FRIEND, o'er whose mind fair virtue still presides,
Whom reason still to nature's instinct guides,
Who mak'st thy wishes with thy station meet,
Blessed without wealth, in pleasures still discreet:
Happy are those who thus their genius scan,
Whom prudence teaches to elect life's plan:
His heart ne'er grieves repentance' voice to hear,
He lives concentred in his proper sphere.
Men differ; one's condition's like the rest,
Folly miscarries where good sense is blessed.
Bliss is the port to which each mortal's bound,
The wind's uncertain, rocks of life abound:
Heaven to enable man the port to find
A bark to every mortal has assigned.
Various resources, equal dangers rise,
What boots it when the storm roars through the skies
That thy poop's painted; that the changeful gales
Blow through thy silken shrouds and purple sails:
The pilot's art alone the storm allays,
And not the ornaments our bark displays.
What doctrine strange, you'll say, is here professed,
Is no state then beyond another blessed ?