PSALM X.

George Burgess

Oh, let their own dark guile
On them in ruin burst,
Who, vain in fortune's fleeting smile,
Bless whom the Lord hath curs'd.

Pride lights the wicked's face,
And fires his reckless eye:
Thine arm his thoughts disdain to trace;
Thy judgments roll so high.

His prosp'rous pathways rise;
He flouts the warning call:
\"My foot shall ne'er be mov'd,\" he cries,
\"Nor ill my lot befall.\"

So, on his lips has rung
The loud blasphemer's cry;
While, couch'd beneath his venom'd tongue,
Deceit and treach'ry lie.

By the still village path
He waits his guiltless prey,
Darts the keen glance of serpent wrath,
And longs to spring and slay.

He lurks as in the brake
The lion hides his lair:
He lurks, the passing poor to take,
To take in secret snare.

Torn falls the wretch, and bleeds
Within his fang and fold:
Yet cries his heart, \"God never heeds;
He cares not to behold.\"

Remember, Lord, thy poor,
And lift th'avenging rod:
Why should the wicked's dream endure,
And mock the glance of God?

Thine eyes their malice see;
Thine hand must all repay:
The wretched orphan leans on thee,
And feels a heav'nly stay.

Oh, break th'oppressor's arm;
And search, till search be vain:
Then turns thy land from heathen harm
To thine eternal reign.

For thou the humble sigh
O Lord, hast deign'd to hear:
Thou giv'st the heart its contrite cry,
And giv'st thy listening ear;

To judge the orphan's right;
To bid th'oppress'd be free;
That never more from earthly might
The guiltless poor may flee.