CONTENTMENT 1

"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.

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30

Have you heard of the wonderful onehoss shay,

That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it-ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without de-
lay,

Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

1 From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. In connection with this see Holmes's essay on Jonathan Edwards-particularly the latter por: tion-in "Pages from an Old Volume of Life."

But the Deacon swore (as deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; 30 It should be so built that it could n' break daown:

"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain

Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;

'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk

Where he could find the strongest oak, That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,

That was for spokes and floor and sills; 40 He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the

straightest trees,

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She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren-where were tkey ?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;-it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here

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109

Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the-Moses-was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,—
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house
clock,-
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,-
All at once, and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,

But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them :Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them !

1 From the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. "Read what the singing-women-one to ten thousand of the suffering women-tell us, and think of the griefs that die unspoken! Nature is in earnest when she makes a woman; and there are women enough lying in the next churchyard with very commonplace blue slate-stones at their head and feet, for whom it was just as true that 'all sounds of life assumed one tone of love' as for Letitia Landon, of whom Elizabeth Browning said it; but she could give words to her grief, and they could not."

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Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad
story,-
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,

If singing breath or echoing chord

To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

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The Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1858.

THE BOYS 1

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has, take him out, without making a noise.

Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite!

Old Time is a liar! We 're twenty tonight!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?

He's tipsy, young jackanapes!--show him the door!

"Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please;

Where the snowflakes fall thickest

there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!

Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!

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We want some new garlands for those we have shed,

And these are white roses in place of the red.

We 've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,

Of talking (in public) as if we were old:

For the reunion of the famous Harvard class of 1829. From 1851 to 1889 Holmes brought his annual poem to the reunion.