But why said I happy? I aim not at that,
Mere ease is my humble request;
I would neither repine at a niggardly fate,
Nor stretch my wings far from my nest.

Nor e'er may my pride or my folly reflect
On the fav'rites whom Fortune has made,
Regardless of thousands, who pine with neglect
In pensive Obscurity's shade;

With whom, when comparing the merit I boast,
Tho' rais'd by indulgence to fame,

I sink in confusion, bewilder'd and lost,
And wonder I am what I am!

And what are these wonders, these blessings refin'd,
Which splendour and opulence shower?
The health of the body, and peace of the mind,
Are things which are out of their power.

To contentment's calm sunshine, the lot of the few,
Can insolent greatness pretend?

Or can it bestow, what I boast of in you,
That blessing of blessings, a friend?

We may pay some regard to the rich and the great,
But how seldom we love them you know;

Or if we do love them, it is not their state,
The tinsel and plume of the show,

But some secret virtues we find in the heart,
When the mask is laid kindly aside,

Which birth cannot give them, nor riches impart,
And which never once heard of their pride.

A show of good spirits I've seen with a smile,
To worth make a shallow pretence;

And the chat of good breeding with ease, for a while,
May pass for good nature and sense;

But where is the bosom untainted by art,
The judgment so modest and stay'd,
That union so rare of the head and the heart
Which fixes the friends it has made?

For those whom the great and the wealthy employ,
Their pleasure or vanity's slaves,

Whate'er they can give I without them enjoy,
And am rid of just so many knaves.

For the many whom titles alone can allure,
And the blazon of ermine and gules,
I wrap myself round in my lowness secure,
And am rid of just so many fools.

Then why should I covet what cannot increase
My delights, and may lessen their store;

My present condition is quiet and ease,

And what can my future be more?

Should Fortune capriciously cease to be coy,
And in torrents of plenty descend,

I, doubtless, like others, should clasp her with joy,
And my wants and my wishes extend.

But since 'tis denied me, and heaven best knows,
Whether kinder to grant it or not,

Say, why should I vainly disturb my repose,
And peevishly carp at my lot?

No; still let me follow sage Horace's rule,
Who tried all things and held fast the best;
Learn daily to put all my passions to school,
And keep the due poise of my breast.

Thus, firm at the helm, I glide calmly away,
Like the merchant long us'd to the deep,
Nor trust for my safety on life's stormy sea,
To the gilding and paint of my ship.

Nor yet can the giants of honour and pelf
My want of ambition deride,

He who rules his own bosom is lord of himself,

And lord of all nature beside.

W. WHITEHEAD.

CLXVII

CARELESS CONTENT

I AM content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me; When Fuss and Fret was all my Fare, It got no ground, as I could see:

So when away my Caring went,

I counted Cost, and was Content.

With more of Thanks and less of Thought,
I strive to make my Matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and Food, in sour and sweet:

To take what passes in good Part,
And keep the Hiccups from the Heart.

With good and gentle humour'd Hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the Subject be that starts;
But if I get among the Glum,
I hold my Tongue to tell the Troth,
And keep my Breath to cool my Broth.

For Chance or Change of Peace or Pain;
For Fortune's Favour or her Frown;
For Lack or Glut, for Loss or Gain,
I never dodge, nor up nor down:
But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about, with equal Trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the Turn of ev'ry Tide;
If simple Sense will not succeed,

I make no Bustling, but abide:
For shining Wealth, or scaring Woe,
I force no Friend, I fear no Foe.

I love my Neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his Leave; Nor to his Pleasure, Pow'r, or Pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has design'd A Man, the Monarch of his Mind.

Now taste and try this Temper, Sirs, Mood it, and brood it in your Breast;

Or if ye ween, for worldly Stirs,

That Man does right to mar his Rest, Let me be deft, and debonair,

I am Content, I do not care.

J. BYROM.