The barley harvest was nodding white, When my children died on the rocky height; And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. But now the season of rain is nigh, The sun is dim in the thickening sky, And the clouds in sullen darkness rest Man ROBERT BURNS. BORN 1758. DIED 1796. -0 Han was Made to Mourn. HEN chill November's surly blast Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man whose aged step Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?” "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or, haply, pressed with cares and woes, To wander forth with me to mourn "The sun that overhangs yon moors, "O man! while in thy early years, Licentious passions burn; Which tenfold force gives nature's law That man was made to mourn, "Look not alone on youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-oh, ill-matched pair!- "A few seem favourites of fate, But, oh! what crowds in every land, "Many and sharp the num'rous ills. More pointed still we make ourselves And man, whose heaven-erected face Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor o'er-laboured 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, "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- 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 To comfort those that mourn. "O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my agèd limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, But, oh! a bless'd relief to those That, weary-laden, mourn!" LORD BYRON. BORN 1788. DIED 1824. PRINCIPAL WRITINGS:-Hours of Idieness; English Bards and Scotch Reviewers; Childe Harold; The Bride of Abydos; The Prisoner of Chillon; 1ara; Hebrew Melodies; Don Juan. HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain! Man marks the earth with ruin, his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths,-thy fields Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise |