The Search.

The Search.

I.

COnfess Ingenuously O Man, The Upshot of thy Toyl and Pain, The Product of thy Brain; Since first thy buisie Race began. Canst thou produce one Evidence, Or plausible Pretence, Thy boasted Reason to Evince? Yes — Gradually each Age has been Refin'd By the important Labours of Man-kind; The Labours of their Hand, and of their Mind, Ev'n Wilye Nature, with her Protean Shapes, Rarely from their Inquisitive Search escapes; Long she Resists; but strictly prest, Resigns th' Arcanas of her Brest. Bold Mortals Rob with Ease Her Richest Cossers, be they laid Deep i'th' Recesses of profoundest Seas, Or to the Caverns of the Earth convey'd; For rather than live Poor, They'l dive in quest of Gemms that sleep On Beds of Rock beneath the Deep, And Travel Under-ground for Golden-Oar.

II.

Enough! — If we'l lay claim, From these Performances, to Fame, Where will the Catalogue of our Praises end? For, thousand Instances beside Will vindicate our Pride, And still the Tryumphs of our Wit extend. Such are the Conquests which we daily gain On Learnings Undiscover'd Parts: Our active Fancies still Create New Arts; Or, what is more, Ev'n from the Dead Restore Arts, that in Ages Past have buri'd lain. And yet 'tis fear'd, there's Reason to suspect Our Glorie's Weight will fail, And Vanity prove the Heavier Scale: Impartially if we Reflect, We shall perceive there's wanting yet The Richest Crown our Tirumphs to Compleat; In vain we boast Discoveries, Whil'st we Return without the Master Prize; The Art of Happiness still Undiscover'd lyes.

III.

Oh Happiness! (if Happiness be ought Beside a wild Chimaera in the Thought) To what close Nook ar't Thou confin'd? What distant Continent or Isle, That thou canst still beguile The restless Scrutiny of all Man-kind! Ev'n in this Vale of Misery, Some Rivulets of Bliss we tast; But Riv'lets almost Dry, And tainted with th'Unsavory Grounds through which they past. Ah! that some friendly Seraph wou'd convey, Or point me out the Way To those glad Lands, where Happiness slows pure; Where I might drink secure At Pleasure's Fountain-Head; No Surfeit wou'd I dread, But quaff the Cordial Flood; Till mingling with my Blood, And circ'ling through each Part, It should like Balsom ease my Smart; Like Nectar, Cherish my dejected Heart!

IV.

In various Wayes deluded Mortals Toil, All busi'd I'th' Discovery of Content: This is the Game we All pursue, But Hunt it still on a cold Scent; The wary Prey nere comes in view, But sculks Aloof, and leaves us at a Foil. Yet where's the disappointed Man will say, He now dispairs of being Blest; For tho at present unpossest Of his dear Hope, He's yet in a fair Way: And now his Project wants but carrying on as 'tis Begun, And then th'important Task is done: Done, say'st thou Credulous Man? Yes! So the Babel Builders heretofore, Raising to Heav'n their proud Tow'r, lackt no more Than carrying on the Work as they Began. But, grant thy Years of Drudgery were past, 'Tis odds but thou'rt impos'd upon at last: Thou like the Syrian Husband-man of Old, Conceiv'st thy self to hold The Beautious Rachell fast in thy Embrace, Yet (tho th'Imposture last a Night) Be sure the next returning Light Shall fight thee with an unexpected Face, When thou behold'st a Blear-Ey'd Leah in thy Rachell's Place.