A 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 formèd 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 loath 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 path 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? O Thou, great Governor of all below! If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, And still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me Those headlong furious passions to confine, For all unfit I feel my powers to be, To rule their torrent in th’ allowèd line; O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine! A BARD’S EPITAPH Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life’s mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, thro’ the starting tear, Survey this grave.