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THE

FIRST SIX VERSES

O F THE

NINETIETH PSALM.

THOU, the firft, the greatest friend

Of all the human race!

Whofe ftrong right hand has ever been .
Their ftay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountain heav'd their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this pond'rous globe itself

Arofe at thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd, and ftill upholds

This univerfal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever ftill the fame.

Thofe mighty periods of years

Which feem to us fo vait,

Appear no more before Thy fight

Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'ft the word; Thy creature, man, Is to existence brought;

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Again thou fay'ft, Ye fons of men,
• Return ye into nought!'

Thou layeft them, with all their cares,
In everlasting fleep:

As with a flood thou tak'ft them off
With overwhelming fweep.

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

WE E

April 1786.

E E, modeft, crimfon-tipped flow'r

Thou's met me in an evil hour

For 1 maun crush amang the ftoure

Thy flender ftem:

To fpare thee now is past my pow'r,

Thou bonie gem.

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet
The bonie Lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' fpreckl'd breaft,

When upward-fpringing, blythe. to greet

The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet chearfully thou glinted forth

Amid the ftorm,

Scarce rear'd above the Parent-earth

Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our Gardens yield, High fhelt'ring woods and wa's maun fhield; But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or ftane,

Adorns the hiftie Aibble-field,

Unfeen, alane.

There, in thy feanty mantle elad, Thy fnawie bofom fun-ward fpread,

Thou lifts thy unaffuming head,

In humble guife;

But now the bare uptears thy bed,.

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artlefs Maid, Sweet flow ret of the rural fhade!

By Love's fimplicity betray'd,

And guilelefs truft,

Low' ' the dust,

Till fhe, like thee, all foil'd, is laid

Such is the fate of fimple Bard,
On Life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unfkilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er

Such fate to fuffering Worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes have striv'n,,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

To Mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, fink.

Ev'n thou who mourn'ft the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no diftant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-fhare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom..

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