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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, oh! ill match'd pair,
Shew man was made to mourn.
A few seem'd favourites of Fate,
In Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the Rich and Great
Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,
Are wretched and forlorn!
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was shade 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 mourn.
See yonder poor o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, meen, 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 helples offspring mourn,
