What Sorrows yet may pierce me thro',

Too juftly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

My woes here, fhall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!

II.

Happy! ye fons of Busy-life,

Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wifhed end's deny'd,
Yet while the bufy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilft I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry fad-returning night,

And joyless morn the same.

You, bustling and juftling,

Forget each grief and pain;

I, listless, yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.

III.

How bleft the Solitary's lot,

Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,

Beside his crystal well!

Or haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are diftant brought,

A faint-collected dream:

While praifing, and raising

His thoughts to Heaven on high,

As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the folemn sky.

IV.

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd

Where never human footstep trac'd,

Lefs fit to play the part,

The lucky moment to improve,

And just to stop, and just to move,

With felf-refpecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, Loves and Joys,

Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be bleft!
He needs not, he heeds not,

Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here, must cry here,

At perfidy ingrate!

V..

Oh, enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's

To Care, to Guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,
When Manhood is your with!

The loffes, the croffes,

That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,

Of dim declining Age!

maze,

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN,

Ꭺ .

I R

DIRGE.

W

I.

HEN chill November's furly blast
Made fields and forefts bare,

One ev❜ning, as I wand'red forth,

Along the banks of AIR E, I spy'd a man, whofe aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

II.

Young ftranger, whither wand'reft thou?

Began the rev'rend Sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy ftep constrain,
Or youthful Pleasure's rage?

Or haply, preft with cares and woes,
Too foon thou haft began,

To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of Man.

III.

The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-fpreading far and wide,

Where hundreds labour to fupport
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.

O Man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time !

U