When soon or late they reach that coast, May they rejoice, no wanderer 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 Still walks before his GOD. That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt For why? that God the good adore A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Surpasses me to know: Yet sure I am, that known to thee Are all thy works below. 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 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, Is to existence brought; Again thou say'st,' Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!' Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, TO RUIN. ALL hail! inexorable lord! Then lowering, and pouring, And thou grim power, by life abhor'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r! To close this scene of care! 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, Our sex with guile and faithless love But may, dear maid, each lover prove |