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.

CLXVIII

IN A HERMITAGE

THE man, whose days of youth and ease
In Nature's calm enjoyments pass'd,

Will want no monitors, like these,
To torture and alarm his last.

The gloomy grot, the cypress shade,
The zealot's list of rigid rules,

To him are merely dull parade,
The tragic pageantry of fools.

What life affords he freely tastes,

When Nature calls, resigns his breath;

Nor age in weak repining wastes,

Nor acts alive the farce of death.

Not so the youths of Folly's train,
Impatient of each kind restraint
Which parent Nature fix'd, in vain,

To teach us man's true bliss, content.

For something still beyond enough,
With eager impotence they strive,
'Till appetite has learn'd to loathe
The very joys by which we live.

Then, fill'd with all which sour disdain
To disappointed vice can add,

Tir'd of himself, man flies from man,
And hates the world he made so bad.

W. WHITEHEAD.

CLXIX

TO THE CUCKOO

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

J. LOGAN.

CLXX

NATURE'S CHARMS

Oн, how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields !
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,

And all the dread magnificence of heaven,

Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?

J. BEATTIE.