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26
A PROSPECT OF
The Source of Human Actions.
Bid memory tell, how still to friendships true,
She loads the passing gale with many a fresh adieu.
So on the topmast's height, the hardy tar,
With tearful eye, reverts to joys afar:
Still hopes the unknown something to attain,
Then back return, but still his hopes are vain,
That something does for aye his grasp elude;
When gain'd, not known, and known but when pursu'd,
Up the steep hill, thus does Sysiphus push,
The magic stone still doom'd adown to rush;
When the high height, the mighty mass attains,
And joyful ease rewards the labourer's pains.
Look o'er our isle, our teeming lawns, our hills,
And shew the man, whose breast contentment fills.
The human mind, intent on what is new,
Still quits possession, novelty in view.
Fruitless pursuit; for yet above—below,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's brow—
By noisy towns, or by the murmuring streams,
Content still flies, and haunted are our dreams.
She loads the passing gale with many a fresh adieu.
So on the topmast's height, the hardy tar,
With tearful eye, reverts to joys afar:
Still hopes the unknown something to attain,
Then back return, but still his hopes are vain,
That something does for aye his grasp elude;
When gain'd, not known, and known but when pursu'd,
Up the steep hill, thus does Sysiphus push,
The magic stone still doom'd adown to rush;
When the high height, the mighty mass attains,
And joyful ease rewards the labourer's pains.
Look o'er our isle, our teeming lawns, our hills,
And shew the man, whose breast contentment fills.
The human mind, intent on what is new,
Still quits possession, novelty in view.
Fruitless pursuit; for yet above—below,
Or in the vale, or on the mountain's brow—
By noisy towns, or by the murmuring streams,
Content still flies, and haunted are our dreams.
