MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN A DIRGE.
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.
'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.
'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.
'O man! while in thy early years How prodigal of time! Mis-spending 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, O ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn.
A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap caress'd; Yet, think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly bless'd. But, oh! what crowds in ev'ry 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'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.
'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 pow'r To make his fellow mourn?
'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, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompence 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 bless'd relief to those That weary-laden mourn!'
YE midnight shades! o'er Nature spread Dumb silence of the dreary hour; In honour of th' approaching dead Around your awful terrors pour. Yes, pour around
On this pale ground,
Through all this deep surrounding gloom, The sober thought,
The tear untaught,
Those meetest mourners at a tomb.
Lo! as the surplic'd train draw near To this last mansion of mankind, The slow sad bell, the sable bier, In holy musings wrap the mind! And while their beam,
With trembling stream, Attending tapers faintly dart, Each mouldering bone,
Each sculptur'd stone,
Strikes mute instruction to the heart.
Now let the sacred organ blow
With solemn pause and sounding slow; Now let the voice due measure keep, In strains that sigh and words that weep, Till all the vocal current blended roll, Not to depress but lift the soaring soul.
To lift it in the Maker's praise
Who first inform'd our frame with breath; And, after some few stormy days, Now gracious gives us o'er to Death.
No king of fears
In him appears
Who shuts the scene of human woes;
Beneath his shade
Securely laid
The dead alone find true repose.
Then while we mingle dust with dust, To One supremely good and wise Raise hallelujahs. God is just, And man most happy when he dies. His Winter past,
Fair Spring at last
Receives him on her flowery shore, Where pleasure's rose
Immortal blows,
And sin and sorrow are no more.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying; Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature! cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper: angels say, "Sister spirit, come away.' What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be Death?
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