CONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our fight;
Say, goddefs, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face!
Thy gracious auspices impart,
And for thy temple choose my heart.
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound defire ;
By happy alchymy of mind
They turn to pleasure all they find;
They both difdain in outward mien,
The grave and folemn garb of spleen,
And meretricious art of dress,
To feign a joy, and hide distress;
Unmov'd, when the rude tempeft blows,
Without an opiate they repofe;
And, cover'd by your shield, defy
The whizzing shafts that round them fly.
AND fee the rivers how they run,
Thro' woods and meads, in (hade and fun,
Sometimes fwift, fometimes flow,
Wave fucceeding wave, they go
A various journey to the deep,
Like human life, to endless fleep!
Thus in Nature's vefture wrought,
To inftruct our wand'ring thought;
Thus he dreffes green and gay,
To difperfe our cares away.
ANOTHER PROSPECT.
SEE on the mountain's fouthern fide,
Where the profpect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and fmall the edges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little diftant dangers feem:
So we miftake the future's face,
Ey'd thro' Hope's deluding glass;
As yon fummits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which, to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear;
Still we tread the fame coarse way,
The prefent's still a cloudy day;
Oh! may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see,
Content me with an humble shade,
My paffions tam'd, my wifles laid:
B 2.
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the foul.
NOW, e'en now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain turf I lie;
While the wanton Zephyr fings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep,
While the shepherd charms his sheep,
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky,
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high.
INCONSISTENCY OF MIND.
SUCH is our inconsistency of mind,
We court fociety and hate mankind,
With fome we quarrel, for they're too fincere;
With others, for they're clofe, referv'd, and
This is too learn'd, too prudent, or too wife;
And that we for his ignorance despise.
A voice, perhaps, our ear fhall harshly strike,
Then trait ev'n wit itself fhall raife diflike.
Our eye may by fome feature be annoy'd,
Behold, at once, a character destroy'd.
One's fo good-natur'd, he's beyond all bearing,
He'll ridicule no friend, though out of hearing.
Another warm'd with zeal offends our eyes,
Because he holds the mirror up to vice.
No wonder, then, fince fancies wild as these
Can move our spleen, that real faults displease.
THIS Self-conceit steps in, and with strict eye
Scans ev'ry man, and ev'ry man awry ;..
That reigning passion, which thro' every stage
Of life ftill haunts us with unceasing rage.
No quality fo mean, but what can raise
Some drudging, driveling candidate for praise.
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