Classic Poem

Say , where is thy dwelling, thou daughter of Peace?
More sweet than the sun-gilded flower;
What thousands await for a glimpse of thy face,
Disappointment, and keen-pining envy to chase,
From the peasant's lone hut to the tower?

False Hope, with her anchor, would point out the path,
As her various votaries choose,
By the new-fallow'd field, or the blue-belled heath,
The statesman's parade, or the warrior's wreath,
Love, science, a friend, or the muse.

But vain are their pursuits, if passion's unrein'd,
Or sickly unsoundness be nigh;
Tho' Virtue's fair telescope lights the dark mind,
Thou fly'st their fond grasp, like the fast-fleeting wind,
Or the bright-beaming arch of the sky.

Yet oft dost thou visit the young and the gay;
Too sweet are the moments to last;
And mirth, wine, and music, can chase Care away
For a night; but, alas! she returns with the day; —
We, painful, reflect on the past.

How vain, then, for mortals to pant for the prize?
'Tis the charter to angels that's given:
This life's a short journey — be patient, be wise —
Unhinge ye from earth; let your prospects arise;
She dwells not on this side of Heaven.