Cottage Poems

Excerpt

EPISTLE TO THE REV. J--- B---, WHILST JOURNEYING FOR THE RECOVERY OF HIS HEALTH.

When warm’d with zeal, my rustic Muse
Feels fluttering fain to tell her news,
And paint her simple, lowly views
      With all her art,
And, though in genius but obtuse,
      May touch the heart.

Of palaces and courts of kings
She thinks but little, never sings,
But wildly strikes her uncouth strings
      In some pool cot,
Spreads o’er the poor hen fostering wings,
      And soothes their lot.

Well pleased is she to see them smile,
And uses every honest wile
To mend then hearts, their cares beguile,
      With rhyming story,
And lend them to then God the while,
      And endless glory.

Perchance, my poor neglected Muse
Unfit to harass or amuse,
Escaping praise and loud abuse,
      Unheard, unknown,
May feed the moths and wasting dews,
      As some have done.

Her aims are good, howe’er they end—
Here comes a foe, and there a friend,
These point the dart and those defend,
      Whilst some deride her;
But God will sweetest comforts blend,
      Whate’er betide her.

Thus heaven-supported, forth she goes
Midst flatterers, critics, friends, and foes;
Secure, since He who all things knows
      Approves her aim,
And kindly fans, or fostering blows
      Her sinking flame.

Hence, when she shows her honest face,
And tells her tale with awkward grace,
Importunate to gain a place
      Amongst your friends,
To ruthless critics leave her case,
      And hail her ends.

To all my heart is kind and true,
But glows with ardent love for you;
Though absent, still you rise in view,
      And talk and smile,
Whilst heavenly themes, for ever new,
      Our cares beguile.

The happy seasons oft return,
When love our melting hearts did burn,
As we through heavenly themes were borne
      With heavenward eyes,
And Faith this empty globe would spurn,
      And sail the skies.

Or, when the rising sun shines bright,
Or, setting, leaves the world in night,
Or, dazzling, sheds his noon-day light,
      Or, cloudy, hides,
My fancy, in her airy flight,
      With you resides.

Where far you wander down the vale,
When balmy scents perfume the gale,
And purling rills and linnets hail
      The King of kings,
To muse with you I never fail,
      On heavenly things.

Where dashing cataracts astound,
And foaming shake the neighbouring ground,
And spread a hoary mist around,
      With you I gaze!—
And think, amid’st the deaf’ning sound,
      On wisdom’s ways.

Where rocky mountains prop the skies,
And round the smiling landscape lies,
Whilst you look down with tearful eyes
      On grovelling man,
My sympathetic fancy flies,
      The scene to scan.

From Pisgah’s top we then survey
The blissful realms of endless day,
And all the short but narrow way
      That lies between,
Whilst Faith emits a heavenly ray,
      And cheers the scene.

With you I wander on the shore
To hear the angry surges roar,
Whilst foaming through the sands they pour
      With constant roll,
And meditations heavenward soar,
      And charm the soul.

On life’s rough sea we’re tempest-driven
In crazy barks, our canvas riven!
Such is the lot to mortals given
      Where sins resort:
But he whose anchor’s fixed in heaven
      Shall gain the port.

Though swelling waves oft beat him back,
And tempests make him half a wreck,
And passions strong, with dangerous tack,
      Retard his course,
Yet Christ the pilot all will check,
      And quell their force.

So talk we as we thoughtful stray
Along the coast, where dashing spray
With rising mist o’erhangs the day,
      And wets the shore,
And thick the vivid flashes play
      And thunders roar!