My God! whence comes it, that the human Soul,
Unsatisfy'd with all Things here below,
From Wish to Wish must discontented roll,
Nor Joy sincere, nor lasting Pleasure know;
But tho' obtaining all it sought before,
It sighs, and finds there's something wanting more?

Not all the Wealth and Titles of the Great
Can to the Mind enduring Comfort bring,
Not all the gaudy Pageantry of State,
Not all the envy'd Grandeur of a King:
While Crowds contend, his Orders to obey,
Himself's not less dissatisfy'd than They.

The Lover panting o'er the Fair One's Charms,
Possessing all his eager Hopes desir'd,
Finds not that Heav'n he fancy'd in her Arms,
But hangs his Head, with fond Embraces tir'd;
His Passion fled, extinguish't all his Fires,
To some fresh Joy his restless Thought aspires.

Not long, delightful, o'er the social Bowl,
Can Musick charm, or Laughter make Him glad:
Mirth soon becomes a Burthen to the Soul;
Ev'n while He feasts the Heart of Man grows sad,
Drooping, uneasy, tho' He knows not why:
Sorrow succeeds, and all his Joy's a Sigh.

Like Dreams our long--expected Pleasures pass,
Existing only in the Sleeper's Brain,
Or like the airy Semblance in a Glass,
Or like some Shadow fleeting o'er the Plain;
So much unable to content the Mind,
So vain are all those empty Joys we find!

O Thou! all--wise! all--great! from whom we see
On all thy Creatures endless Bounty flow,
Is Man alone debar'd Felicity?
And must He, only, Care and Sorrow know?
While happy Brutes their Faculties employ
On what they wish, and all they wish enjoy.

O, no: more happy Man! thy God All--just
As well as Great, All--merciful as Wise,
Thy Body, for the Earth compos'd, of Dust,
But form'd thy Soul immortal, for the Skies:
Its Scorn of all Enjoyments here may show
He not design'd it to abide below,

Here, Brutes their groveling Appetites solace,
Their All, their utmost Happiness enjoy:
But God for Man reserves a better Place,
And Joys divine, which never fade, nor cloy,
Eternal, pure, ecstatick Bliss, design'd
To fill the Wish of his immortal Mind.

O Soul! thou Emanation from on high!
Thou Ray divine! that only passest through
This dirty Road, to thy own native Sky,
How poor and base to thy exalted View
Must all its tinsel'd trifling Joys appear!
No wonder Thou canst not be happy here.

As longs the weary Traveller for Rest,
Faint with the Heat and Labour of the Day;
As pines the Infant for its Mother's Breast,
And nothing else its Cravings can allay:
As the touch'd Needle trembles for the Pole,
So Heav'n alone can satisfy the Soul.