HEAVEN. To STELLA. Occasion'd by her asking the Author what hers consisted in, as they were viewing the prospect from Cooper's Hill. Let learn'd Divines, to whom 'tis giv'n To search the mysteries of Heav'n, Say, if their science can devise Where this thrice happy region lies: Say, what the sacred books declare Of joys unknown to eye or ear; Joys, which the busy mind of man Strives fully to explore — in vain. This awful theme 'tis theirs to preach, (O may we treasure what they teach!) My muse shall sing in Windsor's shade, The Heaven of a harmless maid. Stella describe the pleasing scene, And shew me where your joys begin. Has Love e'er touch'd your tender heart? In Damon's pains have you no part? Has no unguarded look betray'd That Stella is a mortal Maid? Did ne'er that thing call'd female pride Conceal, what 'twas a pain to hide? If not, we safely may aver, That Stella's Heaven is not here. Some in ambition place their bliss, And to be great — is happiness. Ambition, luxury and pride, Could ne'er in Stella's heart reside. And yet she loves a little state; A coach and six she does not hate: But never falls into a swoon, When aukward Betty pins her gown. Can dine extremely well at two, As other sober people do; But yet, for reasons good, can wait The modish hours of sev'n or eight. Does not directly hate quadrille; But likes to play, or to sit still, Just as the Beaus and Ladies will. At church can pass an hour or two, With much good breeding in her pew; Altho' the op'ra does not fill, And side boxes are empty still. Hence some have thought, when Stella there Has lifted up her eyes in pray'r, (Have thought indeed! at six and sev'n) That 'mongst the stars lay Stella's Heav'n; But folks may think what e'er they will, None but the Muse, I'm sure, can tell. You know what flatt'ring bards devise About the Heav'n, that's in your eyes; And likewise how they call your breast The blissful seat of joy and rest: Your looks, say they, are all divine, Immortal pleasures round you shine; And having o'er your beauties run, They make their rhyme, and so have done. Now, as concerning this your breast — These truths in metaphor exprest, Believe me, Stella, are no jest. For, to be serious, after all, Whatever mortals pleasure call, Whatever happiness we know, To our own hearts alone we owe. Your easy wit, and chearful air A harmony within declare; Which to a gen'rous nature join'd, Brings sweet content, and peace of mind. In vain thro' various scenes we roam, The muse bids Stella look at home: And let her wander where she will, Her Heav'n she'll bear about her still, To Windsor's shades, or Cooper's Hill.