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— 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, O death! the poor man's dearest friend, Welcome the hour my aged limbs The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, But, Oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn! A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause If I have wander'd in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast, Thou know'st that thou hast formed me And list'ning to their witching voice Where human weakness has come short, Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, Where with intention I have err'd, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and goodness still STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. WHY am I loath to leave this earthly scene? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!' Again exalt the brute and sink the man; 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. O THOU dread Power who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear; When for this scene of peace and love The hoary sire-the mortal stroke, She, who her lovely offspring eyes Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, Bless him, thou God of love and truth, The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 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 driv'n, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 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 Which by the streamlets grow; The fruitful top is spread on high, And firm the root below. But he whose blossom buds in guilt 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. |