Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 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, 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 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, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, ΤΟ ΤΟ RUIN. I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, I see each aimed dart; Then low'ring, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Tho' thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head. II. And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, peace, My weary heart its throbbings cease, No fear more, no tear more, ΤΟ ΤΟ 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, No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts Our |