The pursuit of Happiness often ill directed.
THE midnight moon ferenely smiles
O'er nature's foft repofe;
No low'ring cloud obfcures the sky,
Nor ruffling tempeft blows.
Now ev'ry paffion finks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies ftill;
And varying schemes of life no more
Distract the lab'ring will.
In filence hufh'd to reafon's voice,
Attends each mental pow'r :
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy
Reflection's fav'rite hour.
Come; while the peaceful fcene invites,
Let's fearch this ample round,
Where fhall the lovely fleeting form
Of happiness be found?
Does it amidft the frolic mirth
Of gay affemblies dwell;
Or hide beneath the folemn gloom,
That fhades the hermit's cell?
How oft the laughing brow of joy
A fick ning heart conceals!
And, through the cloifter's deep recefs,
Invading forrow steals.
In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace;
It dwells not in the faithlefs fmile
That brighten's Clodia's face.
Perhaps the joy to thefe deny'd,
The heart in friendship finds :
Ah! dear delufion, gay conceit
Of vifionary minds!
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
Yet all agree in one,
To place its being in some state,
At diftance from our own:
O blind to each indulgent aim,
Of pow'r fupremely wife,
Who fancy happiness in aught
The hand of Heaven denies !
Vain is alike the joy we feek,
And vain what we poffefs,
Unlefs harmonious reafon tunes
The paffions into peace.
To temper'd wifhes, juft defires,
Is happiness confin'd;
And, deaf to folly's call, attends
The mufic of the mind.
DEAR Chloe, while the bufy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Tho' fingularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll ftep afide,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world, we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs;
No noify neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To fpoil our heart-felt joys.
If folid happinefs we prize,
Within our breaft this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our ownfelves our joys muft flow,
And that dear hut, our home.
Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing the left
That fafe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excurfion, o'er,
The difappointed bird once more
Explor'd the facred bark.
Tho' fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradife below.
Our babes fhall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right, they'll prove a fpring
Whence pleasures ever rife;
We'll form their minds, with ftudious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wifeft hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondeft loves repay,
And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot :
Monarchs! we envy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,
And blefs our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed ;
But then how little do we need !
For nature's calls are few :
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may fuffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relifh, with content;
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r ;
For, if our ftock be very fmall,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor loofe the prefent hour.
To be refign'd, when ills betide,
Patient when favours are deny'd,
And pleas'd with favours given
Dear Chloe, this is wifdom's part;
This is that incenfe of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter life is feldom fweet;
But, when our feaft is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arife,
Nor grudge our fons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our ftore.
Thus hand in hand, thro' life we'll go :
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo,
With cautious fteps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead.
While confcience, like a faithful friend,
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall when all other comforts ceafe,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of Death.
Providence vindicated in the State of Man.
HEAV'N from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prefcrib'd, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what fpirits know,
Or who could fuffer being her below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to day,
Had he thy reafon, would he skip and play
Pleas'd to the laft, he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand juft rais'd to fhed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv'n,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n;
Who fees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a fparrow fall;
Atoms or fyftems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, a id now
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions foar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future blifs he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy bleffing now.
Hope fprings eternal in the human breast :
Man never is, but always TO BE bleft:
The foul, uneafy and confin'd from home,
Refts and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whofe untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His foul proud fcience never taught to ftray
Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way ;
Yet fimple nature to his hope has giv❜n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, a humbler heav'n;
Some fafer world in depth of woods embrac'd,
Some happier island in the wat’ry waste;
Where flaves once more their native land behold,,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold,
TO BE, content's his natural defire;
He asks no angel's wing, no feraph's fire :
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog fhall bear him company.
Go wiser thou! and in thy fcale of fenfe,
eigh thy opinion against Providence ;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest fuch,
Say here he gives too little, there too much..
In pride, in reas'ning pride, our error lies;
All quit their fphere and rufh into the skies..
Pride ftill is aiming at the bleft abodes,
Men would be angels, angels would be gods..
Afpiring to be gods, if angels fell,
Afpiring to be angels, men rebel :
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of ORDER, fins against th' ETERnal cause.
Has God, thou fool! work'd folely for thy good,
Thy joy, thy paftime, thy attire, thy food?
Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn,
For him as kindly fpread the flow'ry lawn.
Is it for thee the lark afcends and fings?
Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings.
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat?
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