I
RD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:—-But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to
What man has made of man?
