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How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes

Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport

Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is

your

wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage !
The fears all, the tears all,

Of dim-declining age!

AFTON WATER. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the

glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear; I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet.cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among the green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays : My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb‘not her dream.

TO

MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU ling’ring star, with less’ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love !
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace ;

Akl little thought we 'twas our last !
Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods thick’ning green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wapton to be prest,

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but th' impression deeper makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast !

MAN WAh MADE TO MOURN,

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 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,

To soon thou hast begun
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 inoura.
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;

1

Which ten-fold force gives nature's law,

That man was made to mourn. • Look pot alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active inight;
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, О ill-match'd pair!

Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap caress’d;
Yet think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land

Are wretched and forlorn;
Through 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 mouro! See yonder poor e'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, though a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn. If I'm design'd yon lordling's slaves

By Nature's laws 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 !

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 tord;.
But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn ?'

A PRAYER
IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
Othou 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,

Lu shades of darkness hide.

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