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ONE morning in the month of May
I wandered o'er the hill ;
My heart was heavy still.
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,
Can bliss for man be found.
The birds wild caroll'd over head,
The breeze around me blew, And nature's awful chorus said-
No bliss for man she knew.
I question'd love, whose early ray,
So rosy bright appears,
His light was dimm’d by tears.
I questioned friendship : Friendship sigh'd,
And thus her answer gave-
Were wither'd in the grave !
I ask'd if vice could bliss bestow ?
Vice boasted loud and well,
The borrowed rosès fell.
I sought of feeling, if her skill
Could sooth the wounded breast; And found her mourning, faint and still, For others' woes distressed !
I question d virtue : virtue sighed,
No boon could she dispense-
But humble penitence.
I question'd death--the grisly shade
Relax'd his brow severe-
“ If Virtue guides thee here."
THE MOONLIGHT MARCH.
I SEE them on their winding way,
Again, again, the pealing drum,