52 CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 



I sought of FEELING, if her skill 

 Could sooth the wounded breast ; 



And found her mourning, faint, and still 

 For others' woes distress'd! 



I questioned VIRTUE : VIRTUE sigh'd, 



No boon could she dispense ; 

 Nor Virtue was her name, she cried, 



But humble Penitence. 



1 question'd DEATH : the grisly shade 



Relax'd his brow, severe ; 

 And, " I AM HAPPINESS," he said, 



" If Virtue guides thee here." 



HEBER. 



WHAT IS LIFE? 



And what is Life ? An hour-glass on the run, 

 A mist retreating from the morning sun, 



A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream. 

 Its length ? A minute's pause, a moment's thought. 



And happiness ? A bubble on the stream, 

 That, in the act of seizing, shrinks to nought. 



What is vain Hope ? The puffing gale of morn, 

 That robs each flow'ret of its gem, and diesj 



A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn, 



Which stings more keenlythrough the thin disguise. 



And thou, O Trouble ? Nothing can suppose 

 (And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows) 



What need requirest thee : 

 So free and liberal as thy bounty flows, 



Some necessary cause must surely be. 

 But disappointments, pains, and every woe 



Devoted wretches feel, 

 The universal plague of life below, 



Are mysteries still, 'neath Fate's unbroken seal. 



And what is Death ? is still the cause unfound ? 

 That dark, mysterious name, of horrid sound ? 



A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. 

 And peace ? where can its happiness abound ? 



Nowhere at all, save heaven, and the grave. 



