Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) never, never Scotia's realm desert;

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN:

A DIRGE.

1 WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

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

2 Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?'

Began the reverend sage;

'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

3 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-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

4 O man! while in thy carly years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending 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.

5 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-match'd pair!
Show man was made to mourn.

6 A few seem favourites of fate. In pleasure's lap caress'd;

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.

7 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!

8 See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd 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.

9 If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-

By Nature's law design'd—

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?

10 Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:

This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressèd, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompence
To comfort those that mourn!

11 0 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!'

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

10 THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

2 If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun-

As something, loudly, in

my breast,

Remonstrates I have dcne

3 Thou know'st that Thou has formèd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

4 Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

5 Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.

1 WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between:
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.

2 Fain would I say, 'Forgive my foul offence!'
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ?
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?

30 Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may

dare a lifted eye to Thee,

Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,

Or still the tumult of the raging sea: