EPISTLE IV. OH HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim! Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? I. Fair op'ning to some Court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine, Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field? Where grows?—where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil: ÉPITRE IV. O BONHEUR ! dont l'instinct fut créé par Dieu même ! Est-ce aux champs des combats que le fer te moissonne? Est-ce en des mines d'or que ton germe fleurit ? Dis quel terrain lui plaît, quel terrain le flétrit! |