THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM. O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Of all the human race! 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 Those mighty periods of years Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought: Again thou say'st, Ye sons of men, • 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 ΤΟ то 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, The bonnie Lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. ད Such Such is the fate of simple Bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering worth is giv❜n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO |