WHEN chill November's surly blast MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. I spied a man, whose aged step 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, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, O man! while in thy early years, Thy glorious youthful prime! Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, Supported is his right: MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 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 Through weary life this lesson learn, Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves, 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- Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and pow'r Yet let not this too much, my son, 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, But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn! |