The “Saturday Night,” and “To Mary in Heaven,”
With true Scottish accent were touchingly given,
And reckless “Don Juan’s” most comical plight,—
And pathos of “Harold” he gave with delight.
The pages of Hebraic sages divine,
Made vocal by him with new beauties did shine;
His choice conversation with children and men,
Was often enriched with a song from his pen.
In public debate, whosoever arose,
His well-grounded argument firm to oppose,
Though sharp the contention, was forced to declare,
That he was an honorable champion there.
And, those he offended, as everyone must,
Whose thoughts are progressive, whose actions are just,
With kindness he reasoned all errors to show,
And made a staunch friend of a bickering foe.
He owned like a hero the penalty dread—
“By the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread,”
And his toil through summer, and mid-winter snows,
Has made the wild wilderness bloom as the rose.
The choicest of fruits in profusion appeared,
On trees that he planted, and vines that he reared;
And few things delighted him more than to send,
A rare little treat to an invalid friend.
He scorned false pretences and arrogant pride,
The follies of fashion he loved to deride;
But acknowledged true merit wherever ’twas shown,
By a serf in his hut, or a king on his throne.
His faults be forgotten, we’ve all gone astray,
Lord, show us in mercy, the straight, narrow way,
Peace, peace to his ashes, and sweet be his rest,
With angels of light, in the home of the blest.
[Spring.]
Rosy morn is brightly breaking,
Cheerful birds melodious sing,
Earth with thankful songs awaking
Hails with joy the merry Spring,
Silver clouds in sunlight glowing
Slowly float the azure dome,
Tender flowers are sweetly blowing
Round each cozy cottage home.