Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble, birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
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,

Unseen, alane.

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;

And low thou lies!

But now the share uptears thy bed,

Such is the fate of artless Maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade !

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust.

Such

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

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,

That fate is thine-no distant date;

Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

TO TO

RUIN.

I.

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 eye,
I see each aimed dart;

For one has cut my dearest tye,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning,
Round my devoted head.

II.

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 grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

TO 1

TO

MISS L

WITH

BEATTIE'S POEMS

As a New Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our