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With equal care, as through immensity
But who by searching can Thee comprehend 1
How futile even are our best essays? What height, what depth, can with Thee co-extend 1
"O let expressive silence muse thy praise!"
PORTRAITURE OF REAL LIFE.
/ff URSED above all on this accursed earth!
Grim incarnation, rank of misery,
But for your sunless, frowning, blasted fate,
But blame the dunghill, purse-proud, would-be-great,
And your own truckling and ignoble soul,
Where Reason seems to have the least c'ontrol.
Mute as a statue, trembling, hat in hand,
Like " Patience on a monument" you stand,
And have for hours thus so obsequious stood,
Speak! why so cowardly conceal the cause
Of your absurd, humiliating plight?
Poor sneaking, timid, melancholy wight 1
Solicit you a beggar's bite of bread,
From such a grovelling brother of the soil?
No !—why then hang as self-condemned your head? Go, ask mock-consequence for leave to toil
Without reserve, your wish a child might scan
And show yourself, poor devil, once a man.
That " Britons never shall be slaves," how vain
Nor any of your smutty trade and train,
Pent up, to pine in garrets life away,
In grinding penury and dark dismay.
ANSWER TO ROBERT GILFILLAN.
STEALTH, sir, to you! I've lang essay'd
Still jinket me—
Wi' tearfu' ee.
Then up the pipe wi' vengeance cocket,
As tak an aith
Till my last breath.
Twas in a plight like this yestreen,
In scented breer,
Save bards, I swear.
When seated at the clean fireside,
Could ne'er compare.
Her flowin' robes were driven snaw,
While round her brows Bloom'd flowers the sweetest e'er I saw,
O' endless hues.
Thought I, guid keep me; Lord, be here!
And felt undone:
"Fear not, my son."
Then beckon'd to me and drew nigher,
And gied it me;
T' the day I die.
Hail, favours sacred ever new!
I 'nhaled in store,
For rhymin' lore,
My heart wi' gratefu' feelings glowed,
A thousand thanks I felt I owed
My heavenly Donor,
Which, while I reverently bowed,
I poured upon her.
But by degrees a flood o' light Enwrapt her glorious image bright, That stunned my senses wi' the sight,
And maist my brain; But when I rallied on that night,
I found her gane.
Now on my harp, hail three times ten, Lang life and health to thee I sen'; While inspiration guides my pen,
Thy praise I'll sound, And honest worth, thou wale o' men,
Till a' resound.
Your kind reply to what I sent
Believe me, sir, for frae my youth,