CONTENTMENT

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, ( A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;—

And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;—

If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen I always thought cold victual nice;— My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;— Give me a mortgage here and there,— Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,—

I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend. Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names;

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles;‘ t is a sin To care for such unfruitful things;— One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,—

A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;— I laugh at show. My dame should dress in cheap attire; ( Good, heavy silks are never dear;) —

I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,— Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait — two, forty-five — Suits me; I do not care;—

Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt. Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four,—

I love so much their style and tone, One Turner, and no more, ( A landscape,— foreground golden dirt,— The sunshine painted with a squirt. )

Of books but few,— some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;— Some little luxury there

Of red morocco's gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream. Busts, cameos, gems,— such things as these, Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;— One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;— Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share,— I ask but one recumbent chair. Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas’ golden touch;

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!