MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Began the reverend sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

7

O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!

Mispending all thy precious hours;
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, O ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, O! what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn!

Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!

More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-
By Nature's law design'd—
Why was an independent wish
Ere planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn.

O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;

But, O! a bless'd relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

WINTE R.

A DIRGE.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"

The joyless winter day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul;

My griefs it seems to join:

The leafless trees my fancy please;

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest; they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want, (O! do thou grant

This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.

A PRAYER,

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun,

As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And listening to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty stepp'd aside,

Do thou, All Good! for such thou art, In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.