EPISTLE THE FOURTH

Oh Happiness! our being's end and aim!

Good, pleasure, ease, content! whateer thy name: That something still wbich prompts the eternal sigh, For wbich we bear to live, or dare to die ; Wbich still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise :

Plant of celestial seed ! if dropp'd below v Say, in wbat mortal soil thou deign st to grow ? Fair opening to some court s propitious sbine, Or deep witfe diamonds in tbe flaming mine?

Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? , Where grows? where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blâme the culture, not the soil:

ESSAI SUR L HOMME