MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning as I wander'd 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;

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, 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
Inwoven with our frame;

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,
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,

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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.

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,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gael,
When for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any mansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice but from the fox's den,
The Lady in the desert dwelt,

And yet no wrongs, no fear she felt:
Say why should dwell in place so wild
The lovely pale O'Connor's child?

Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's heart with beauty's pow'r,
As in the palace of her sires
She bloom'd a peerless flow'r.

The ancient name of Ireland.