To Belinda

Belinda to her utmost wish is blest!
But stay, my friend — that hasty thought review —
New wishes yet will rise to break your rest;
And if not lasting, can your bliss be true?

True happiness is not the growth of earth,
The toil is fruitless if you seek it there;
'Tis an exotic of celestial birth,
And never blooms, but in celestial air.

Sweet plant of paradise, its seeds are sown
In here and there a mind of heav'nly mould;
It rises slow, and buds, but ne'er is known
To blossom fair, the climate is too cold.

Ah no, Belinda, you have only found
Some flower that charms your fancy, gaily dress'd
In shining dyes, a native of the ground,
And think you are of happiness possess'd.

But mark its date, to-morrow you may find
The colours fade, the lovely form decay:
And can that pleasure satisfy the mind,
Which blooms, and fades, the solace of a day?

O may your erring wishes learn to rise
Beyond the transient bliss which fancy knows!
Search not on earth, explore its native skies;
There happiness in full perfection grows.