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Our night is dreary, and dim our day,
PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
O'er Nature's soft repose;
No ruffling tempest blows.
The throbbing heart lies still;
Distract the lab'ring will.
Attends each mental power;
Reflection's favourite hour!
Let's search this ample round!
Of Happiness be found?
Of gay assemblies dwell;
That shades the hermit's cell ?
How oft the laughing brow of Joy
A sick’ning heart conceals; And thro' the cloister's deep recess
Invading Sorrow steals! In vain, thro' beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace; It dwells not in the faithless smile
That brightens Clodia's face. Perhaps the joy to these denied,
The heart in friendship finds; Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit
Of visionary minds !
Howe'er our varying notions rove,
Yet all agree in one,
At distance from our own.
O blind to each indulgent aim
Of power supremely wise, Who fancy Happiness in aught
The hand of Heaven denies!
Vain is alike the joy we seek,
And vain what we possess,
The passions into peace.
Is Happiness confin'd;
The music of the mind.
[COWLEY.] Not winds to voyages at sea, Nor showers to earth more necessary be (Heaven's vital seed cast on the womb of earth
To give the fruitful year a birth)
Than Verse to Virtue ; which can do
And, when it dies, with comely pride
That never will decay,
Till heaven itself shall melt away, And nought behind it stay. Begin the song, and strike the living lyre; Lo! how the years to come, a numerous and well-fitted All hand in hand do decently advance, [quire, And to my song with smooth and equal measures dance; Whilst the dance lasts, how long soe'er it be, My music's voice shall bear it company;
Till all gentle notes be drown'd
In the last trumpet's dreadful sound :
Untune the universal string :
And Virgil's sacred work, shall die.
Whom thunder's dismal noise,
Could not, whilst they liv'd, awake,
When dead † arise;
And open tombs, and open eyes,
Back to their ancient home.
Some from metals upwards fly,
Meet, salute, and join their hands;
Haste to their colours all.
To mountains they for shelter pray,
Stop, stop, my Muse! allay thy vigorous heat,
Kindled at a hint so great;
Which does to rage begin, And this steep hill would gallop up with violent course; "Tis an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
Fierce and unbroken yet,
Impatient of the spur or bit;
'Twill no unskilful touch endure,
When restless on my bed I lie,
Perhaps that anxious friend I trace, Belov'd till life's last throb shall cease, Whose voice first taught a Saviour's worth, And future bliss unknown on earth.
His faithful counsel, tender care,