( 95 )
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seen'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 rev'rend Sage;)
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure rage?
Or haply prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.
The Sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
There hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter's sun
Twice forty times return,
And every time has alded proofs
That man was made to mourn.
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 way,
Licentious passions burn,
Which tenfold force gives Nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
