Think of thy spring of life, when joy
By nature's law, should reign ;—
Nor suffer dull phlegmatic powers

To change that joy to pain.

Glide sweetly hand in hand with bliss,

'Till drawn near death's dark bourne,E'en then thy happy end will prove,—

Man ne'er was made to mourn.

A few by cruel fate sore driv'n,
In grief's hard fetters lay,-
Yet think not all who sigh and moan,
Might not be sometimes gay.-
For oh! see all the world around,

Joy's smiling liveries worn

And sure your heart will frankly say-
Man ne'er was made to mourn.

What bliss, what happiness, kind Heaven,

Within our reach does place;

Nor need we wade through guilt or shame, Those bounties to embrace.

Each to his fellow creature's kind,

When wretched or forlorn,

Man's liberality to man,

Makes thousands cease to mourn.

Note yonder open hearted man,
With smiling face, relieve

Yon wretch, who fall'n in fortune's shade
Was only left to grieve.

Here fellow creature cure thy wants,

Thy breast's with sorrow torn

They smile-then both with rapture own,
Man ne'er was made to mourn.

For me, whate'er my station be,
Whether a lord or slave;
An independent heart I'll own,
That blessing Heaven gave;
And while its vital stream shall flow,

I e'er shall treat with scorn,

The wretch who strives with lawless power,

B

To make his fellow mourn.

But haste, young man, for virtue seek,
There happiness you'll find;
For hand in hand they willing try,

To glad all human kind.

The mountain, forest, palace, cot,

They visit in their turn;

And prove to all that will have proof, Man ne'er was made to mourn.

SONG.

LIKE blue bell, wet with morning dew, My Mary's eye appear'd;

Or blue sky trembling through a cloud, Of purest white, it cheer'd;

Her cheeks disclos'd the modest tint That decks the hedge-rose wild, Her lips, its fruit, when summer's heat Upon the bud had smiled.

Her hair, like yellow waving corn
By gentle zephyr moved;

Her beauteous breast, the seat of love

But ah! not me she loved?

The heart it held was wanton, wild,
Like bee, from flower to flower,

It sipt from all, but the true sweet
Ne'er seized, tho' in its power.

Now tired with vast variety,

No settled bliss she'll find:

The rose its seat upon her cheek
To lilly has resign'd:

Her eye now sunk and clouded lies,

Its lustre is no more,

Each beauty's lost, nor can my prayers Those lovely charms restore.