"Man may be happy, if he will:"
I've said it often, and I think so still;
Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.

But here's the mischief--man's an ass, I say;
Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain!
Dark, he must court the skull, and spade, and shroud--
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!

Who told him that he must be cursed on earth?
The God of Nature?--No such thing;
Heaven whispered him, the moment of his birth,
"Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:--
In colors let thy soul be dressed, not crape.

"Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet mind me--if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn."

Yet some there are, of men, I think the worst,
Poor imps! unhappy, if they can't be cursed--
Forever brooding over Misery's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;