And man, whose heav'n erected face Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and pow'r Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompence O death! the poor man's dearest friend, Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, That weary-laden mourn !1 Whatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly the contrast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bit. terly nor more loftily expressed than in some of these stanz/8,-Lockhart. A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.' In whose dread presence, ere an hour, If I have wander'd in those paths As something, loudly in my breast, Thou know'st that thou hast formed me, Where human weakness has come short, Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art, Where with intention I have err'd, But, Thou art good; and Goodness still STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.' Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. But, should my Author health again dispense, 1 Burns has entitled his verses, A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm." 2 August, [1874,] Misgivings in the hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death, Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; 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, To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.1 O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above! I know Thou wilt me hear; When for this scene of peace and love, The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes 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 knows't the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway. 1 The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Law. rie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the Stanzas were left in the room where he slept.-G. B, THE FIRST PSALM. When soon or late they reach that coast, 105 THE FIRST PSALM. THE man, in life wherever plac'd, Who walks not in the wicked's way, Nor from the seat of scornful pride Still walks before his God. That man shall flourish like the trees But he, whose blossom buds in guilt, For why? that God the good adore A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIO- O THOU Great Being! what Thou art Yet sure I am, that known to Thee March, 1784. 1 There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My body too was attacked by that most dreadful disorder, a hypochondria, or confirmed mel ancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following.R. B. E* Thy creature here before Thee stands, Yet sure those ills that wring my soul Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act O, free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH O THOU, the first, the greatest friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Before the mountains heav'd their heads Beneath Thy forming hand, 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 Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man, Again Thou say'st, "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!" Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou tak'st them off They flourish like the morning flow'r, But long ere night cut down, it lies |