Sated with nature's boons, what thousands seek, With dishes tortured from their native taste, And mad variety, to spur beyond Its wiser will the jaded appetite!
Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene Supports the mind supports the body too. Hence the most vital movement mortals feel Is hope: the balm and life-blood of the soul.
What avails it that indulgent heaven From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come, If we, ingenious to torment ourselves, Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Know whate'er Beyond its natural fervour hurries on The sanguine tide; whether the frequent bowl, High-season'd fare, or exercise to toil Protracted, spurs to its last stage tired life, And sows the temples with untimely snow.
An anxious stomach well May be endured; so may the throbbing head: But such a dim delirium, such a dream Involves you, such a dastardly despair Unmans your soul, as maddening Pentheus felt When, baited round Cithæron's cruel sides, He saw two suns, and double Thebes ascend.
From other care absolved, the busy mind Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon: It finds you miserable, or makes you so.
There is a charm, a power, that sways the breast Bids every passion revel or be still; Inspires with rage, or all our cares dissolves; Can soothe distraction, and almost despair: That power is music.
Happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffused A pleasing lassitude; he not in vain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams: His powers the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose: on him the balmy dews Of sleep with double nutriment descend.
What does not fade? The tower that long had stood The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Shook by the slow but sure destroyer Time, Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base, And flinty pyramids and walls of brass Descend.
Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great nature's favourites; a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
