WINTER. HE wintry west extends his blast, Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw : While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, "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 Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. HEN chill November's surly blast 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, Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend sage; Or, haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force give nature's law, Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; |