LXIII. Human Perfection no where to be found.

PERFECTION! 'Tis an empty Name,
Nor can repay our Cares;
And he, that seeks it here below,
Must end the Search with Tears.

Great David on his royal Throne,
The beauteous, and the strong,
Rich in the Spoils of conquer'd Foes,
Amidst the applauding Throng,

With all his Mind's capacious Pow'rs,
Persu'd the Shade in vain;
Nor heard it his melodious Voice,
Or Harp's Angelick Strain.

From publick to domestick Scenes
Th' impatient Monarch turns;
The Friend, the Husband, and the Sire
In sad Succession mourns.

At length thy Law, Eternal GOD,
He thro' his Tears descrys ,
And, wrapt amidst those sacred Folds,
He finds the heav'nly Prize.

There will I seek Perfection too,
Where David's GOD is known:
Nor envy, with this Volume blest,
His Treasures, and his Throne.