WHY, hapless MAN! consume thy labouring life,

In fond pursuit of phantoms, light as air?

The sport of passions, whose unceasing strife

Blends MADNESS, FOLLY, RAPTURE, and DESPAIR.

 

In vain does NATURE with persuasive voice,

Amidst her bounties urge thee to enjoy,

Enjoy true pleasures, gratefully rejoice:

MAN, spurning NATURE, would her gifts destroy!

 

Each pure emotion blasting in its rise,

Each heav’nly inmate binds in earthly chains,

While golden visions dance before his eyes,

And sensual furies revel in his veins.

 

O thou of different mind! the MAN of THOUGHT,

Of simple THOUGHT—of heart estrang’d from pride,

Who tired of strife, canst hold vain things at nought,

NATURE—thine admiration! TRUTH—thy guide!

 

Come, Pilgrim, seek these woods, these mountains wild,

And vales unknown to all the slaves of ART,

By many a dark enchantment’s charm beguiled,

That spreads a cank’ring poison through the heart.

 

O quit the treacherous WORLD, and taste with me,

Sweet PEACE, CONTENTMENT, HEALTH and LIBERTY!