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III.

The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter sun

Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,

That man was made to mourn.

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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.

V.

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.

VI.

A few seem favorites of Fate,

Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But oh! what crowds, in ev'ry land,

Are wretched and forlorn;
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

VII.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame! 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.

VIII.

See yonder poor, o'erlabor'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, tho' a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

IX.

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's

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 recompense

To comfort those that mourn.

XI.

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!

A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you
From seasons such as these? - SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

Far south the lift,

Dim-dark’ning thro' the flaky show'r,

Or whirlin drift!

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd,
Poor Labor sweet in sleep was lock’d,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-chock'd,

Wild-eddying swirl,
Or thro' the mining outlet bock’d,

Down headlong hurl.

Listning, the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?
Where wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing,

An' close thy e'e ?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone, from your savage homes exild,
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,

My heart forgets,
While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark-muffled, view'd the dreary plain ;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,

Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole:

“Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost !
Descend, ye chilly, smoth'ring snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting,

Vengeful malice, unrepenting, Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows

“See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Wo, want, and murder, o'er a land !

“ Evin in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches, in the rear, Look o'er proud property extended wide,

And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glittring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

“Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honor's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbor, dark, the selfish aim,

To bless himself alone ?

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