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!