THE THREE SONS. 121 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. ROBERT BURNS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. ; My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here: THE THREE SONS. MOULTRIE. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould: They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be: I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air. I know his heart is kind and fond; I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency: But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk, Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and often times perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next, He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she teaches him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years, like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be! How silver sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee! THE THREE SONS. 123 I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been; But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk who pass us in the street, Will speak their joy, and bless my boy-he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love: And if beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months, where he to dwell. is gone To us, for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven! I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are number'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants are-on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. We trust that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. 125 DEATH OF RODERICK DHU. SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL MERCIES. DR. WATTS. WHENE'ER I take my walks abroad, Not more than others I deserve, How many children in the street While I am clothed from head to feet, While some poor wretches scarce can tell While others early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Are these thy favours day by day To me above the rest? Then let me love Thee more than they, DEATH OF RODERICK DHU. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE Chief in silence strode before, And reached that torrent's sounding shore; |