MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN BY ROBERT BURNS Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poet, says: "He (Burns) used to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 'Man was Made to Mourn' was composed." When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forests bare, Along the banks of Ayr, Seemed weary, worn with care; And hoary was his hair. Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Or youthful pleasures rage? Too soon thou hast began The miseries of man! “ The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, A haughty lordling's pride, - And every time has 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; Supported in his right; With cares and sorrows worn, “ A few seem favorites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest; Are likewise truly blest. every land Are wretched and forlorn! Through weary life this lesson learn, That man was made to mourn. “Many and sharp the numerous 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'erlabored 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 designed yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law designed, 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: Is surely not the last! Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! “ O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Are laid with thee at rest! From pomp and pleasure torn; That weary-laden mourn! FARE THEE WELL BY LORD BYRON Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again! Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee, Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe: Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found, Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound? Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away: Still thine own its life retaineth, Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “Father!” Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee, |