IV.

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

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

V.

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 renewed 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 dis-

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

II.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke Long, long be pleased to spare,

To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are.

III.

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!

IV.

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!

V.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide thou their steps alway!

VI.

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 placed,
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.

A PRAYER.

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU Great Being; what thou art Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure am I, that known to thee

Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands;
All wretched and distrest;
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath!

O free my weary eyes from tears, Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine.

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
Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,
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 mighty periods of years,

Which seem to us so vast,

Appear no more before thy sight,
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou gav'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
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r,
In beauty's pride array'd;
But long ere night cut down, it lies
All wither'd and decay'd.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.

WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
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 bonny Lark, companion meet! Bending thee mang the dewy weet!

Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble, birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

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.