VERSE

Written in Friar's-Carse Hermitage on Nith-side.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,
Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul!
Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.

As youth and love with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning-star advance,
Pleasure, with her syren air,

May delude the thoughtless pair;
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup,
Then raptured sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale?

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?

Check thy climbing step, elate.

Evils lurk in felon wait;

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold

Soar around each cliffy hold;

While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.'

As the shades of evening close,
Beckoning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney neuk of ease;

There, ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou 'st seen, and heard, and wrought;

And teach the sportive younkers round,

Saws of experience, sage and sound.

Say, "Man's true, genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not, Art thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span?

1 See "Grongar Hill," a Poem by Dyer.

Or frugal nature grudge thee one?”
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heaven
To virtue or to vice is given.

Say, "To be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base."
Thus resign'd and quiet creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
Till future life-future no more,
To light, and joy, and good restore-
To light and joy unknown before!
Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quoth the Beadsman of Nith-side.

WINTER.-A DIRGE.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil,

1 Dr. Young.

Here, firm, I rest-they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (oh, do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.-A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied 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 reverend 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,
Outspreading 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 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;
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 favorites 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 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'erlabor'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;1

1

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

1 The contrast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never perhaps more bitterly nor more loftily expressed by our Poet, than in these four lines, and the first half of the following stanza.

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:
This partial view of human kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppresséd, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
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 agéd 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!"

DESPONDENCY.-AN ODE.

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

I sit me down and sigh:
O Life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!

Dim, backward, as I cast my view,
What sickening scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',

Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;

1 In "Man was made to Mourn," Burns appears to have taken many hints from an ancient ballad, entitled "The Life and Age of Man."