Happiness

One morning in the month of May
I wandered o'er the hill;
Though nature all around was gay,
My heart was heavy still.

Can God, I thought, the Good, the Great,
These meaner creatures bless,
And yet deny our human state
The boon of happiness?

Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,
Ye blessed birds around,
Where, in creation's wide domains,
Can perfect bliss be found?

The birds wild carolled overhead,
The breeze around me blew,
And nature's awful chorus said,
No bliss for man she knew!

I questioned Love, whose early rays
So heavenly bright appears;
And Love, in answer, seemed to say
His light was dimmed by tears.

I questioned Friendship, — Friendship mourned,
And thus her answer gave:
"The friends whom fortune had not turned
Were vanished in the grave."

I asked of Feeling, if her skill
Could heal the wounded breast?
And found her sorrows streaming still,
For others' griefs distrest.

I asked if Vice could bliss bestow?
Vice boasted loud and well;
But, fading from her pallid brow,
The venomed roses fell.

I questioned Virtue, — Virtue sighed,
No boon could she dispense;
Nor Virtue was her name, she cried,
But humble Penitence!

I questioned Death, — the Grisly Shade
Relaxed his brow severe;
And, "I am happiness," he said,
"If Virtue guides thee here!"