Dryburgh Abbey. (6)

BY Tweed's fair stream, in a secluded spot, Rises an ivy-crowned monastic pile; Beneath its shadow sleeps the WIZARD, SCOTT; A Ruin is his resting-place--no vile Unconsecrated grave-yard is the soil-- Few moulder there, but these the loved, the good, The honoured, and the famed--and sweet flowers smile Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood, While Cedar, Oak, and Yew adorn that solitude.

Hail, Dryburgh! to thy sylvan shades all hail!-- As to a shrine, from places far away, With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale Shall pilgrims come, to muse, perchance to pray; More hallowed now than in thy elder day, For sacred is the earth wherein is laid The Poet's dust; and still his mind, his lay, And his renown, shall flourish undecayed, Like his loved country's fame, that is not doomed to fade.

POEMS HERE FIRST COLLECTED.

COLLECTED POEMS.

GRACE.

COME, free-given grace! source of all lasting peace; My care-worn heart has wanted thee full long; The charms of earthly joys and pleasures cease, And fain I'd stray thy tranquil paths among, Where withered weeds and noxious odours strong Come not, as here I find them rankly meet; Give me thy pleasant ways and thy contentments sweet!

Contentments sweet are ever with thee still; In the lone valley, where the streamlet flows, On distant mountain, on the heath-clad hill, Where springs the daisy, or where blooms the rose, Even in the desert where no green thing grows; 'Mid trials of this world, whate'er they be, Still peace, and joy, and truth accompany with thee.

With thee there is no darkness; thou dost show The Sun of Glory shining in His might; With thee there is no sadness; thou dost go Into the grief-broke heart, and with the light Of heavenly love mak'st it serene and bright; Ah! who that can thy blessings call his own, Would deem himself, with thee, forsaken or alone?

Alone! no, never! Jesus still is near; Friendless we cannot be with Him our friend-- Our counsellor--although deserted here By all who to that cherished name pretend-- His friendship, like Himself, shall have no end; And for our solace freely is bestowed, Trusting in Him while here, the bounteous grace of God!

The grace of God softens the hardened heart. And makes it oft in gushing joy to sing; As rod of Moses caused the rock to part, And made the living waters forth to spring; The grace of God serenest pleasures bring, And leads the mind from carnal thoughts away Into retirements sweet, in solitude to pray.

To pray!--blest privilege! For evermore To pray and praise, and lift the soul above This sordid earth, and, as a lark doth soar, Ascend into the realms of truth and love, Whence once the Spirit came in form of dove! Thither, oh! thither would it wing its flight-- For ever "take its rest," there where there comes no night!

MATIN.

THE gleam of light that passes o'er The world ere dawn of day; That, faintly flashing, shines before The darkness is away:

Is not the smile of morn, in bright And deeply glorious lines; 'Tis the first presage of its light, The morning star that shines.

IMMORTALITY.

[The following verses were suggested by the striking reply of a Protestant minister, who was about to proceed to Ireland, to labour among the deluded and ignorant Popish peasantry, and who, on being warned by a friend of the personal danger he thereby incurred, nobly answered, "I am immortal, till my work is done!"]

WHAT nerves the soldier in the field, When foes are raging nigh? What makes him proudly scorn to yield, Though numbers round him die? The faith that Heaven directs each ball, And course that it shall run;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not fall, Until his work be done!

What makes the sailor on the wreck, When storms are frowning near, Bear up, with heart and form erect His bosom free from fear?-- 'Tis that he feels that God is by, To shield him like a son;-- 'Tis, that he knows he will not die, Until his work be done!

God holds the winds as by a rein, Which still they must obey; The ocean fierce he doth restrain, By his all-guiding sway: The hand that bears the planets high. Upholds the fulgent sun, Has fixed the hour that all must die, When their set work is done!

What arms the martyr 'midst his fires, To smile serene at death; And his whole heart and soul inspires With never-changing faith?-- Until the victor's crown is gained, The laurel wreath is won; Th' oppressor's fury is restrained-- His work must first be done!

What leads Christ's servant still to dare All dangers for his sake, And with unshaken firmness bear, Ills that the boldest shake? The trust that God is ever nigh, To prosper what's begun; To send a blessing from on high, Upon his work when done!

And when the good fight he has fought, His earthly struggles o'er, He finds the recompense he sought, Where grief is felt no more: 'Tis then he gains th' appointed prize, His triumph is begun;-- He lives immortal in the skies, When all his work is done!