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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
Arose at thy command;
That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
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,
Return ye into nought!'
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
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
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,
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
Low i' the dust.
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,
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
ALL hail! inexorable lord!
Then low'ring, and poùring,
And thou, grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
No fear more, no tear more,