Thy creature here before thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

Oh, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves,
To bear and not repine!

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

Way 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, Aid 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 mourned, yet to temptation

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,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea;
With that controlling power assist e'en me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
Oh, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;
As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that thou hast formèd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All Good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have erred,

No other plea I have,

But, thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

O THOU DREAD POWER.

O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above!
I know thou wilt me hear;

When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleased 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,
Oh, 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!

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever placed,

Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way,

Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe

Still walks before his God.

That man shall 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
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tossed
Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that God the good adore
Hath given them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

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
Their stay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountains heaved their heads
Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this ponderous globe itself

Arose at thy command;

That Power which raised 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 say'st, 'Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!'

Thou layest them, with all their cares,

In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood thou takst them off
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride arrayed;

But long ere night, cut down it lies,
All withered and decayed.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose agèd step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair,

'Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage;

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage?