What is it?'Tis the cradle of the soul,
From instinct sent, to rock her in disease,
Which her physician, Reason, will not cure.
A poor expedient! yet thy best! and while
It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are LORENZO's wretched remedies!
The weak have remedies; the wise have joys.
Superior wisdom is superior bliss.

And what sure mark distinguishes the wise?
Consistent wisdom ever wills the same;
Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing.
Sick of herself, is folly's character;
As wisdom's is, a modest self-applause.
A change of evils is thy good supreme;
Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest.
Man's greatest strength is shewn in standing still.
The first sure symptom of a mind in health,
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
False pleasure from abroad her joys imports;
Rich from within, and self-sustain'd, the true,
The true is fixt, and solid as a rock;

Slipp'ry the false, and tossing, as the wave.
This, a wild wanderer on earth, like CAIN;
That, like the fabled, self-enamour'd boy,
Home-contemplation her supreme delight;
She dreads an interruption from without,
Smit with her own condition; and the more
Intense she gazes, still it charms the more.

No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth There breathes not a more happy than himself:

Then

envy dies, and love o'erflows on All; And love o'erflowing makes an angel Here. Such angels, All, intitled to repose

On Him who governs fate: Tho' tempest frowns,
Tho' nature shakes, how soft to lean on heaven!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,
They stand collecting ev'ry beam of thought,
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight;
For all their thoughts, like angels seen of old
In ISRAEL's dream, come from, and go to, heaven:
Hence, are they studious of sequestered scenes;
While noise, and dissipation, comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revellings would cease,
That opiate for inquietude within.
LORENZO ! never man was truly blest,
But it compos'd, and gave him such a cast,
As folly might mistake for want of joy.
A cast, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modest aspect, and a smile at heart.
O for a joy from thy PHILANDER's spring!
A spring perennial, rising in the breast,
And permanent as pure, no turbid stream
Of rapt'rous exultation, swelling high;
Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,
Then sink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who transient joy prefers?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream ?
Vain are all sudden sallies of delight;
Convulsions of a weak, distemper'd joy.

Joy's a fixt state; a tenure, not a start.

Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliss:
That is the gem: Sell All, and purchase That.
Why go a begging to contingencies,

Not gain'd with ease, nor safely lov'd, if gain'd?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Suspect it; what thou canst ensure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'st thyself, is sure.
Reason perpetuates joy that reason gives,
And makes it as immortal as herself:

To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.

Worth, conscious worth! should absolutely reign;

And other joys ask leave for their approach;
Nor, unexamin'd, ever leave obtain.

Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys
Wage war, and perish in intestine broils;
Not the least promise of internal peace;

No bosom-comfort! or unborrow'd bliss!

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; All outward-bound, 'Mid sands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for plea

sure;

If gain'd, dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd.
Much pain must expiate, what much pain procur'd.
Fancy, and sense, from an infected shore,

Thy cargo bring; and pestilence the prize.
Then, such thy thirst (insatiable thirst!)
By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more!
Fancy still cruises, when poor sense is tir'd.
Imagination is the Paphian shop,

Where feeble happiness, like VULCAN, lame,

Bids foul ideas, in their dark recess,

And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),
With wanton art, those fatal arrows form,

Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame. Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are, On angel-wing, descending from above,

Which these, with art divine, would counter-work, And form celestial armour for thy peace.

In this is seen imagination's guilt ;

But who can count her follies? She betrays thee,
To think in grandeur there is something great.
For works of curious art, and antient fame,
Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd;
And foreign climes must cater for thy taste,
Hence, what disaster!-Tho' the price was paid,
That persecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,
Whose foot (ye gods!) tho' cloven, must be kiss'd,
Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore;
(Such is the fate of honest Protestants!)
And poor magnificence is starv'd to death.
Hence just resentment, indignation, ire !—
Be pacify'd, if outward things are great,
'Tis magnanimity great things to scorn;
Pompous expences, and parades august,
And courts, that insalubrious soil to peace.
True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye;
True happiness resides in things unseen.
No smiles of fortune ever blest the bad,
Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys;

That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor :
So tell his Holiness, and be reveng'd.

Pleasure, we both agree,

is man's chief good;

Our only contest, what deserves the name.

Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pass'd
Th' authentic seal of reason (which like YORKE,
Demurrs on what it passes), and defies

The tooth of time! when past, a pleasure still;
Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age,

And doubly to be priz'd, as it promotes

Our future, while it forms our present, joy.
Some joys the future overcast; and some
Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.
Some joys endear eternity; some give
Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms.
Are rival joys contending for thy choice?
Consult thy whole existence, and be safe;
That oracle will put all doubt to flight.
Short is the lesson, tho' my lecture long,
Be good-and let heav'n answer for the rest.
Yet, with a sigh o'er all mankind, I grant
In this our day of proof, our land of hope,
The good man has his clouds that intervene ;
Clouds, that obscure his sublunary day,
But never conquer: Ev'n the best must own,
Patience and resignation, are the pillars

Of human peace on earth. The pillars, These:
But those of SETH not more remote from Thee,
Till this heroic lesson thou hast learnt ;
To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.