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THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE.
TO ELIZA BREE.
Philosophers, dear girl, have toil'd
Two thousand years, and still been foil'd,
To find that far-fam'd precious Stone
They arrogantly call their own;
And they yet rack their sapient brains,
And get but Labour for their Pains.
Two thousand years, and still been foil'd,
To find that far-fam'd precious Stone
They arrogantly call their own;
And they yet rack their sapient brains,
And get but Labour for their Pains.
Alas! they all agree, at length,
To make it out is past their strength;
And so conclude, with reason sound,
This Stone is no where to be found:
But still they talk and write about it,
And wonder how they live without it.
To make it out is past their strength;
And so conclude, with reason sound,
This Stone is no where to be found:
But still they talk and write about it,
And wonder how they live without it.
Some place the precious Stone in Gold,
Beyond what Crœsus ever told;
Some give it to corporeal Health;
And some will have it mental Wealth:
Others determine it to mix
In Fashion and a Coach-and-Six;
And some have labour'd hard to prove
It is a Cottage bless'd by Love:
This thinks 'tis Shade, that swears 't is Sun,
And finish just where they begun.
Beyond what Crœsus ever told;
Some give it to corporeal Health;
And some will have it mental Wealth:
Others determine it to mix
In Fashion and a Coach-and-Six;
And some have labour'd hard to prove
It is a Cottage bless'd by Love:
This thinks 'tis Shade, that swears 't is Sun,
And finish just where they begun.
The grand discovery then is mine;—
Since I can prove, sweet Maid! 'tis thine.
If in true Happiness it lies,
It revels in Eliza's eyes:
And if it blooms in Health's fair rose,
In dear Eliza's face it glows;
Like morning-beams we see it break,
And sport upon Eliza's cheek.
And when she takes her playful round,
In every step it seems to bound.
Since I can prove, sweet Maid! 'tis thine.
If in true Happiness it lies,
It revels in Eliza's eyes:
90
In dear Eliza's face it glows;
Like morning-beams we see it break,
And sport upon Eliza's cheek.
And when she takes her playful round,
In every step it seems to bound.
Or if, as Sages oft have told,
The charm consists in making gold
Pure as if stamp'd in mint divine,—
Eliza, still that mint is thine;
And your sweet Alchemy shall claim,
Beyond the Sage, superior fame.
From that rich mine—a merry heart—
You draw, with more than chemic art,
Of happy thoughts a copious store,
And radiant Gold without the Ore,
And the gay vein of sportive Sense
Enrich'd by sterling Innocence;
Th'undrossy treasures of the Mind,
Good-humour'd, graceful, and refin'd;
And, rivalling the Seers of old,
Whate'er you touch transmutes to Gold.
The Brass of Life, and e'en the Lead,
Turn to this envied Stone instead,
And, by the power of Transmutation,
Grow better by their alteration.
And hence 'tis plain this envied Stone
Belongs to Innocence alone;
And those who are as good as you,
May, if they please, possess it too;
For to be good, and gay, and free,
Is still the best Philosophy.
The charm consists in making gold
Pure as if stamp'd in mint divine,—
Eliza, still that mint is thine;
And your sweet Alchemy shall claim,
Beyond the Sage, superior fame.
From that rich mine—a merry heart—
You draw, with more than chemic art,
Of happy thoughts a copious store,
And radiant Gold without the Ore,
And the gay vein of sportive Sense
Enrich'd by sterling Innocence;
Th'undrossy treasures of the Mind,
Good-humour'd, graceful, and refin'd;
And, rivalling the Seers of old,
Whate'er you touch transmutes to Gold.
The Brass of Life, and e'en the Lead,
Turn to this envied Stone instead,
And, by the power of Transmutation,
Grow better by their alteration.
And hence 'tis plain this envied Stone
Belongs to Innocence alone;
And those who are as good as you,
May, if they please, possess it too;
For to be good, and gay, and free,
Is still the best Philosophy.
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