'Declare, ye sages, if ye find 'Mongst animals of every kind, Of each condition, sort, and size, From whales and elephants to flies, A creature that mistakes his plan, And errs so constantly as man. Each kind pursues his proper good, And seeks for pleasure, rest, and food, As Nature points, and never errs In what it chooses and prefers; Man only blunders, though possest Of talents far above the rest. Descend to instances, and try: An ox will scarce attempt to fly, Or leave his pasture in the wood With fishes to explore the flood. Man only acts, of every creature, In opposition to his nature. The happiness of humankind Consists in rectitude of mind, A will subdued to reason's sway, And passions practised to obey; An open and a gen'rous heart, Refined from selfishness and art; Patience which mocks at fortune's pow'r, And wisdom never sad nor sour: In these consist our proper bliss; Else Plato reasons much amiss. But foolish mortals still pursue False happiness in place of true; Ambition serves us for a guide, Or lust, or avarice, or pride; While reason no assent can gain, And revelation warns in vain. Hence, through our lives in every stage, From infancy itself to age, A happiness we toil to find, Which still avoids us like the wind; Ev'n when we think the prize our own, At once 'tis vanished, lost and gone. You'll ask me why I thus rehearse All Epictetus in my verse, And if I fondly hope to please With dry reflections such as these, So trite, so hackneyed, and so stale? I'll take the hint, and tell a tale. One evening, as a simple swain His flock attended on the plain, The shining bow he chanced to spy, Which warns us when a shower is nigh; With brightest rays it seemed to glow, Its distance eighty yards or so. This bumpkin had, it seems, been told The story of the cup of gold, Which fame reports is to be found Just where the rainbow meets the ground. He therefore felt a sudden itch To seize the goblet and be rich; Hoping--yet hopes are oft but vain-- No more to toil through wind and rain, But sit indulging by the fire, Midst ease and plenty, like a squire. He marked the very spot of land On which the rainbow seemed to stand, And, stepping forwards at his leisure, Expected to have found the treasure. But as he moved, the coloured ray Still changed its place and slipt away, As seeming his approach to shun. From walking he began to run, But all in vain; it still withdrew As nimbly as he could pursue. At last, through many a bog and lake, Rough craggy road and thorny brake, It led the easy fool, till night Approached, then vanished in his sight, And left him to compute his gains, With nought but labour for his pains.'