MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, press'd with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, Twice forty times return; That man was made to mourn. 7 O man! while in thy early years, Mispending all thy precious hours; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, 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, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, O! what crowds in every land Through weary life this lesson learn, Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn. See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- Or why has man the will and power Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressed, honest man O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, Welcome the hour my aged limbs The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, But, O! a bless'd relief to those That weary-laden mourn! WINTE R. A DIRGE. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or the stormy north sends driving forth While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 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 In whose dread presence, ere an hour, If I have wander'd in those paths As something loudly in my breast Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 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, But Thou art good; and goodness still |