Oh, happiness! our being's end and aim!
Good, pleasure, ease, content, whate'er thy name:
That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die;
Plant of celestial seed! if dropp'd below,
Say in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow?
Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere;
'Tis no where to be found, or every where.
Why, then, is happiness so rare? Because ere it can be possessed, every virtue must be ours and we must be wise withal, gentle, patient, lowly, meek; nor at the idle suggestions of vanity, immolate life's realities on the imaginary altars of Pride.
Know then this truth, enough for man to know,
Virtue, alone, is happiness below.