Clap the glad wing, and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day.
O THOU! whose balance does the mountains weigh; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey;
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on thy never-ceasing goodness calls.
Oh! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep.
Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee.
Reign o'er my will; my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distressed,
And lift the burden from the soul oppressed.
Oh! may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made!
May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined,
To bring th' eternal Author to my mind!
When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,
May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul ! When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine,
Adore, my heart, the majesty divine.
Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, Open with prayer the consecrated day;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise,
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies:
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.
And, oh, permit the gloom of solemn night,
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise,
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight,
And show all nature in a milder light:
How every boist'rous thought in calm subsides!
How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides!
Oh, how divine! to tread the milky-way
To the bright palace of the Lord of day;
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew:
Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep;
While I long vigils to its Founder keep.
BLEST be that hand divine, which gently laid
My heart at rest beneath this humble shade!
The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas,
With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril;
Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore,
I hear the tumult of the distant throng,
As that of seas remote, or dying storms;
And meditate on scenes more silent still;
Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death.
Here like a shepherd, gazing from his hut,
Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff,
Eager ambition's fiery chase I see;
I see the circling hunt of noisy men
Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right,
Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey;
As wolves for rapine; as the fox for wiles;
Till death, that mighty hunter, earths them all.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
What though we wade in wealth, or soar in fame,
Earth's highest station ends in "here he lies,"
And "dust to dust" concludes her noblest song.
BE wise to-day: 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live"-
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel: and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applaud.
How excellent that life-they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;
That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
"Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;
And scarce in human wisdom, to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,
And that through every stage: when young, indeed,
In full content we, sometimes, nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves; and re-resolves; then, dies the same.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
All men think all men mortal but themselves;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread;
But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close, where, past the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing, no scar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel ;-
So dies in human hearts the thought of death,
E'en with the tender tear which Nature sheds
O'er those we love-we drop it in their grave.
FRAE great Apollo, poet say,
What is thy wish, what wadst thou hae,
When thou bows at his shrine?
Not Carse o' Gowrie's fertile field,
Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield,
That are baith sleek and fine:
Not costly things brought frae afar,
As ivory, pearl, and gems;
Nor those fair straths that watered are
With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams,
Which gentily, and daintily,
Pare down the flow'ry braes,
As greatly, and quietly,
They wimple to the seas.
Is master of a good estate,
That can ilk thing afford,
Let him enjoy 't withoutten care,
And with the wale of curious fare
Cover his ample board.
Much dawted by the gods is he,
Wha to the Indian plain
Successfu' ploughs the wally sea,
And safe returns again,
With riches, that hitches
Him high aboon the rest
Of sma' fowk, and a' fowk,
That are wi' poortith prest.
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