True Happiness to Be Found Only in God

When fancy spreads her boldest wings,
And wanders unconfin'd,
Amid the unbounded scene of things
Which entertain the mind:

In vain I trace creation o'er,
In search of sacred rest;
The whole creation is too poor,
Too mean, to make me blest.

In vain would this low world employ
Each flatt'ring, specious wile;
There's nought can yield a real joy,
But my Creator's smile.

Let earth and all her charms depart,
Unworthy of the mind;
In God alone, this restless heart
An equal bliss can find.

Great spring of all felicity,
To whom my wishes tend,
Do not these wishes rise from thee.
And in thy favour end?

Thy favour, Lord, is all I want,
Here would my spirit rest;
O seal the rich, the boundless grant,
And make me fully blest.