There all our hopes of happiness are placed,
Life looks without it like a joyless waste;
No good is prized, no comfort sought beside,
Prayers, tears implore, and will not be denied:
Heaven pitying hears th’ intemperate, rude appeal,
And suits its answer to our truest weal.
The self-sought idol, if at last bestow’d,
Proves, what our wilfulness required—a goad.
Ne’er, but as needful chastisement, is given
The wish thus forced and torn and storm’d from Heaven;