Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resigned; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign o’er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a _happier_ seat, Counts death kind nature’s signal of retreat; These goods for man, the laws of Heaven ordain, These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain; With these, celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the _happiness_ she does not find. _Dr. Johnson._ Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state, to meet me there. Increasing avarice would find Thy presence on its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way Through rocks, amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives, Thou art not in the rocks and waves. * * * * * No real _happiness_ is found In trailing purple o’er the ground. _Parnell._ How long, ye miserably blind, Shall idle dreams engage your mind; How long the passions make their flight At empty shadows of delight? No more in paths of error stray, The Lord, thy Jesus, is the Way, The Spring of _happiness_, and where Should men seek _happiness_, but there? _Parnell._ Consider man in every sphere, Then tell me is your lot severe? ’Tis murmur, discontent, distrust, That makes you wretched: God is just: We’re born a restless, needy crew; Show me a _happier_ man than you? _Gay._ When are we _happiest_ then? O, when resigned To whatsoe’er our cup of life may brim; When we can know ourselves but weak and blind Creatures of earth; and trust alone in Him Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain; Oh! we are _happiest_ then. _M. A. Brown._ Object of my first desire, Jesus, crucified for me! All to _happiness_ aspire, Only to be found in thee; Thee to praise, and Thee to know, Constitute our bliss below! Thee to see, and Thee to love, Constitute our bliss above. _Toplady._ True _happiness_ is not the growth of earth, The toil is fruitless if you seek it here; ’Tis an exotic of celestial birth, And never blooms but in celestial air. Sweet plant of Paradise! thy seeds are sown In here and there a mind of heavenly mould; It rises slow and blooms, but ne’er was known To ripen here--the climate it is too cold. _Anon._ One morning in the month of May, I wandered o’er the hill; Though nature all around was gay, My heart was heavy still.