First Six Verses Of The Ninetieth Psalm Versified, The

     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 ponderous 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.

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 part might go astray;
     Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
     Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray
     Who act so counter heavenly mercy’s plan? 
     Who sin so oft have mourn’d, yet to temptation ran?