes, sweet peace ye may secure, Your wants supplied from field and fountain pure; Live, and enjoy your privilege great, Nor ever more forget the mercy seat!

No midnight revels here your door molest, Nor wild confusion robs you of your rest; Here you in silence may your eyelids close,-- On downy pillows find a sweet repose!

Here broad back'd mountains raise their heads immense, And rocky bulwarks rise for your defence, Whose silent caves present sublimer charms, Than the shrill trumpet, or than war's alarms.

O happy man, who safe from winter's frown, Lies anchor'd in a harbour of his own; He whose chief treasure is a humble mind, By truth enlighten'd and by grace refined!

Who suffers not his flock to go astray, But early learns his tribes to sing and pray; Though he but little knows of men and things, Yet having this he needs not envy Kings!

Bend, O ye kings! and at God's altar bow,-- Your God hath left a brighter throne for you; And costlier robes than yours He laid aside, And in your stead, He suffer'd, bled, and died!

Be not deceiv'd, ye all must stoop as low As a poor beggar, Jesu's love to know: The beggar, or the king, that throne to gain, Must know what's meant by being "born again!"

The number of the faithful, Lord, increase, And fill their habitations with thy peace; That all may know, e'en husband, child, and wife, The benefits of a religious life.

O still ride on, thou mighty matchless King, Till all thy favour feel, and praises sing;-- Thy favour, which alone true joy imparts, Is thy law written on thy people's hearts.

By thine omnipotence o'ercome thy foes, And make them dread thy name, and own thy laws; O let not sin for ever them deceive, But spare them breath to pray, repent, and live!

O may my scatter'd tribe thy voice attend, And with thy ransom'd few their voices blend: I long to see them with their names enroll'd Among thy people, in thine earthly fold.

O God, 'tis thine, I leave the cause with Thee, To give them ears to hear, and eyes to see, And hearts to feel;--apply the sprinkled blood, And purify, and make them sons of God!

The ties of Friendship cling around my heart, While I from much lov'd scenes am forced to part, And leave the beauties of my native home, With weary step, far o'er yon hills to roam.

O may I gain a seat on Zion's hill, Where I no more shall bid my friends farewell; Nor mix with parting tears the morning dew, Nor drop my pen, nor sigh my last adieu!