Mistakes for happiness extent of power; That shining bait which dropt in folly's way Tempts the weak mind, and leads the heart astray! Thou happiness! still sought but never found, We, in a circle, chase thy shadow round; Meant all mankind in different forms to bless, Which yet possessing, we no more possess:-- Thus far remov'd and painted on the eye Smooth verdant fields seem blended with the sky, But where they both in fancied contact join In vain we trace the visionary line; Still as we chase, the empty circle flies, Emerge new mountains or new oceans rise. [172] Contributed to the July 19, 1782, issue of the _Freeman's Journal_ over the signature "Philomeides." The title in the 1786 edition was "Philosophical Reflections." I have used the original text. PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY'S SOLILOQUY[173] Occasioned by Public Rejoicings in Philadelphia for the birth of the Dauphin of France, son to Louis XVI People are mad thus to adore the Dauphin-- Heaven grant the brat may soon be in his coffin--[174] The honours here to this young Frenchman shown, Of right should be Prince George's, or my own; And all those wreathes that bloom on Louis now, Should hang, unfading, on my father's brow. To these far shores with longing hopes I came, (By birth a Briton, not unknown to fame) Pleasures to share that loyalty imparts, Subdue the rebels, and regain their hearts. Weak, stupid expectation--all is done! Few are the prayers that rise for George's son; Nought through the waste of these wide realms I trace, But rage, contempt, and curses on our race, Hosts with their chiefs by bold usurpers won, And not a blessing left for George's son! Here on these isles[A] (my terrors not a few) I walk attended by the Tory crew: These from the first have done their best to please, But who would herd with sycophants like these? This exiled race, who their lost shores bemoan, Would bow to Satan, if he held our throne-- Rul'd by their fears--and what is meaner far, Have worshipp'd William only for his star! To touch my hand their thronging thousands strove, And tir'd my patience with unceasing love-- In fame's fair annals told me I should live, But they, poor creatures, had no fame to give: Must Digby's royal pupil walk the streets, And smile on every ruffian that he meets; Or teach them, as he has done--he knows when-- That kings and princes are no more than men? Must I alas disclose, to our disgrace, That Britain is too small for George's race? Here in the west, where all did once obey, Three islands only, now, confess our sway; And in the east we have not much to boast, For _Hyder Ali_ drives us from the coast: Yield, rebels, yield--or I must go once more Back to the white cliffs of my native shore; (Where, in process of time, shall go sir Guy, And where sir Harry has returned to sigh, Whose hands grew weak when things began to cross,