STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.
WHY am I loth 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?
O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers 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 Pow'r, who reign'st above,
I know Thou wilt me hear;
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my pray'r 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 driven,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heaven!
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786.
TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS,
FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787.
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true;
But may, dear Maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae ither end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps, it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps, turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
Ev'n when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.
I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricked:
But Och! mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!
Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony ;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can
Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' ev'ry other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.
The sacred lowe o' weel plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Tho' naething should divulge it;
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard o' concealing;
But Och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!
To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by ev'ry wile
That's justify'd by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.
The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.
The great Creator to revere,
Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature : Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended!
When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driv❜n,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n
Is sure a noble anchor !
Adieu, dear, amiable Youth!
Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, God send you Still daily to grow wiser; [speed,' And may ye better reck the rede, Than ever did th' Adviser!
ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
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