A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. Thy creature here before thee stands, Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act O, free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Before the mountains heav'd their heads Before this pond'rous globe itself Arose at thy command; That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds This universal frame, From countless, unbeginning time, Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years, Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night cut down it lies All wither'd and decay'd. H TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, For I maun crush amang the stoure To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO RUIN. ALL hail! inexorable lord! Then low'ring, and pouring, And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, My weary heart its throbbings cease, No fear more, no tear more, |