And man, whose heav'n erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-
By Nature's law design'd,-
Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompence
To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief to those

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.'
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 wander'd 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 formed 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 err'd,
No other plea I have,

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

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;

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;
Then how should I for Heav'nly mercy pray,

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,
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 to 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.1

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,
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 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,
O'er life's rough ocean driv'n,
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in Heav'n!

105

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever plac'd,
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 tost,
Before the sweeping blast.

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

A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIO-
LENT ANGUISH.'

O THOU Great Being! what Thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee
Are all Thy works below.

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,
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!

O, 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!

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 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
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 tak'st them off
With overwhelming sweep.

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.