DESPONDENCY,

AN ODE.

[This, and the "Ode to Ruin" are on the same subject, and were composed on the same occasion as the foregoing. It is sad to think of the author, who was even then in the bloom of young manhood-only 27 years old-writing thus, and reverting to his "enviable early days." And how tender and beautiful is the closing apostrophe to the younger portion of his Ayrshire compeers:

"Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court, when Manhood is your wish!"

In one of his letters written about the same period, he says "The consequences of my follies may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home; and besides, I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from causes which you pretty well know-the pang of disappointment, the sting of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the vagaries of the Muse."]

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,
A burden more than I can bear,

I set me down and sigh:
O Life! Thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as IL
Dim-backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning Scenes appear!
What Sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here, shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!

Happy! ye sons of Busy-life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad-returning night,

And joyless morn the same.

You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,

Find ev'ry prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or haply, to his ev❜ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream:
While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heaven on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely Hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac❜d,
Less fit to play the part,

The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, Loves and Joys,

Which I too keenly taste,

The Solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!

He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate;
Whilst I here, must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !

Oh, enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless Pleasure's maze,
To Care, to Guilt unknown!

How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When Manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage;
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining Age!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN,

A DIRGE.

[Lockhart remarks, "The indignation with which Burns through life contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly (and who shall say with absolute injustice?) the contrast between his own felt intellectual strength and his worldly circumstances, were never more bitterly nor more loftily expressed than in some of these stanzas:-See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, &c. The hint for this production was derived from an old Scots dirge called "The Life and Age of Man," which his mother had committed to memory while yet a little girl. The poet tells Mrs. Dunlop in one of his letters, that an old granduncle of his, with whom his mother was brought up, and who was long blind before he died, experienced great enjoyment in sitting beside her and crying while she sung over to him the metrical history of Man, which is so pathetically told in the song. Cromek recovered the old words from the recitation of the poet's mother.]

WHEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning, as I wand'red forth,
Along the banks of AIRE,
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 has added proofs,
That Man was made to mourn.

O Man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending 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 crouds in ev'ry 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 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, tho' 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 blest relief for those

That weary-laden mourn!