The world hath nothing to bestowFrom our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good

A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise;

We'll form their minds with studious care To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot;
Monarchs! we envy not your state-
We look with pity on the great,

And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed ;
But then how little do we need,
For Nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies-
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
"Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favors are denied,

And pleased with favors given

Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart

Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead;

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath-
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

NATHANIEL COTTON.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor."-GRAY.

My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and

praise;

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless

ways;

What Aiken in a cottage would have

been;

Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier. there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their

repose:

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,

This night his weekly moil is at an end,— Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,

Their master's and their mistress's command,

The younkers a' are warnèd to obey;

new gown,

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

With joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,

But, blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel

behave;

The mother, wi' a woman's.wiles, can spy

grave;

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;

Anticipation forward points the view;
The mother, wi' her needle and her

shears,

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the

new:

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found: O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond com

pare!

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this de

clare,

"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleas

ure spare

In such society, yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compared 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 Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;

But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul;

And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,

That He who stills the raven's clam'rous

nest,

And decks 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 preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad:

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, "An honest man's the noblest work of God;"

And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

is sent,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace, and

sweet content!

Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,

On her grandfather's knee was catching

flies.

The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place.

As the tear stole down from his half-shut

eye,

WINIFREDA.

AWAY! let naught to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let naught delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.

makes you cry!”

The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the floor,

Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel;

And the old brass clock on the manteltree
Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,
While close to his heaving breast
The moisten'd brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were press'd;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay:
Fast asleep were they both, that summer
day!

CHARLES G. EASTMAN.

MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS.

WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss; Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only gi'e us change o' bliss.

Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee!

I ken thy wish is me to please; Our moments pass sae smooth away

That numbers on us look and gaze; Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; And aye when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest;

And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away,

And beg her not to drop a tear. Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain!

United still her heart and mine; They're like the woodbine round the tree, That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

JOHN LAPRAIK.