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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 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 recompense
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!

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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.


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


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;

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

Who act so counter heavenly 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,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea:
With that controuling 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


In the room where he slept.

Othou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above!

I know thou wilt me hear:

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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,
O 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


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

Guide thou their steps alway.


When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n,

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,
A family in heav'n!

The man,


in life wherever plac'd,

Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way,

Nor learns their guilty lore:

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