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See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
To give him leave to toil;
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and pow'r,
Yet, let not this too much, my son,
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had there not been some recompense
O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
But, Oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
If I have wander'd in those paths
As something, loudly, in my breast,
Thou know'st that thou hast formed me
Where human weakness has come short,
Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art,
Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good; and goodness still
STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.
WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!'
Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND's house one NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING
IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.
O THOU dread Power who reign'st above,
When for this scene of peace and love
The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
When soon or late they reach that coast,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
THE FIRST PSALM.
THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
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
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.