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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
Or indolent, to each extreme they fall,
So just, the life itself was there.
All things were set; the hour was
His pallet ready o'er his thumb.
Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece,
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;
"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;
A lady came; with borrowed grace