THE HAPPY COTTAGERS.

One sunny morn of May,

When dressed in flowery green

The dewy landscape, charmed

With Nature's fairest scene,

In thoughtful mood

I slowly strayed

O'er hill and dale,

Through bush and glade.

Throughout the cloudless sky

Of light unsullied blue,

The larks their matins raised,

Whilst on my dizzy view,

Like dusky motes,

They winged their way

Till vanished in

The blaze of day.

The linnets sweetly sang

On every fragrant thorn,

Whilst from the tangled wood

The blackbirds hailed the morn;

And through the dew

Ran here and there,

But half afraid,

The startled hare.

The balmy breeze just kissed

The countless dewy gems

Which decked the yielding blade

Or gilt the sturdy stems,

And gently o'er

The charmed sight

A deluge shed

Of trembling light.

A sympathetic glow

Ran through my melting soul,

And calm and sweet delight

O'er all my senses stole;

And through my heart

A grateful flood

Of joy rolled on

To Nature's God.

Time flew unheeded by,

Till wearied and oppressed,

Upon a flowery bank

I laid me down to rest;

Beneath my feet

A purling stream

Ran glittering in

The noontide beam.

I turned me round to view

The lovely rural scene;

And, just at hand, I spied

A cottage on the green;

The street was clean,

The walls were white,

The thatch was neat,

The window bright.

Bold chanticleer, arrayed

In velvet plumage gay,

With many an amorous dame,

Fierce strutted o'er the way;

And motley ducks

Were waddling seen,

And drake with neck

Of glossy green.

The latch I gently raised,

And oped the humble door;

An oaken stool was placed

On the neat sanded floor;

An aged man

Said with a smile,

“You're welcome, sir:

Come rest a while.”

His coarse attire was clean,

His manner rude yet kind:

His air, his words, and looks

Showed a contented mind;

Though mean and poor,

Thrice happy he,

As by our tale

You soon shall see.

But do n't expect to hear

Of deeds of martial fame,

Or that our peasant mean

Was born of rank or name,

And soon will strut,

As in romance,

A knight and all

In armour glance.

I sing of real life;

All else is empty show —

To those who read a source

Of much unreal woe:

Pollution, too,

Through novel-veins,

Oft fills the mind

With guilty stains.

Our peasant long was bred

Affliction's meagre child,

Yet gratefully resigned,

Loud hymning praises, smiled,

And like a tower

He stood unmoved,

Supported by

The God he loved.

His loving wife long since

Was numbered with the dead

His son, a martial youth,

Had for his country bled;

And now remained

One daughter fair,

And only she,

To soothe his care.

The aged man with tears

Spoke of the lovely maid;

How earnestly she strove

To lend her father aid,

And as he ran

Her praises o'er,

She gently oped

The cottage-door.

With vegetable store

The table soon she spread,

And pressed me to partake;

Whilst blushes rosy-red

Suffused her face —

The old man smiled,

Well pleased to see

His darling child.

With venerable air

He then looked up to God,

A blessing craved on all,

And on our daily food;

Then kindly begged

I would excuse

Their humble fair,

And not refuse.—

The tablecloth, though coarse,

Was of a snowy white,

The vessels, spoons, and knives

Were clean and dazzling bright;

So down we sat

Devoid of care,

Nor envied kings

Their dainty fare.

When nature was refreshed,

And we familiar grown;

The good old man exclaimed,

“Around Jehovah's throne,

Come, let us all

Our voices raise,

And sing our great

Redeemer's praise!”

Their artless notes were sweet,

Grace ran through every line;

Their breasts with rapture swelled,

Their looks were all divine:

Delight o'er all

My senses stole,

And heaven's pure joy

O'erwhelmed my soul.

When we had praised our God,

And knelt around His throne,

The aged man began

In deep and zealous tone,

With hands upraised

And heavenward eye,

And prayed loud

And fervently:

He prayed that for His sake,

Whose guiltless blood was shed

For guilty ruined man,

We might that day be fed

With that pure bread

Which cheers the soul,

And living stream,

Where pleasures roll.

He prayed long for all,

And for his daughter dear,

That she, preserved from ill,

Might lead for many a year

A spotless life

When he's no more;

Then follow him

To Canaan's shore.

His faltering voice then fell,

His tears were dropping fast,

And muttering praise to God

For all His mercies past,

He closed his prayer

Midst heavenly joys,

And tasted bliss

Which never cloys.

In sweet discourse we spent

The fast declining day:

We spoke of Jesus’ love,

And of that narrow way

Which leads, through care

And toil below,

To streams where joys

Eternal flow.

The wondrous plan of Grace,

Adoring, we surveyed,

The birth of heavenly skill —

In Love Eternal laid —

Too deep for clear

Angelic ken,

And far beyond

Dim-sighted men.

To tell you all that passed

Would far exceed my power;

Suffice it, then, to say,

Joy winged the passing hour,

Till, ere we knew,

The setting day

Had clad the world

In silver grey.

I kindly took my leave,

And blessed the happy lot

Of those I left behind

Lodged in their humble cot;

And pitied some

In palace walls,

Where pride torments,

And pleasure palls.

The silver moon now shed

A flood of trembling light

On tower, and tree, and stream;

The twinkling stars shone bright,

Nor misty stain

Nor cloud was seen

O'er all the deep

Celestial green.

Mild was the lovely night,

Nor stirred a whispering breeze.

Smooth was the glassy lake,

And still the leafy trees;

No sound in air

Was heard afloat,

Save Philomel's

Sweet warbling note.

My thoughts were on the wing,

And back my fancy fled

To where contentment dwelt

In the neat humble shed;

To shining courts

From thence it ran,

Where restless pride

Oppresses man.

In fame some search for bliss,

Some seek content in gain,

In search of happiness

Some give the slackened rein

To passions fierce,

And down the stream

Through giddy life,

Of pleasures dream.

These all mistake the way,

As many more have done:

The narrow path of bliss

Through God's Eternal Son

Directly tends;

And only he

Who treads this path

Can happy be.

Who anchors all above

Has still a happy lot,

Though doomed for life to dwell

E'en in a humble cot,

And when he lays

This covering down

He'll wear a bright

Immortal crown.