Contentment

"Man wants but little here below."

   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 aud 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!