No more, I cried, shall grief be mine,

I will throw off the load;

No longer weep, and sigh, and pine

To find an absent God.

Free as the Muse, my wishes move,

Through Nature’s wilds they roam:

Loose as the wind, ye wanderers, rove,

And bring me pleasure home!

Still shall I urge, with endless toil,

Yet not obtain my suit?

Still shall I plant the ungrateful soil,

Yet never taste the fruit?

Not so, my heart!—for fruit there is:

Seize it with eager haste;

Riot in joys, dissolve in bliss,

And pamper every taste.

On right and wrong thy thoughts no more

In cold dispute employ;

Forsake thy cell, the bounds pass o’er,

And give a loose to joy.

Conscience and Reason’s power deride,

Let stronger Nature draw;

Self be thy end, and Sense thy guide,

And Appetite thy law.

Away, ye shades, while light I rise,

I tread you all beneath!

Grasp the dear hours my youth supplies,

Nor idly dream of death.

Whoe’er enslaved to grief and pain,

Yet starts from pleasure’s road,

Still let him weep, and still complain,

And sink beneath his load.—

But as I raved, and grew more wild

And fierce at every word,

Methought I heard One calling, “Child!”

And I replied, “My Lord!”