November !...

When chill November`s surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Jeløya.
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o`er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

Young stranger, whither wand`rest thou?
Began the reverend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure`s rage?
Or haply, pressed 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,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lording`s pride;-
I`ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added 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 sway,
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;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right;
But see him on the edge of life,
with cares and sorrows worn;
then age and want - oh, ill-matched pair !...
Shew man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,
In pleasure`s  lap caress`d;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.
But oh ! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Though weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.