Bliss is ordain'd for all, since heav'n intends
All beings should attain their destin'd ends:
For this the fair idea shines confess'd
To ev'ry mind, and glows in ev'ry breast.
Compar'd with this, all mortal joys are vain;
Inspir'd by this, we restless onward strain.
High tho' we mount, the objects mount more high,
Eludes our grasp, and mingles with the sky.
With nothing less th' aspiring soul's content,
For nothing less her gen'rous flame was meant;
Th' unerring rule, which all our steps should guide,
The certain test, by which true good is try'd.
Blest when we reach it, wretched while we miss,
Our joys, our sorrows prove, there must be bliss.
Nor can this be some visionary dream,
Where heated fancy forms the flatt'ring scheme.
There sure is bliss — else, why by all desir'd?
What guileful pow'r has the mad search inspir'd?
Could accident produce in all the same,
Or a vain shadow raise a real flame?
When nature in the world's distended space,
Or fill'd, or almost fill'd each smaller place;
Careful in meanest matter to produce
Each single motion for some certain use;
Hard was the lot of her first fav'rite, man,
Faulty the scheme of his contracted span,
If that alone must know an useless void,
And he feel longings ne'er to be enjoy'd.