Come thou kind Soother of the drooping Heart,
Oh Chearfulness! and smooth-the Brow of Care:
'Tis thine a healthful Vigor to impart,
Attune the Soul, and lift it from Despair.

Envy, nor Luxury with me shall dwell,
Nor shall Ambition dissipate my Rest:
Virtue, and Temperance shall grace my Cell,
And be Companions to so fair a Guest.

The Bosom that is chearful, and at Ease,
Is grateful for each Favor that is giv'n: —
And pleases Him whom it was form'd to please,
The gracious, and the bounteous Lord of Heav'n.

Look thro' Creation's Circle — and you'll see
That all Things here for Pleasure were design'd:
All bear the Stamp of the divine Decree,
To banish Sorrow, and to bless Mankind.

Yon rolling Orb, whose penetrating Ray
Bids the grim Horrors of the Night depart,
Revives us with the Blessing of the Day,
And gives a Sunshine to the gloomiest Heart.

Nature has cloath'd the Earth with vivid Green
To chear the languid Organs of the Sight;
And scatter'd round a sweetly-vari'd Scene;
Where every Sense is ravish'd with Delight.

Hence the gay Jess'mine, and the new-blown Rose,
A rich Repast of od'rous Charms afford;
And hence the Vine with luscious Juice o'erflows,
To crown the Pleasures of the festive Board.

The feather'd Choir that wing the liquid Air,
And chaunt their Sonnets to the dusky Grove,
Delight the Eye, dispel corrosive Care,
Or sooth the Ear of melancholy Love.

The limpid River that meand'ring flows,
And bids the Meadows, and the Vallies smile;
The dripping Fount a genial Rill bestows,
And chears the Fancy as it chears the Soil.

And not alone those Forms of happier View,
Where Beauty shines in delicate Attire,
Each random Stroke which Nature's Pencil drew
Can calm the Breast, and peaceful Thoughts inspire.

Yon craggy Steep (where frowns the mould'ring Tow'r,
Where Heaps of rude Deformity are found,
Where the Owl screeches at the midnight Hour)
Spreads pleasing Terror, and Amazement round.

The ruggid Rock, whose Basis can sustain
The Ocean's Fury, and the sweeping Wind:
The hoary Mount impending o'er the Plain,
And barren Desarts recreate the Mind.

But bear me to Thessalia's blooming Vale,
Where Ossa , and Olympus pierce the Sky —
Where sylvan Scenes the mental Taste regale,
And wake the Bosom to elysian Joy.

Here twines the Ivy round the branchy Trees,
Here Nymphs, and Fauns their choral Gambols play,
Here flow'ring Smilax wantons in the Breeze,
And circling Warblers harmonize the Day.

The soft Peneus glides along the Plains,
The waving Bow'rs their subtle Sweets diffuse,
The jocund Shepherd tunes his artless Strains,
And the fair Morn is deck'd with glittering Dews.

Hail blissful Residence of downy Peace!
Hail sacred Source of undisturb'd Repose! —
'Tis thine to bid the harsh Sensation cease,
And, like Nepenthe , mitigate our Woes.

— Tho' plac'd in a probationary Clime,
Where constant Danger menaces our Frame;
Say, why shoud Gaiety be deem'd a Crime,
When Saints, and Martyrs have indulg'd the same.

What — tho' Religion with her Clarion-Voice
In Life's dread Warfare calls us to contend,
She kindly bids the tim'rous Heart rejoice,
And strive for Honors that will never end.

One fatal Enemy shou'd damp our Joy:
If Sin shall rule us with despotic Sway,
If from the Monster we reluctant fly,
'Tis Folly — or 'tis Madness to be gay.

'Tis nought but this shou'd greatly daunt the Heart,
Not Age, nor Sickness, nor acutest Pain; —
E'en Tyrant-Death with his terrific Dart
The good Man may with Chearfulness sustain.

Vain shall the impious range the World around,
And search for Chearfulness a thousand Ways:
Vain shall be mov'd by Concord of sweet Sound ,
Or blown to Rapture by the Breath of Praise.

What if they court the Transports of the Chase,
When from the Mountain peeps the blushing Morn,
When Nature's Current springs into their Face,
And the Woods echo with the sounding Horn.

What if they fly to Pleasure's soft'ning Bow'r,
Where madd'ning Riot quaffs the sparkling Bowl,
Where Bacchus ' Sons protract the sportive Hour,
And quench their native Dignity of Soul.

All is not Chearfulness that wears her Form —
Tho' placid Smiles may gleam upon the Face,
Still may the Heart be blacken'd by a Storm,
Or tortur'd by the Pressure of Disgrace.

Let in the Bosom transient Raptures roll,
And the Air ring with pealing Notes of Joy,
Still may they feel an Agony of Soul,
And frequent heave the melancholy Sigh.

Haply each Comfort of their Life is fled,
And Grief torments them with her festering Thorn;
Lost is the tender Partner of their Bed,
Or some proud Lydia treats them with her Scorn.

How hard the bitter Sorrow to allay!
How hard to veil the temporary Gloom!
When cruel Fate has torn a Sire away,
And snatch'd a Sister to the dreary Tomb.

But he, whom Virtue's sacred Charms engage,
Tho' for a Time the Child of Fortune's Sport,
Tho' gently ruffled by the Tempest's Rage,
Is sure at last to have a tranquil Port.

'Tis Virtue a perennial Grace bestows,
And bids the Bosom with sweet Peace to move;
Paints on my Cynthia's Cheek the opening Rose,
And decks her with the dimpling Smiles of Love.

'Tis this that like the steady solar Light,
Sparkles for ever in Palæmon's Eyes,
Chases the Darkness of Affliction's Night,
And chears him when a thousand Foes arise.

Oh! grant me then a Conscience that is clear,
Free from the latent Stain of cankering Sin,
Then, tho' an outward Sorrow may appear,
'Tis mine to harbour Chearfulness within.