Man was made to Mourn: a Dirge.

66

BURNS.

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

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed 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 pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest 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,
Outspreading 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.

"O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending 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-oh! ill-matched 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, oh! 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'erlaboured 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 designed yon lordling's slave-
By nature's law designed—
Why was an independent wish

E'er 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 humankind

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, oh a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!"

The Quiet Life.

POPE.

PAPPY the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound
Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade.
In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.