Man Was Made To Mourn. - A Dirge.

When chill November's surly blast             Made fields and forests bare,         One ev'ning as I wandered forth             Along the banks of Ayr,         I spy'd 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 wand'rest thou?"             Began the rev'rend sage;         "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,             Or youthful pleasure's 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,             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 ev'ry time had 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 in 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.         "A few seem favorites 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,             All wretched and forlorn!         Thro' weary life this lesson learn,             That man was made to mourn.         "Many and sharp the num'rous 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 power             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 best!         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."