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 heav'nly mercy pray, Who act so counter heav'nly mercy's plan? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; THE FIRST PSALM. THE man in life, wherever plac'd, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor learns their guilty lore! Nor from the seat of scornful pride But with humility and awe That man shall flourish like the trees But he whose blossom buds in guilt, For why? That God, the good adore, THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE 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, 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 sayest, 'Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!' Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tekst them off With overwhelming sweep. They flourish like the morning flow'r, A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. THOU, who kindly dost provide For every creature's want! We bless thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent : And, if it please thee, heavenly Guide, But whether granted or denied, Lord, bless us with content.-Amen. VERSE Written in Friar's-Carse Hermitage on Nith-side. Sprung from night, in darkness lost; As youth and love with sprightly dance, Beneath thy morning-star advance, Pleasure, with her syren air, May delude the thoughtless pair; Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. As thy day grows warm and high, Life's meridian flaming nigh, Dost thou spurn the humble vale? Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? Check thy climbing step, elate, Evils lurk in felon wait; Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, As the shades of ev'ning close, On all thou 'st seen, and heard, and wrought; See' Grongar Hill,' a Poem by Dyer. WINTER.-A DIRGE. THE wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does biaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And bird and beast in covert rest And pass the heartless day. 'The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,* Let others fear, to me more dear The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou, Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny Assist me to resign. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.-A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth I spy'd a man, whose aged step f Dr. Young. |