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O HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whate'er thy name;

That something still, which prompts the eternal sigh;

For which we bear to live or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlooked, seen-double by the fool, and wise. Plant of celestial seed! if dropped below,

Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow?

Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine,

Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine?

Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,

Or reaped in iron harvests of the field? Where grows - where grows it not? If vain our toil,

We ought to blame the culture, not the soil:

Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere, 'Tis nowhere to be found, or everywhere.

Ask of the learned the way, the learned are blind;

This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind:

Some place the bliss in action, some in


Those call it pleasure, and contentment these:

Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain; Some, swelled to gods, confess e'en vir

tue vain:

Or indolent, to each extreme they fall,

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So just, the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colors laid,
To bloom restored the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength,
The mouth, the chin, the nose's length.
His honest pencil touched with truth,
And marked the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends, his practice failed;
Truth should not always be revealed;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two bustos, fraught with every grace,
A Venus' and Apollo's face,
He placed in view; resolved to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these,
From these corrected every feature,
And spirited each awkward creature.

All things were set; the hour was

His pallet ready o'er his thumb.
My lord appeared; and seated right
In proper attitude and light,
The painter looked, he sketched the

Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece,
Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air;


Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all their native fire; The features fraught with sense and wit, You'll grant are very hard to hit; But yet with patience you shall view As much as paint and art can do. Observe the work." My lord replied: "Till now I thought my mouth was wide;

Besides, my nose is somewhat long;
Dear sir, for me, 't is far too young."

"Oh! pardon me,” the artist cried, "In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like."

My lord examined it anew;
No looking-glass seemed half so true.

A lady came; with borrowed grace
He from his Venus formed her face.
Her lover praised the painter's art;
So like the picture in his heart!
To every age some charm he lent;
Even beauties were almost content.
Through all the town his art they praised;
His custom grew, his price was raised.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.

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