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

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

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 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!'
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran;

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,
Ör still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling power assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence divine!

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,
I know thou wilt me hear;
When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleas'd to spare!

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

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!

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!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide thou their steps alway!

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 plac'd,
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 I am, 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 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,

In everlasting sleep;

As with a

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.