Bless him, thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish! V. The beauteous, seraph sister-band, With earnest tears I pray, Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway! VI. When soon or late they reach that coast, A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. O THOU, who kindly dost provide We bless thee, God of Nature wide And if it please thee, heav'nly Guide, But whether granted or denied, Lord, bless us with content! Amen 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 But with humility and awe Still walks before his God. That man sha:l 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, For why? That God, the good adore, 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 Before the mountains heav'd their heads 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, 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 With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night, cut down, it lies EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I. 1 LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, 11. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And a' your views may come to nought, III. I'll no say men are villains a'; The real, harden'd, wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law But och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wav'ring balance shake, IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Ay free, aff han', your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, And petrifies the feeling! |