In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion’s every 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!
And how exalted that love of country which utters this fine supplication:
O Scotia, my dear, my native soil,