THE BED OF REST. INSCRIBED TO MRS. M'N-E, BELFAST. "There is a calm for those who weep, "A rest for weary pilgrims found; "They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, "Low in the ground." MONTGOMERY. EXTENDED on the couch of pain, While fair ROSANNA wasting lies; Shall I the cup of pleasure drain, Or bid the song of gladness rise? Ah no! beside that couch of pain Oft let me watch her life's decay; And teach her timid soul to gain The regions of eternal day: Cheer her sad spirits when by fears deprest, And smooth her passage to the bed of rest. Oh! suffering angel! could thy mind, How joyfully thou might'st endure ! For startled conscience keeps in view Th' abyss of ever-burning flame !He raves in anguish...horror haunts his breast, The grave to him presents no bed of rest. Το part with all the friends we prize; In youth to burst the bonds of life, While yet we dream of earthly joys :— Reflect, thou hast a friend on high, Whose precious blood was shed for thee; Who views thee with a pitying eye, And whispers" rest thy hopes on me” He feels thy pangs...he longs to see thee blest; And fondly woes thee to the bed of rest. What fears distract the mother's mind, Who feels that life is near an end; When she must leave her babes behind, Without a guide...without a friend! Perhaps from virtue's path to stray, Unguarded by a parent's care Perhaps to fall misfortune's prey, And sink the victims of despair: But no such fears disturb thy gentle breast→ Thy babes are slumbering in the bed of rest. What mortal may presume to tell, The pure delights which shall be thine, When rais'd where happy spirits dwell, To fields where flow'rs eternal spring, There pain and sorrow never more molest ; For there the weary find a place of rest. APRIL. IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground "Again puts on her robe of cheerful green." SWEET APRIL! wi' lenient smile, Proclaims gloomy winter's awa, BRUCE. The sun, now, wi' nourishen' ray, Bids verdure ance mair deck the plain ; The lammy skips blithe on the brae, An' cheerfully labours the swain. I'll hie to the shadowy grove, Whar buds gently swellin' appear- Their notes sing bewitchin'ly clear. Whar the vi'let, an' primrose sae pale, Sprout bonilie under the thorn Whar earliest May-flow'rs unveil Their sweets by the wimpiln' burn. Aneath the grey saugh's buddin' spray, I'll bask in the temperate beam; An' mark the wee clocks as they play On the face o' the smooth-gladin' stream. Or haply (if fancy should lead) The shady retreat I may leave, An' stray wi' the burn through ilk mead, Till it blends wi' the ocean's green wave. |