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The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, sight,

She holds a paradise of rich delight;

But gently to rebuke his awkward fear,

To prove that what she gives, she gives sincere,

To banish hesitation, and proclaim

His happiness, her dear, her only aim.

Tis grave philosophy's absurdest dream,

That Heav'n's intentions are not what they seem,

That only shadows are dispens'd below,

And Earth has no reality but wo.

Thus things terrestrial wear a diff'rent hue, As youth or age persuades; and neither true. So Flora's wreath through colour'd crystal seen, The rose or lily appears blue or green, But still th' imputed tints are those alone The medium represents, and not their own.

To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd, To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best, Till half the world comes rattling at his door, To fill the dull vacuity till four; And, just when ev'ning turns the blue vault gray, To spend two hours in dressing for the day; To make the Sun a bauble without use, Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce;

Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,

Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not;

Through mere necessity to close his eyes

Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise;

Is such a life, so tediously the same,

So void of all utility or aim,

That poor Jonquil, with almost ev'ry breath,

Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd death:

For he, with all his follies, has a mind

Not yet so blank or fashionably blind,

But now and then perhaps a feeble ray

Of distant wisdom shoots across his way;

By which he reads, that life without a plan,

As useless as the moment it began,

Serves merely as a soil for discontent

To thrive in; an incumbrance ere half spent.

Oh weariness beyond what asses feel,

That tread the circuit of the cistern wheel;

A dull rotation, never at a stay,

Yesterday's face twin image of to day;

While conversation, an exhausted stock,

Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock.

No need, he cries, of gravity stuff'd out

With academic dignity devout,.

To read wise lectures, vanity the text:
Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next;
For truth self-evident, with pomp impress'd,
Is vanity surpassing all the rest.

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound,
Yet seldom sought where only to be found,
While passion turns aside from its due scope
Th' inquirer's aim, that remedy is hope.
Life is His gift, from whom whate'er life needs,
With ev'ry good and perfect gift proceeds;
Bestow'd on man, like all that we partake,
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake;
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour,
And yet the seed of an immortal flow'r; .
Design'd in honour of his endless love,
To fill with fragrance his abode above;
No trifle, howsoever short it seem,
And, howsoever shadowy, no dream;
It's value, what no thought can ascertain,
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain.
Men deal with life as children with their play,
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away;
Live to no sober purpose, and contend
That their Creator had no serious end.

When God and man stand opposite in view,
Man's disappointment must of course ensue.
The just Creator condescends to write,
In beams of inextinguishable light,
His names of wisdom, goodness, pow'r, and love,
On all that blooms below, or shines above;
To catch the wand'ring notice of mankind,
And teach the world, if not perversely blind,
His gracious attributes, and prove the share
His offspring hold in his paternal care.
If, led from earthly things to things divine,
His creature thwart not his august design,
Then praise is heard instead of reas'ning pride,
And captious cavil and complaint subside.
Nature, employ'd in her allotted place,
Is hand-maid to the purposes of Grace;
By good vouchsaf'd makes known superior good,
And bliss not seen by blessings understood:
That bliss, reveal'd in Scripture, with a glow
Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow,
Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn
Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is born.
Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all,
That men have deem'd substantial since the fall,

Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe
From emptiness itself a real use;
And while she takes, as at a father's hand,
What health and sober appetite demand,
From fading good derives, with chemic art,
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart.
Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from Earth,
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth,
On steady wings sails through th' immense abyss,
Plucks amaranthine joys from bow'rs of bliss,
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here,
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear.
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast.
Hope! nothing else can nourish and secure
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure.
Hope! let the wretch once conscious of the joy,
Whom now despairing agonies destroy,
Speak, for he can, and none so well as he,
What treasures centre, what delights in thee.
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land,
That boasts the treasure, all at his command;
The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine,
Were light, when weigh'd against one smile of thine.

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