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MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
A few seem favourites of state,
In pleasure's lap carest,
A re likewise truly blest;
Are wretched and forlorn;
That man was made to mourn !
Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frane; More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret-remorse and shame. And Man, whose heav'n-erected face
The smiles or love adorn : Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn !
See yonder poor o'er-labour'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 belpless offspring ourn!
If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave
By nature's law design’d, Why was an independent wish
F'er planted in my mind,
His cruelty or scorn;
To make his fellow mourn ?
Yet let not this too much my son
Disturb thy youthful breast;
Is surely not the last :
Had never sure been born,
To comfort those that mourn !
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best:
Are laid with thee at rest!
From pomp and pleasure torn;
That weary-laden mourn!
THE POOR SLAVE.
0! does not mercy shudder to behold Life-freedom barter'd for a Christian's gold ! Yes--mark the wretch who torn from Congo's
sands, Uplifts in vain his supplicating hands: And looks and weeps, and looks to look no more, On that fond home, ihat sun illumin'd shore: Condemn'd by pow'r by trade's unfeeling lust, On Indian isles to bow his neck to dust. Inhuman deed! with systematic plan, To sell the life the liberty of man ! And say, ye statesmen, coldly, who discuss The fate of him who sadly suffers thus, Do long subjection and unceasing toil, The scourge, the chains, the setter and the soil, Unhinge, undo the mental fabric so, That nature loves babituated woe; That stripes are pleasures, and that men set free Would weep. for freedon as a misery?
Thus, thus will Trade unconquer'd still by time,
Methinks I see thee as the trumpet-horn,
Friend to the wretch wliom every friend for
sakes, I woo thee, Death! in fancy's fairy paths Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill The strain of empty joy. Life and its joys I leave to those that prize them. At this hour, This solemn bour, when silence rules the world, And wearied nature makes a gen'ral pause; Wrapt in night's sable robe, through cloysters
drear And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng
Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path