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That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
This universal frame,
Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years
Which seem to us so vaet, Appear no more before thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.
Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;
'Return ye into nought;' ,
Thou layest them, with all their cares
In everlasting sleep:
With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the morning flow'rj
In beauty's pride array'd;
All wither'd and decay'd.
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
Wee , modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem:
Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie Las I, companion meet! Bending thee "mang the dewy weet!
Wi' spreckl'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling East.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting North
Amid" the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting Flow'rs our Gardens yield. High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-fic'.d.
There, in thy scantie mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise: But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies! \
Such is the fate of artless Maid, Such fiuivrrt of the rural shade! By Love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all foil'd, is laid
Low i' the dnst,
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent Lore,
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n
To Mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom!
All hail! inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, The ministers of Grief and Pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eyc(
I see each aimed dart;
Then low'ring, and pouring,
The Storm no more I dread;
And thou grim Pow'r, by Life abhorr'i,
Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!
Resign Life's joyless day?
No fear more, no tear more,
TO MISS L ,
With Beattie's Poems for a New-Year i Gift. January 1, 1787.
Again the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;
In Edwins simple tale.
Our Sex with guile, and faithless love,
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ^
An Edwin still to you.
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A Something to have sent you,
Than just a kind memento;
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps, turn out a Sermon,
Ye'l l try the world soon, my lad,
And Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye;
Ev'n when your end's attained:
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.