Classic Poem

Why in this frail, capricious World,
Dost thou Perfection seek?
When Hope, in Disappointment ends,
Form'd on a plan so weak.

The most this fleeting Life affords,
Is respites short from pain:
Why then the only lot allow'd,
Wilt thou with pride disdain?

Behold the height of human bliss,
The skill of mortal Man;
Alas! how circumscrib'd his pow'rs,
Their limits but a span!

Receive with thankfulness the state
By Providence design'd;
Submit to his all-wise decrees,
In Life and Death resign'd.

Forbear to murmur, if thy cup
With bliss does not run o'er;
And think a portion due is sent
From Wisdom's bounteous store.

If Plenty thou dost lack, or Peace,
Society, or Health,
As substitutes for all these joys,
Let Reason be thy Wealth.

Suppress those anxious cares, which rob
Thy feeling heart of rest;
Nurture complacent stedfast Hope,
And be supremely blest.

Possess the treasures which avail
When mortal hopes decay,
Riches the world have not to give.
Nor pow'r to take away.

Then seek what only can exalt,
Frail Creatures form'd of Dust;
Who zealous for the present state,
Forget their future trust.

Amidst the trials which disturb
This vain terrestrial view,
Resistance will avail thee nought,
Submission meek is due.

Are not thy feelings then a curse?
A constant source of pain?
Than Folly, or Indiss'rence worse?
Their dictates then disdain

Refine on Pain! ah! cruel art,
To wound thy tender mind:
'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart,
More certain Death to find.