Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 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, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! 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, 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, Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, ΤΟ ΤΟ RUIN. I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, I see each aimed dart; 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, To close this scene of care! peace, My weary heart its throbbings cease, No fear more, no tear more, ΤΟ 206 ΤΟ 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 I send you more than India boasts Our |