HAPPINESS.
As arrows are in the hand of a mighty man; so are children of the youth.
Happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them: they shall not be ashamed, but they shall speak with the enemies in the gate.—Psalm cxxvii. 4, 5.
Blessed is every one that feareth the Lord; that walketh in his ways.
For thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands: happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee.—Psalm cxxviii. 1, 2.
Behold we count them happy which endure.—James, v. 11.
How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill;
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not ty’d unto the world with care
Of princes’ ear, or vulgar breath;
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are giv’n with praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a chosen book, or friend.
This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.
Sir Henry Wotton.
He is a happy man whose life, e’en now,
Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;
Who, doomed to an obscure, but tranquil state,
Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,
Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit
Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,
Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one
Content indeed to sojourn while he must
Below the skies, but having there his home.
The world o’erlooks him in her busy search
Of objects more illustrious in her view;
And, occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world.
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;
He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.
Cowper.
Happiness depends, as Nature shows,
Less on exterior things than most suppose.
Vigilant over all that He has made,
Kind Providence attends with gracious aid;
Bids equity throughout His works prevail,
And weighs the nations in an even scale.
Cowper.
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.
Can God, I thought, the good, the great,
These meaner creatures bless;
And yet deny our human state
The boon of happiness?
Tell me, ye woods, ye smiling plains,
Ye blessed birds around,
Where, in creation’s wide domains,
Can perfect bliss be found?
The birds wild carolled overhead,
The breeze around me blew,
And nature’s awful chorus said,
No bliss for man she knew.
I questioned Love, whose early day
So heavenly bright appears;
And Love in answer seemed to say
His light was dimmed by tears.
I questioned Friendship;—Friendship moaned,
And thus her answer gave;
The friends whom fortune has not turned,
Were vanished in the grave.
I asked if Vice could bliss bestow;
Vice boasted loud and well;
But fading from her pallid brow,
The venomed roses fell.
I questioned Virtue;—Virtue sighed,
No boon could she dispense;
Nor Virtue was her name she cried,
But humble Penitence.
I questioned Death; the grisly shade
Relaxed his brow severe;
And, “I am Happiness,” he said
“If Virtue guides thee here!”
Bishop Heber.