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 don'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.