A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee 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 That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds From countless, unbeginning time, Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Again thou say'st, Ye sons of men, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night cut down it lies TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas' it's no thy neebor sweet, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 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, Such is the fate of artless Maid, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple Bard, Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO RUIN. ALL hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word I see each aimed dart; For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. 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, TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, |