MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

D IRGE.

I

W

EN

HEN chill November's furly blact:
Made fields and forefts bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I:spy'd a man, whose aged flep

Seem'd weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

II.
Young stranger, whither waad'reft thou,

Began the rev’rend Sage:
Does thirst of wealth thy step conftrain,

Or youthful Pleasure's rage ?
Or haply, frest with cares and woes,

Too foon thou hast began
To wander forth with me, to moura

The miseries of Man.

III.

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-fun,

Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs, ,
That Man was made to mourn..

IV...
Man! while in tby early years,

How prodig al of time;
Mispending all thy precious hours,.,

Thy glorious, youthful prime! :
Alternate follies take the sway; ,

Licentious Paffions burn;
Which tenfold force give Nature's law;
That Man was made to mourn.

V...
Look not alone op youthful primes ,

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 Wapt, Oh! ill match'd pair !
Show Man was made to mouro.

VI.
A few seem favourites of Fáte,

In Pleasure's lap careft;

Yet, think not all the Rich and Great

Are likewise truly bleft,
But, Oh! what crouds in ev'ry land,

All wretched and forlorn,
Thro' weary life this leffon learn,
That man was Made to mouro,

VII,
Many and sharp the num'rous Ills,

Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, Remorse, and Shame!
And Man, whose heay'n-erected face

The smiles of love adorn, , Man’s inhumanity to Man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

VIII.
See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth.

To give him leavę to toil ;
And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

IX.
If I'm defign'd yon lordling's Nave,

By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independant will

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I sabject to

His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has Man the will and pow's
To make his fellow mourn?

X
Yet, let not this too much, my Song,

Disturb thy youthful breast :
Tliis partial view of human-kind

Iš surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, fure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

XI..
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the beat! Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at reft! The Great, the Wealthy fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn; But, Oh!'a bleft relief to those

That weary-laden mourn !.

THE

HE Wintry Weft extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw ;
Or, the stormy North sends driving forth

The blinding fleet and snaw:
While, tumbling brown, the Burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert reit, And pass the heartless day.

IT.
" The sweeping blaft, the sky o'ercaft *"

The joyless Winter day,
Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May :
The Tempeft's howl, it foothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join ;
The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

* Dr. Young,