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And we must early sleep to find
Betimes the morning's healthy wind.
But 0, with thankful hearts confess,
E'en here there may be happiness ;
And He, the bounteous Sire, has given
His peace on earth, his hope of heaven!



IF thou wert by my side, my love,

How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,

Listening the nightingale.

If thou, my love, wert by my side,

My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide

O’er Gunga's mimic sea.

I miss thee at the dawning gray,

When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,

And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream

My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam,

I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,

The lingering noon to cheer, But miss ihy kind approving eye,

Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,
I feel, though thou art distant far,

Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on--then on; where duty leads,

My course be onward still,
On broad Hindostan's sultry meads,

O'er black Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor mild Malwah detain,
For sweet the bliss us both awaits,

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay,gleam bright, they say,

Across the dark blue sea,
But'ne'er were hearts so light and gay,

As then shall meet in thee.


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 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

Can bliss for man be found.

The birds wild carolled over head,

The breeze around me blew, And nature's awful chorus said

No bliss for man she knew.

I questioned love, whose early ray,

So rosy bright appears,
And heard the timid genius say

His light was dimmed by tears.

I questioned friendship: Friendship sighed,

And thus her answer gave
The few whom fortune never turned

Were withered in the grave.

I asked if vice could bliss bestow ?

Vice boasted loud and well,
But fading from her withered brow,

The borrowed roses fell.

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,

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.'

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