MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? (Began the rev'rend Sage ;) Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The Sun that overhangs yon moors, O Man! while in thy early years, 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, oh! ill match'd 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! Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. Many and sharp the num'rous ills MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, Remorse, and Shame; And Man, whose heav'n erected face The smiles of love adorn, 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, If not, why am I subject to Or why has Man the will and pow'r Yet, let not this too much, my Son, The poor, oppressed, honest man, 139 Had there not been some recompense O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, 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. O'CONNOR'S CHILD: OR, THE FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING. OH! once the harp of Innisfail* Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt: Sweet lady! she no more inspires The ancient name of Ireland. |