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 . Before the mountain heav'd their heads 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; Again thou fay'ft, Ye fons of men, Thou layeft them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'ft them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night cut down it lies 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 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, 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.. I 4 |