Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,

But pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art, we view;
And while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known,

A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;

The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. - Pope.

FATHER of all! in every age,

In every clime, adored,

By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,

Who all my sense confined

To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,

Left free the human will.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.

What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,

This teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away;

For God is paid when man receives,
To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound;
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,

And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, Ŏ, teach my
To find that better way.

heart

Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent

At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.

109

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
O, lead me, wheresoe'er İ go,
Through this day's life or death.

This day be bread and peace my lot; All else beneath the sun

Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, And let thy will be done.

To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all being raise'
All nature's incense rise!

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
"O, where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"

O, up and spake an eldern knight,—
Sat at the king's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea."

The king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,

'T is thou maun bring her hame."

SIR PATRICK SPENCE.

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud, laughed he;

The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

"O, wha is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me;

To send me out, this time o' the year,

To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,

Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,

'Tis we must fetch her hame.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all! Our gude ship sails the morn."

"Now, ever alake, my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm.

"Late, late yestreen, I saw the new moon

Wi' the old moon in her arm;

And I fear, I fear, my dear master,

That we will come to harm."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

111

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The anchors brak, and the topmasts lap,

It was sik a deadly storm;

And the waves came o'er the broken ship,
Till all her sides were torn.

"O, where will I get a gude sailor
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land?"

“O, here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast;
But I fear you 'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gone a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,
And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And let nae the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, And still the sea came in.

O, laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords

To weet their cork-heeled shoon! But lang or a' the play was played, They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That flattered on the faem;

And mony was the gude lord's son,
That never mair came hame.