See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave—
By nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r,
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, Oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

A PRAYER,

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;

And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong,

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!'
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling power assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence divine!

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING

VERSES,

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.

O THOU dread Power who reign'st above,

I know thou wilt me hear;

When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;

Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,

Guide thou their steps alway!

When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n,

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heav'n!

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe

Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that God the good adore Hath giv❜n them peace and rest, But hath decreed that wicked men Shall ne'er be truly blest.