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 day So heavenly bright appears; And Love in answer seemed to say His light was dimmed by tears. I questioned Friendship;--Friendship moaned, And thus her answer gave; The friends whom fortune has not turned, Were vanished in the grave. 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!” _Bishop Heber._ HARVEST. The _harvest_ is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.--Jeremiah, viii. 20. Then saith he unto his disciples, The _harvest_ truly is plenteous, but the labourers are few; Pray ye therefore the Lord of the _harvest_, that he will send forth labourers into his _harvest_.--Matthew, ix. 37, 38. The _harvest_ is the end of the world; and the reapers are the angels.--Matthew, xiii. 39. Life hath its seasons: And time, on a chariot of hours, Rolls to eternity’s gate Adown a dim valley, where flowers, Bereft of their beauty, Lie, withered and scattered by fate. Hearts have their _harvests_: And sorrow goes after the reapers To mildew the yellowing grain; While pity, in tears, Stands watching the labouring weepers Go reaping a _harvest_ of pain. Youth is the seed-time: The season of sunshine and showers, That nurtures the delicate germ Which, in life’s autumn, Will bring to our bosom sweet flowers, Or thorns and a cankering worm. God is the _harvest_: Whose sickle by mercy is wielded Among the ripe grain and the tares: Unto his garner The sheaves of the gleaner are yielded With _harvest_-home anthem and prayers. _Anon._ Then glory to the steel That shines in the reaper’s hand; And thanks to God, who has bless’d the sod, And crowns the _harvest_ land! _Eliza Cook._ HATRED. Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered: let them also that _hate_ him flee before him.--Psalm lxviii. 1.