Lovely lasting Peace of Mind,
Sweet delight of Human Kind,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the Fav'rites of the Sky
With more of Happiness below,
Than Victors in a Triumph know:
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek contented Head?
What happy Region dost thou please
To make the Seat of Calms and Ease?
Ambition searches all its Sphere
Of Pomp and State to find thee there.
Encreasing Avarice wou'd find
Thy Presence in its Gold enshrin'd.
The bold Advent'rer ploughs his way
Through Rocks amidst the foaming Sea
To gain thy Love, and then perceives
Thou wer't not in the Rocks and Waves.
The silent Heart whom Grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the Vales,
Sees Daizies open, Rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing Thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's a Nurse of Woe.
No real Happiness is found
In trailing Purple o'er the Ground:
Or in a Soul exalted high
To range the Circuit of the Sky,
Converse with Stars above, and know
All Nature in its Forms below;
The Rest it seeks in seeking dies,
And Doubts at last for Knowledge rise.
Lovely lasting Peace appear;
This World it self, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And Man contains it in his Breast.
'Twas thus, as under Shade I stood,
I sung my Wishes to the Wood,
And, lost in Thought, no more perceiv'd
The Branches whisper as they wav'd;
It seem'd as if the quiet Place
Confess'd the Presence of the Grace,
When thus she spokeGo rule thy Will,
Bid thy wild Passions all be still,
Know Godand bring thy Heart to know
The Joys which from Religion flow;
Then ev'ry Grace shall prove its Guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.
Oh! by yonder Mossie Seat,
In my Hours of sweet Retreat,
Might I thus my Soul employ
With sense of Gratitude and Joy,
Rais'd, as Ancient Prophets were,
In heav'nly Vision, Praise, and Pray'r,
Pleasing all Men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone.
Then, while the Gardens take my Sight,
With all the Colours of Delight,
While Silver Waters glide along,
To please my Ear, and court my Song;
I'll lift my Voice, and tune my String,
And Thee, great source of nature, sing.
The Sun that walks his airy Way,
To light the World, and give the Day;
The Moon that shines with borrow'd Light,
The Stars that gild the gloomy Night,
The Seas that roll unnumber'd Waves,
The Wood that spreads its shady Leaves,
The Field whose Ears conceal the Grain,
The yellow Treasure of the Plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Wou'd be sung, and sung by me,
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the Tongue of Man.
Go search among your idle Dreams
Your busie or your vain Extreams,
And find a Life of equal Bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.
