From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings;

66

An honest man's the noblest work of God:" And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart;
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN1

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev'ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

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.

1 Several of the poems were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the author. He 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. -G.B.

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!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force give 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 crowds in ev'ry land
Are 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 to those

That weary-laden mourn!1

1 Whatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly the contrast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly nor more loftily expressed, than in some of these stanzas.- Lockhart.

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.1
O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that thou hast formed me,
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do thou, All-Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.2
WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene!
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms;
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;

1 Burns has entitled his verses, "A prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm."

2 August, [1781,] Misgivings in the hour of Despondency and Prospect of Death.

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ;
Then how should I for Heav'nly mercy pray,

Who act so counter Heav'nly mercy's plan?

Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran?
O Thou, great Governor of all below!

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line;
O, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT,
THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING VERSES IN
THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.1

O THOυ dread Pow'r, who reign❜st above!
I know Thou wilt me hear:

When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my pray'r sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare;

To bless his little filial flock,

And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!"

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,

In manhood's dawning blush;

Bless him, thou God of love and truth.

Up to a parent's wish.

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,

With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,

Guide Thou their steps alway.

1 The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then minister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, having given up the parish in favour of his son. Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them played; the father and mother led down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were left in the room where he slept.-G. B.