Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart!
The pow'r incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, and sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some Cottage far apart,
May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the Soul;
And in his Book of Life, the inmates poor enrol.
Then homeward all take-off their sev'ral way;
The Youngling Cottagers retire to rest
The Parent-pair then secret homage pay
And offer up to Heaven the warm request:
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And deck's the lily fair in flow'ry pride;
Would in the way His wisdom sees the best.
For them and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly in their hearts, with Grace Divine reside.
O britain! my most dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy son of rustic toil!
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!
And O! may Heaven, their simple lives prevent,
From luxury's contagion weak and vile!
And from each Cot may pray'r and praise be sent,
To God's high throne that He may deign to smile,
And like a wall of fire surround our much-lov'd Isle
FINIS.
