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, • Thou Great Being! what thou art Surpasses me to know: 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 Beneath thy forming hand, Before this pond'rous globe itself, Arose at thy command; That pow'r which rais'd and still upholds 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, mán, 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 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, On turning one down with the plough, in Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' speckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, 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. 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. 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, 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 Heav'n, He, ruin'd, sink! 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 RUIN. I. All hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word The mightiest empires fall! With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, For one has cut my dearest tie, Then low'ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread: II. And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, My weary heart its throbbing cease, Enclasped, and grasped TO MISS L WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS As a New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787. Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv❜n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime |