280 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. BREAK, break, break, Tennyson. On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea, O, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill ; But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. - Burns. A DIRGE. WHEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step His face was furrowed o'er with years, "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ? " Began the reverend sage; "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, That man was made to mourn. "O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, "Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, 282 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want — O ill-matched pair! Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, O, what crowds in every land, 66 Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still, we make ourselves And man, whose heaven-erected face Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor o'erlabored wight, "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave,— Why was an independent wish If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and power "Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressèd, honest man "O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, - Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, But, O, a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn!" THE MARIGOLD.. George Wither. WHEN with a serious musing I behold Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk; And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, To wait upon a meaner light than him : But, O my God! though grovelling I appear SONNET.-W. E. Channing. - HEARTS of eternity, hearts of the deep! Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate; How that for you no living comes too late; . How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep ; How ye great harvests from small surface reap ; Shout, excellent band, in grand, primeval strain, Like midnight winds that foam along the main, And do all things rather than pause and weep. |