O HAPPINESS! our Being's End and Aim!
Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! whate'er thy name:
That Something still, which prompts th'eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, nor fear to die;
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool — and wise.
Plant of Caelestial seed! if dropt below,
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow?
Fair-opening to some Court's propitious Shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming Mine,
Twin'd 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 blame the Culture, not the Soil:
Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere;
'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;
'Tis never to be bought, but always free,
And fled from Monarchs, ST. JOHN! dwells with thee.