280 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.— Tennyson. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea, O, well for the fisherman's boy That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To the haven under the hill ; But, O, for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. - Burns. A DIRGE. WHEN Chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step His face was furrowed o'er with years, 66 Young stranger, whither wanderest 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 wander forth, with me, to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, "O man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, “Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, 282 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want -O ill-matched pair! Show man was made to mourn. "A few seem favorites of fate, Yet, think not all the rich and great But, O, what crowds in every land, 66 Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still, we make ourselves Man's inhumanity to man. Makes countless thousands mourn ! "See yonder poor o'erlabored wight, And helpless offspring mourn. "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave, By Nature's law designed, Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to Or why has man the will and power "Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor, oppressèd, honest man Had there not been some recompense 66 "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, But, O, a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn ! THE MARIGOLD. George Wither. WHEN with a serious musing I behold Still bending towards him her small, slender stalk; And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, As if she scornèd to be lookèd on By an inferior eye, or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him : Wherewith we court these earthly things below, But, O my God! though grovelling I appear SONNET. W. E. Channing. HEARTS of eternity,· hearts of the deep! Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate; |