Man hath found out inventions, to cheat him of the weariness of life, To help him to forget realities, and hide the misery of guilt. For love of praise, and hope of gain, for passion and delusive happiness, He joineth the circle of folly, and heapeth on the fire of excitement; Oftentimes sadly out of heart at the tiresome insipidity of pleasure, Oftentimes labouring in vain, convinced of the palpable deceit: Yet a man speaketh to his brother, in the voice of glad congratulation, And thinketh others happy, though he himself be wretched: And hand joineth hand to help in the toil of amusement, While the secret aching heart is vacant of all but disappointment. The cheapest pleasures are the best; and nothing is more costly than sin; Yet we mortgage futurity, counting it but little loss: Neither can a man delight in that which breedeth sorrow, Yet do we hunt for joy even in the fires that consume it. Whoso would find gladness may meet her in the hovel of poverty, Where benevolence hath scattered around the gleanings of the horn of plenty; Whoso would sun himself in peace, may be seen of her in deeds of mercy, When the pale lean cheek of the destitute is wet with grateful tears. If the mind is wearied by study, or the body worn with sickness, It is well to lie fallow for a while, in the vacancy of sheer amusement; But when thou prosperest in health, and thine intellect can soar untired, To seek uninstructive pleasure is to slumber on the couch of indolence. [Illustration] [Illustration: The Train of Religion.] The Train of Religion.