But ah! thofe pleasures, Loves and Joys, Which I too keenly taste, The Solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be bleft! Or human love or hate; Whilft I here must cry V. Oh! enviable, early days, here When dancing thoughtless pleasure's mazt, Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Like linnets in the bush, Ye little know the ills ye court; MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIR GE. WHE I HEN chill November's furly blad Made fields and forefts bare, One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth Along the banks of Ayr, Efpy'd a man, whofe aged flep Seem'd weary, worn with care; II. Young Atranger, whither wand'reft thou, Began the rev'rend Sage: Does thirst of wealth thy ftep contrain, Or youthful Pleafure's rage? Or haply, preft with cares and woes, Too foon thou haft began To wander forth with me, to mourn III. The Sun that overhangs yon moors; Where hundreds labour to fupporti A haughty lordling's pride; And ev'ry time has added proofs,.,. IV.. O Man! while in thy early years, Thy glorious, youthful prime! : Which tenfold force give Nature's law, V... Look not alone on youthful prime,, Supported is his right: But fee him on the edge of life, With Cares and Sorrows worn, . Then Age and Want, Oh! ill match'd pair! Show Man was made to moura. : VI. A few feem favourites of Fáte, In Pleafure's lap carest'; Yet, think not all the Rich and Great Are likewife 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 mourn, VII. Many and sharp the num'rous Ills More pointed ftill we make ourselves, The fmiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to Man Makes countless thousands mourn! VIII See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, Who begs a brother of the earth. IX. If I'm defign'd yon lordling's flave, By Nature's law defign'd, Why was an independant wish If not, why am I subject to Or why has Man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? Yet, let not this too much, my Son,, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is furely not the lat! The poor, oppreffed, honeft man, To comfort thofe that mourn! XI.. O Death the poor man's dearest friend, Are laid with thee at reft! The Great, the Wealthy fear thy blow,. But, Oh! a bleft relief to thofe |