Of temper sweet, of yielding will, Of firm, yet placid mind, And as Time's car incessant runs, Such bliss on earth to crave?) I want a warm and faithful friend, Nor bend the knee to power, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see; And that my friendship prove as strong I want the seals of power and place, But from my country's will, I want the voice of honest praise And to be thought in future days The friend of human-kind, That after ages, as they rise, Exulting may proclaim In choral union to the skies Their blessings on my name. These are the Wants of mortal Man, - a song. For life itself is but a span, And summoned to my final call, WASHINGTON, August 31, 1841. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. CONTENTMENT. "Man wants but little here below." LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; DIRECTED TO MY DEAR FATHER, AND MOST WORTHY HEAVEN, what an age is this! what race Thus fly in the Almighty's face, And with his providence make war! I can go nowhere but I meet With malecontents and mutineers, As if in life was nothing sweet, And we must blessings reap in tears. O senseless man! that murmurs still Is it true happiness to be By undiscerning Fortune placed In the most eminent degree, Where few arrive, and none stand fast? Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils, The one supinely yawns at rest, The other eternally doth toil; Each of them equally a beast, A pampered horse, or laboring moil: The titulados oft disgraced By public hate or privatê frown, And he whose hand the creature raised Has yet a foot to kick him down. The drudge who would all get, all save, Like a brute beast, both feeds and lies; Prone to the earth, he digs his grave, And in the very labor dies. Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf Does only death and danger breed ; Whilst one rich worldling starves himself With what would thousand others feed. By which we see that wealth and power, Although they make men rich and great, The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. Nor is he happier than these, Nor is he happy who is trim, Tricked up in favors of the fair, Mirrors, with every breath made dim, Birds, caught in every wanton snare. Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss, Does oftener far than serve, enslave And with the magic of a kiss Destroys whom she was made to save. O fruitful grief, the world's disease! And vainer man, to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase By cultivating his own woe. There are no ills but what we make By giving shapes and names to things, Which is the dangerous mistake That causes all our sufferings. We call that sickness which is health, That persecution which is grace, That poverty which is true wealth, And that dishonor which is praise. Alas! our time is here so short That in what state soe'er 't is spent, Of joy or woe, does not import, Provided it be innocent. But we may make it pleasant too, If we will take our measures right, Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE PEASANT. 66 A NOBLE peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. Whose power is such that whom she lifts from earth HAPPINESS. WILLIAM COWPER. " O HAPPINESS! our being's end and aim! For which we bear to live or dare to die, thee. Ask of the learned the way? The learned are blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind; Who thus define it, say they more or less Take nature's path, and mad opinion's leave; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell; There needs but thinking right and meaning well; And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense and common ease. ALEXANDER POPE A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise; Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumors freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend, This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands; And, having nothing, yet hath all. SIR HENRY WOTTON. THE HERMIT. AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, No more with himself or with nature at war, O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! "Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high “'T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, ""T was thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' "And darkness and doubt are now flying away; And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." And some to happy homes repair, And some, who walk in calmness here, Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye! Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die? Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Who is now fluttering in thy snare? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air? Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again? Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain? Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. RETIREMENT. FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, Good God! how sweet are all things here! How cleanly do we feed and lie! What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation. |