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MAY-TIME IN WAR.

Der Meister ist ja lobenswerth

Worthy of praise the Master-hand

That hath created all,

And Father-like, by sea and land,

Where'er our eye can fall,

Preserves and feeds His creatures here,

And sends us once again

The lovely flower-time of the year

To gladden hill and plain.

'Tis May that brings to every sense

A joy so keen and fit,

Her name can please when she is hence

Whene'er we think of it.

The loveliest month of all the year

Is round us everywhere;

The winds blow soft, the sun is clear,

And sweet and pure the air.

The plains are rich with many a hue,

The forests with young shoots;

Heaven's blessing seems to stream anew

O'er earth and all her fruits.

The nightingale pours forth her lays

From every little wood,

Doing her best to sing God's praise

And tell us He is good.

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The bees fly forth in busy swarm,

Their honey home to bring,

The swallow builds its nest so warm,

The lark begins to sing;

No creature but can now be glad,

Its heart's desire can still;

Man only is distraught and sad

Through his own darkened will;

Man who can ne'er with firmness wait,

Nor to one aim be true,

But must embitter his own fate,

And his own death pursue;

Whose life at best so swiftly past,

A short, uncertain day,

Himself in deeper gloom must cast,

Shut from God's quickening ray.

How like a child his pride he feeds

With Reason;--would he prove

His boasted Reason by his deeds

Of faith, and peace, and love!

Or learn from God, the Only Wise,

To rule his actions well;

Then earth might be a Paradise,

Man makes it now a hell.

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