SECTION VII.

The pursuit of happiness often ill-directed.

THE midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose;

No low'ring cloud obscures the sky,
Nor ruffling tempest blows.

Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schen:es of life no more
Distract the lab'ring will.

In silence hush'd to reason's voice,
Attends each mental pow'r :
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy
Reflection's fav'rite hour.

Come; while the peaceful scene invites,
Let's search this ample round;
Where shall the lovely flecting form
Of happiness be found?

Does it amidst the frolic mirth

Of gay assemblies dwell;

Or hide beneath the solemn gloom,

That shades the hermit's cell?

How oft the laughing brow of joy
A sick'ning heart conceals!

And, through the cloister's deep recess,
Invading sorrow steals.

In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit,

The fugitive we trace;

It dwells not in the faithless smile

That brightens Clodia's face.

Perhaps the joy to these deny'd,
The heart in friendship finds:
Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit
Of visionary minds!

Howe'er our varying notions rove,
Yet all agree in one,

To place its being in some state,
At distance from our own.

O blind to each indulgent aim,
Of pow'r supremely wise,
Who fancy happiness in aught
The hand of Heav'n denies!

Vain is alike the joy we seek,
And vain what we possess,
Unless harmonious reason tunes
The passions into peace.

To temper'd wishes, just desires,
Is happiness confin'd;

And, deaf to folly's call, attends

The music of the mind.

SECTION VIII.

The Fire-Side.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;

Tho' singularity and pride

Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

CARTER.

From the gay world, we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,

When with impatient wing she left

That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explor'd the sacred bark.

Tho' fools spurn 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 paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comfort bring;
If tutor❜d right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:

We'll form their minds, with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,

They'll joy our youth, support our age,

And crown our hoary hairs: '

They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense 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 bless 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 suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish, with content, Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r; For if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign'd, when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleas'd with favours giv'n:
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,
Whose fragrance smells to heav'n.

We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;

But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go;
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo,
With cautious steps, we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,.

And cheer our dying breath;

Shall, when all other comforts cease,.

Like a kind angel whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death..

COTTON.

SECTION 1X..

Providence vindicated in the present state of man,

HEAV'N from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib'd, their present state;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know;
Or who could suffer being here below?

The lamb thy rict dooms to bleed to day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food,
And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv❜n,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heav'n;