Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/124
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
72
THE POEMS OF BURNS.
A PRAYER, UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.
O Thou Great Being what Thou artSurpasses me to know:Yet sure I am, that known to TheeAre all Thy works below.
Thy creature here before Thee stands,All wretched and distrest;Yet sure those ills that wring my soulObey Thy high behest.
Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not actFrom 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 resolvesTo bear and not repine!
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 prideCasts forth his eyes abroad,But with humility and aweStill walks before his God.
That man shall flourish like the treesWhich by the streamlets grow;The fruitful top is spread on high,And firm the root below.
But he whose blossom buds in guiltShall to the ground be cast,And like the rootless stubble tost,Before the sweeping blast.
For why? that God the good adoreHath giv'n them peace and rest,But hath decreed that wicked menShall ne'er be truly blest.
TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS,
FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787.
Again the silent wheels of timeTheir annual round have driv'n,And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heav'n.
No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless loveIs charg'd, perhaps too true;But may, dear Maid, each lover proveAn Edwin still to you!
TO RUIN.
All hail! inexorable lord!At whose destruction-breathing wordThe mightiest empires fall!Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,The ministers of grief and pain,A sullen welcome, all!With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,I see each aimèd dart;For one has cut my dearest tie,And quivers in my heart.Then low'ring, and pouring,The storm no more I dread;Tho' thick'ning and black'ningRound my devoted head.
And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,While life a pleasure can afford,Oh! hear a wretch's pray'r!No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;I court, I beg thy friendly aid,To close this scene of care!When shall my soul, in silent peace,Resign life's joyless day;My weary heart its throbbings cease,Cold-mould'ring in the clay?No fear more, no tear more,To stain my lifeless face,Enclasped, and graspedWithin thy cold embrace!