« PreviousContinue »
ONE morning in the month of May
Can God, I thought, the just, the great, These meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny to man's estate
The boon of happiness?
Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,
Ye blessed birds around,
In which of nature's wide domains
The birds wild carolled over head,
No bliss for man she knew.
I questioned love, whose early ray,
His light was dimmed by tears.
I questioned friendship: Friendship sighed,
I asked if vice could bliss bestow ?
I sought of feeling, if her skill
Could soothe the wounded breast; And found her mourning, faint and still, For others' woes distressed.
I questioned virtue; virtue sighed,
I questioned death-the grisly shade
And I am happiness,' he said,
'If Virtue guides thee here,'
THE MOONLIGHT MARCH.
I see them on their winding way,
The march is rising o'er the hill.
Again, again the pealing drum,
The clashing horn-they come, they come;
And clashing horn, they come, they come.
REFLECTED on the lake I love
Thus heavenly hope is all serene,
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, As false and fleeting as 't is fair.
WHEN eyes are beaming
What never tongue might tell; When tears are streaming
From their crystal cell;
When hands are linked that dread to part, And heart is met by throbbing heart,
O, bitter, bitter is the smart
Of them that bid farewell.
When hope is chidden
That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden
In the breast to dwell;
When fettered by a viewless chain,