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? Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing 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!' Again exalt the brute and sink the man; VERSES LEFT WHERE HE HAD SLEPT. O Thou, great Governor of all below! dare a lifted eye to Thee, If I may 153 Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, the AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above, The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, To bless his little filial flock, 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, 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 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 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 That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds From countless, unbeginning time, Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man, Again thou say'st, Ye sons of men, Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep; As with a thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, TO 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. |