The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Content is Wealth, the Riches of the Mind;
And happy he who can that Treasure find:
But the base Miser starves amidst his Store,
Broods on his Gold, and gripping still for more,
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.
Dryden.

Virtue was taught in Verse, and Athens' Glory rose. Prior.

When genial Beams wade thro' the dewy Morn,
And from the Clod invite the sprouting Corn;
When chequer'd Green, wing'd Musick, new blown Scents,
Conspir'd to sooth the Mind, and please each Sense:
Then down a shady Haugh I took my Way,
Delighted with each Flower and budding Spray;
Musing on all that Hurry, Pain and Strife,
Which flow from the phantastick Ills of Life.
Enlarg'd from such Distresses of the Mind,
Due Gratitude to Heav'n my Thoughts refin'd,
And made me in the laughing Sage's Way,
As a mere Farce the murm'ring World survey;
Finding imagin'd Maladies abound,
Tenfold for one, which gives a real Wound.

Godlike is he whom no false Fears annoy,
Who lives content, and grasps the present Joy;
Whose Mind is not with wild Convulsions rent
Of Pride, and Avarice, and Discontent:
Whose well train'd Passions, with a pious Aw,
Are all subordinate to Reason's Law:
Then smooth Content arises like the Day,
And makes each rugged Phantom fly away.
To lowest Men she gives a lib'ral Share
Of solid Bliss, she mitigates our Care,
Enlarging Joys, administrating Health;
The rich Man's Pleasure, and the poor Man's Wealth;
A Train of Comforts on her Nod attend,
And to her Sway Profits and Honours bend.

Hail blest Content! who art by Heav'n design'd
Parent of Health and Chearfulness of Mind;
Serene Content shall animate my Song,
And make the immortal Numbers smooth and strong.

Silenus, thou whose hoary Beard and Head
Experience speak, and Youth's Attention plead;
Retail thy gather'd Knowledge, and disclose
What State of Life enjoys the most Repose.
Thus I addrest:—And thus the ancient Bard;—
First, to no State of Life fix thy Regard.
All Mortals may be happy, if they please,
Nor rack'd with Pain, nor lingering Disease.

Midas the Wretch, wrapt in his patched Rags,
With empty Paunch, sits brooding o'er his Bags;
Meager his Look, his Mind in constant Fright,
If Winds but move his Windows in the Night;
If Dogs should bark, or but a Mouse make Din,
He sweats and starts, and thinks the Thief's got in:
His Sleep forsakes him 'till the Dawn appears,
Which every Thing but such a Caitiff chears;

It gives him Pain to buy a Farthing-Light,
He jums at Home in Darkness all the Night.
What makes him manage with such cautious Pain?
'Twould break a Sum; a Farthing spent so vain!
If e'er he's pleased, 'tis when some needful Man
Gives Ten per Cent with an insuring Pawn,
Tho he's provided in as much would serve
Whole Nestor's Years, he ever fears to starve.
Tell him of Alms, alas! he'd rather chuse
Damnation and the promis'd Bliss refuse.
—And is there such a Wretch beneath the Sun—?
Yes, he return'd, Thousands instead of one,
To whom Content is utterly unknown.—
Are all the rich Men such?—He answer'd, No;
Marcus hath Wealth, and can his Wealth bestow
Upon himself, his Friends, and on the Poor,
Enjoys enough, and wishes for no more.

Reverse of these, is he who braves the Skie,
Cursing his Maker when he throws the Die:
Gods, Devils, Furies, Hell, Heaven, Blood and Wounds,
Promiscuous fly in Bursts of tainted Sounds:
He to Perdition doth his Soul bequeath,
Yet inly trembles when he thinks of Death.
Except at Game, he ne'er employs his Thought
Till hiss'd and pointed at,—not worth a Groat.
The desp'rate Remnant of a large Estate
Goes at one Throw, and points his gloomy Fate;
He finds his Folly now, but finds too late.
Ill brooks my fondling Master to be poor,
Bred up to nought but Bottle, Game, and Whore.
How pitiful he looks without his Rent!
They who fly Vertue, ever fly Content.

Now I beheld the Sage look'd less severe,
Whilst Pity join'd his old Satyrick Lear.
The weakly Mind, said he, is quickly torn,
Men are not Gods, some Frailties must be born:

Heaven's bounteous Hand all in their Turn abuse,
The happiest Men at Times their Fate refuse,
Befool themselves,—and trump up an Excuse.

Is Lucius but a Subaltern of Foot?
His Equal Gallus is a Coronet.

Sterilla shuns a Gossiping, and why?
The teeming Mother fills her with Envy.
The pregnant Matron's Grief as much prevails,
Some of the Children always something ails:
One Boy is sick, t'other has broke his Head,
And Nurse is blam'd when little Miss is dead.

A Dutchess on a Velvet Couch reclin'd,
Blabs her fair Cheeks till she is almost blind;
Poor Phili's Death the briny Pearls demands,
Who ceases now to snarl and lick her Hands.

The Politicians, who in learn'd Debates,
With Penetration carve out Kingdoms Fates,
Look sour, drink Coffee, shrug, and read Gazettes:
Deep sunk in Craft of State their Souls are lost,
And all their Hopes depend upon the Post:
Each Mail that's due they curse the contrair Wind,
'Tis strange if this Way Men Contentment find.
Tho old, their Humors I am yet to learn,
Who vex themselves in what they've no Concern.

Ninny the glaring Fop, who always runs
In Tradesmen's Books, which makes the careful Duns
Often e'er Ten to break his slumb'ring Rest:
Whilst with their craving Clamours he's opprest,
He frames Excuses 'till his Cranny akes,
Then thinks he justly damns the cursed Snakes.
The disappointed Dun with as much Ire,
Both threats and curses till his Breast's on Fire:
Then home he goes, and pours it on his House,
His Servants suffer oft, and oft his Spouse.

Some groan thro' Life amidst a Heap of Cares,
To load with too much Wealth their lazy Heirs:
The lazy Heir turns all to Ridicule,
And all his Life proclaims his Father Fool.
He toils in spending.—Leaves a Threed-bare Son,
To scrape anew, as had his Grandsire done.

How is the fair Myrtilla's Bosom fir'd,
If Leda's sable Locks are more admir'd;
While Leda does her secret Sighs discharge,
Because her Mouth's a Straw-breadth, ah! too large.

Thus sung the Sire, and left me to evite
The scorching Beams in some cool green Retreat;
Where gentle Slumber seiz'd my weary'd Brain,
And mimick Fancy op'd the following Scene.

Methought I stood upon a rising Ground,
A splendid Landskip open'd all around,
Rocks, Rivers, Meadows, Gardens, Parks and Woods,
And Domes, which hid their Turrets in the Clouds;
To me approach'd a Nymph divinely fair,
Celestial Virtue shone through all her Air:
A Nymph for Grace, her Wisdom more renown'd
Adorn'd each Grace, and both true Valour crown'd.
Around her heav'nly Smiles a Helmet blaz'd,
And graceful as she mov'd, a Spear she gently rais'd.
My Sight at first the Lustre scarce could bear,
Her dazling Glories shone so strong and clear:
A Majesty sublime, with all that's sweet,
Did Adoration claim, and Love invite.
I felt her Wisdom's Charm my Thoughts inspire,
Her dauntless Courage set my Soul on Fire.
The Maid, when thus I knew, I soon addrest,
My present wishful Thoughts the Theme suggest:
“Of all th'etherial Powers thou noblest Maid,
“To humane Weakness lend'st the readiest Aid:

“To where Content and her blest Train reside,
“Immortal Pallas, deign to be my Guide.
With my Request well pleas'd, our Course we bent,
To find the Habitation of Content.

Thro' fierce Bellona's Tents we first advanc'd,
Where Cannons bounc'd, and nervous Horses pranc'd:
Here Vi & Armis sat with dreadful Aw
And daring Front, to prop each Nation's Law:
Attending Squadrons on her Motions wait,
Array'd in Deaths, and fearless of their Fate.
Here Chiftain Souls glow'd with as great a Fire,
As his who made the World but one Empire.
Even in low Ranks brave Spirits might be found,
Who wanted nought of Monarchs but a Crown.
But ah! Ambition stood a Foe to Peace,
Shaking the Empty Fob and ragged Fleece;
Which were more hideous to these Sons of War,
Than Brimstone, Smoak, and Storms of Bullets are.
Here, said my Guide, Content is rarely found,
Where Blood and noisy Jars beset the Ground.

Trade's wealthy Ware-house next fell in our Way,
Where in great Bales Part of each Nation lay,
The Spanish Citron, and Hesperia's Oil,
Persia's soft Product, and the Chinese Toil;
Warm Borneo's Spices, Arab's scented Gum,
The Polish Amber, and the Saxon Mum,
The Orient Pearl, Holland's Lace and Toys,
And Tinsie Work, which the fair Nun imploys.
From India Ivory, and the clouded Cane,
And Coacheneal from Straits of Magellan.
The Scandinavian Rosin, Hemp and Tar,
The Lapland Furs, and Russia's Caviare,
The Gallick Punchion charg'd with Ruby Juice,
Which makes the Hearts of Gods and Men rejoice.
Britannia here pours from her plenteous Horn,
Her shining Mirrors, Clock-work, Cloaths and Corn.

Here Cent per Cents sat poring o'er their Books,
While many shew'd the Bankrupts in their Looks,
Who by Mismanagement their Stock had spent,
Curs'd these hard Times, and blam'd the Government.
The Missive Letter, and peremptor Bill,
Forbade them rest, and call'd forth all their Skill.
Uncertain Credit bore the Sceptre here,
And her prime Ministers were Hope and Fear.
The surly Chufs demanded what we sought,
Content, said I, may she with Gold be bought?
Content! said one, then star'd and bit his Thumb,
And leering ask'd, if I was worth a Plum.

Love's fragrant Fields, where mildest western Gales,
Loaden with Sweets, perfume the Hills and Dales;
Where longing Lovers haunt the Streams and Glades,
And cooling Groves, whose Verdure never fades;
Thither with Joy and hasty Steps we strode,
There sure I thought our long'd for Bliss abode.
Whom first we met on that enchanted Plain,
Was a tall Yellow-hair'd young pensive Swain;
Him I addrest,—“O Youth, what heavenly Power
“Commands and graces yon Elysian Bower?
“Sure 'tis Content, else much I am deceiv'd.
The Shepherd sigh'd, and told me that I rav'd.
Rare she appears, unless on some fine Day
She grace a Nuptial, but soon hasts away:
If her you seek, soon hence you must remove,
Her Presence is precarious in Love.

Thro' these and other Shrines we wander'd long,
Which merit no Description in my Song:
'Till at the last, methought we cast our Eye
Upon an antique Temple, square and high,
Its Area wide, its Spire did pierce the Sky;

On adamantine Dorick Pillars rear'd,
Strong Gothick Work the massy Pile appear'd:
Nothing seem'd little, all was great design'd,
Which pleas'd the Eye at once, and fill'd the Mind.
Whilst Wonder did my curious Thoughts engage,
To us approach'd a studious rev'rend Sage:
Both Aw and Kindness his grave Aspect bore,
Which spoke him rich with Wisdom's finest Store.
He ask'd our Errand there,—“Straight, I reply'd,
“Content; in these high Towers does she reside?
Not far from hence, said he, her Palace stands,
Ours she regards, as we do her Demands,
Philosophy sustains her peaceful Sway,
And in Return she feasts us every Day.
Then straight an antient Telescope he brought,
By Socrates and Epictetus wrought,
Improved since, made easier to the Sight,
Lengthen'd the Tube, the Glasses ground more bright:
Through this he shew'd a Hill, whose lofty Brow
Enjoy'd the Sun, while Vapours all below,
In pitchy Clouds, encircled it around,
Where Phantoms of most horrid Forms abound;
The ugly Brood of lazy Spleen and Fear,
Frightful in Shape, most monstrous appear.
Then thus my Guide,—
Your Way lies through yon Gloom, be not agast,
Come briskly on, you'll jest them when they're past:
Mere empty Spectres, harmless as the Air,
Which merit not your Notice, less your Care.
Encourag'd with her Word, I thus addrest
My noble Guide, and grateful Joy exprest.
“O sacred Wisdom! Thine's the Source of Light,
“Without thy Blaze the World would grope in Night.
“Of Woe and Bliss thou only art the Test,
“Falshood and Truth before thee stand confest:
“Thou mak'st a double Life: One Nature gave,
“But without thine, what is it Mortals have?
“A breathing Motion grazing to the Grave.

Now through the Damps methought we boldly went,
Smiling at all the Grins of Discontent:
Tho oft pull'd back, the rising Ground we gain'd,
Whilst inward Joy my weary'd Limbs sustain'd.
Arriv'd the Height, whose Top was large and plain,
And what appear'd soon recompens'd my Pain,
Nature's whole Beauty deck'd the enamell'd Scene.

Amidst the Glade the sacred Palace stood,
The Architecture not so fine as good;
Nor scrimp, nor gousty, regular and plain,
Plain were the Columns which the Roof sustain:
An easy Greatness in the whole was found,
Where all that Nature wanted did abound.
But here no Beds are screen'd with rich Brocade,
Nor Fewel-Logs in Silver Grates are laid:
No broken China Bowls disturb the Joy
Of waiting Handmaid, or the running Boy;
Nor in the Cupboard Heaps of Plate are rang'd,
To be with each splenetick Fashion chang'd.

A weather-beaten Sentry watch'd the Gate,
Of Temper cross, and practis'd in Debate:
Till once acquaint with him, no Entry here,
Tho brave as Cæsar, or as Helen fair:
To Strangers fierce, but with Familiars tame,
And Touchstone Disappointment was his Name.

This fair Inscription shone above the Gate,
Fear not but him whose Will directs thy Fate.
With Smile austere he lifted up his Head,
Pointed the Characters and bid us read.
We did, and stood resolv'd. The Gates at last
Op'd of their own Accord, and in we past.

Each Day a Herauld, by the Queen's Command,
Was order'd on a Mount to take his Stand,

And thence to all the Earth this Offer make,
“Who are inclin'd her Favours to partake,
“Shall have them free, if they small Rubs can bear
“Of Disappointment, Spleen and bug-bear Fear.

Rais'd on a Throne within the outer Gate,
The Goddess sat, her Vot'ries round her wait:
The beautiful Divinity disclos'd
Sweetness sublime, which roughest Cares compos'd:
Her looks sedate, yet joyful and serene,
Not rich her Dress, but suitable and clean:
Unfurrow'd was her Brow, her Cheeks were smooth,
Tho old as Time, enjoy'd immortal Youth;
And all her Accents so harmonious flow'd,
That ev'ry listning Ear with Pleasure glow'd.

An Olive Garland on her Head she wore,
And her right Hand a Cornucopia bore.
Cross Touchstone fill'd a Bench without the Door,
To try the Sterling of each humane Ore:
Grim Judge he was, and them away he sent,
Unfit t'approach the Shrine of calm Content.

To him a hoary Dotard load with Bags:
Unweildy Load! to one who hardly drags
His Being.—More than Seventy Years, said he,
I've sought this Court, 'till now unfound by me:
Now let me rest,—“Yes, if ye want no more;
“But e'er the Sun has made his annual Tour,
“Know, grov'ling Wretch, thy Wealth's without thy Pow'r.
The Thoughts of Death, and ceasing from his Gain,
Brought on the old Man's Head so sharp a Pain,
Which dim'd his optick Nerves, and with the Light
He lost the Palace, and crawl'd back to Night.

Poor gripping Thing, how useless is thy Breath,
While nothing's so much long'd for as thy Death?
How meanly hast thou spent thy Lease of Years?
A Slave to Poverty, to Toils and Fears;

100

And all to vie with some black rugged Hill,
Whose rich Contents Millions of Chests can fill.
As round the greedy Rock clings to the Mine,
And hinders it in open Day to shine,
Till Diggers hew it from the Spar's Embrace,
Making it circle, stampt with Cæsar's Face;
So dost thou hoard, and from thy Prince purloin
His useful Image, and thy Country Coin,
Till gaping Heirs have free'd th'imprison'd Slave,
When to their Comfort thou hast fill'd a Grave.

The next who with a janty Air approach'd,
Was a gay Youth, who thither had been coach'd:
Sleek were his Flanders Mares, his Liv'ries fine,
With glittering Gold his Furniture did shine.
Sure such methought may enter when they please,
Who have all these Appearances of Ease.
Strutting he march'd, nor any Leave he crav'd,
Attemp't to pass, but found himself deceiv'd:
Old Touchstone gave him on the Breast a Box,
Which op'd the Sluces of a latent Pox,
Then bid his Equipage in Haste depart.
The Youth look'd at them with a fainting Heart;
He found he could not walk, and bid them stay,
Swore three cramp Oaths, mounted and wheel'd away.

The Pow'r express'd herself thus with a Smile,
“These changing Shadows are not worth our while;
“With smallest Trifles oft their Peace is torn,
“If here at Night, they rarely wait the Morn.

Another Beau as fine, but more vivace,
Whose Airs sat round him with an easy Grace,
And well bred Motion, came up to the Gate,
I lov'd him much, and trembl'd for his Fate.
The Sentry broke his clouded Cane,—He smil'd,
Got fairly in, and all our Fears beguil'd.

101

The Cane was soon renew'd which had been broke,
And thus the Vertue to the Circle spoke,
“Each Thing magnificent or gay we grant,
“To them who're capable to bear their Want.

Two handsome Toasts came next, them well I knew,
Their lovely Make the Court's Observance drew;
Three waiting Maids attended in the Rear,
Each loaden with as much as she could bear:
One mov'd beneath a Load of Silks and Lace,
Another bore the Offsets of the Face;
But the most bulky Burden of the Three,
Was hers who bore the Utensils of Bohee.
My Mind indulgent in their Favour pled,
Hoping no Opposition would be made:
So mannerly, so smooth, so mild their Eye,
Enough almost to give Content Envy.
But soon I found my Error, the bold Judge,
Who acted as if prompted by some Grudge,
Them thus saluted with a hollow Tone,
“You're none of my Acquaintance, get you gone;
“What Loads of Trump'ry these?—Ha, where's my Cross?
“I'll try if these be solid Ware or boss,
The China felt the Fury of his Blow,
And lost a Being, or for Use or Show;
For Use or Show no more's each Plate or Cup,
But all in Shreds upon the Threshold drop.
Now every Charm which deck'd their Face before,
Give Place to Rage, and Beauty is no more.
The brinny Stream their rosy Cheeks besmear'd,
Whilst they in Clouds of Vapours disappear'd.

A rustick Hynd, attir'd in home-spun Gray,
With forked Locks, and Shoes bedaub'd with Clay;
Palms shod with Horn, his Front fresh, brown and broad,
With Legs and Shoulders fitted for a Load;
He 'midst ten bawling Children laugh'd and sung,
While Consort Hobnails on the Pavement rung:

102

Up to the Porter unconcern'd he came,
Forcing along his Offspring and their Dame.
Cross Touchstone strove to stop him, but the Clown
At Handy-cuffs him match'd, and threw him down;
And spite of him into the Palace went,
Where he was kindly welcom'd by Content.

Two Busbian Philosophs put in their Claims,
Gamaliel and Critis were their Names;
But soon's they had our British Homer seen,
With Face unruffl'd waiting on the Queen,
Envious Hate their surly Bosoms fir'd,
Their Colour chang'd, they from the Porch retir'd:
Backward they went, reflecting with much Rage
On the bad Taste and Humor of the Age,
Which pay'd so much Respect to nat'ral Parts,
While they were starving Graduates of Arts.
The Goddess fell a laughing at the Fools,
And sent them packing to their Grammar Schools;
Or in some Garret elevate to dwell,
There with Sisyphian Toil to teach young Beaus to spell.

Now all this while a Gale of Eastern Wind,
And cloudy Skies opprest the humane Mind;
The Wind set West, back'd with the radiant Beams,
Which warm'd the Air, and danc'd upon the Streams,
Exhal'd the Spleen, and sooth'd a World of Souls,
Who crowded now the Avenue in Shoals.
Numbers in black, of Widowers, Relicts, Heirs,
Of new wed Lovers many handsome Pairs;
Men landed from Abroad, from Camps and Seas;
Others got through some dangerous Disease:
A Train of Belles adorn'd with something new,
And even of ancient Prudes there were a few,
Who were refresh'd with Scandal and with Tea,
Which for a Space set them from Vapours free.
Here from their Cups the lower Species flockt,
And Knaves with Bribes and cheating Methods stockt.

103

The Pow'r survey'd the Troop, and gave command
They should no longer in the Entry stand,
But be convey'd into Chimera's Tower,
There to attend her Pleasure for an Hour.

Soon as they entred, Apprehension shook
The Fabrick: Fear was fixt on every Look,
Old Age and Poverty, Disease, Disgrace,
With horrid Grin, star'd full in every Face,
Which made them, trembling at their unknown Fate,
Issue in Haste out by the postern Gate.

None waited out their Hour but only two,
Who had been wedded Fifteen Years ago.
The Man had learn'd the World, and fixt his Mind;
His Spouse was chearful, beautiful and kind:
She neither fear'd the Shock, nor Phantoms Stare:
She thought her Husband wise, and knew that he was there.
Now while the Court was sitting, my fair Guide
Into a fine Elysium me convey'd;
I saw, or thought I saw the spacious Fields
Adorn'd with all prolifick Nature yields,
Profusely rich, with her most valu'd Store:
But as m' enchanted Fancy wander'd o'er
The happy plain, new Beauties seem'd to rise,
The Fields were fled, and all was painted Skies.
Pleas'd for a while, I wish'd the former Scene;
Straight all return'd and eas'd me of my Pain.
Again the flow'ry Meadows disappear,
And Hills and Groves their stately Summits rear;
These sink again, and rapid Rivers flow,
Next from the Rivers Cities seem to grow.

Sometime the fleeting Scene I had forgot,
In busie Thought intranc'd, with Pain I sought
To know the hidden Charm, straight all was fled
And boundless Heav'ns o'er boundless Ocean spread;

104

Impatient I obtest my noble Guide,
Reveal this wond'rous Secret, she reply'd.

We carried on what greatly we design'd,
When all these humane Follies you resign'd,
Ambition, Lux'ry, and a cov'tous Mind:
Yet think not true Content can thus be bought,
There's wanting still a Train of virtuous Thought.

When me your Leader prudently you chose,
And listning to my Counsel, didst refuse
Fantastick Joys, your Soul was thus prepar'd
For true Content; and thus I do reward
Your gen'rous Toil. Observe this wondrous Clime;
Of Nature's Blessings here are hid the Prime:
But wise and virtuous Thought in constant Course,
Must draw these Beauties from their hidden Source;
The smallest Intermissions will transform
The pleasant Scene, and spoil each perfect Charm.
'Tis ugly Vice will rob you of Content,
And to your View all hellish Woes present.
Nor grudge the Care in Vertue you employ,
Your present Toil will prove your future Joy.
Then smil'd she heav'nly sweet, and parting said,
Hold fast your virtuous Mind, of nothing be afraid.

A while the charming Voice so fill'd my Ears,
I grieve the divine Form no more appears.
Then to confirm my yet unsteady Mind,
Under a lonely Shadow I reclin'd,
To try the Virtues of the Clime I sought:
Then straight call'd up a Train of hideous Thought,
Famine, and Blood, and Pestilence appear,
Wild Shrieks and loud Laments disturb mine Ear;
New Woes and Horrors did my Sight alarm.
Envy and Hate compos'd the wretched Charm.

105

Soon as I saw, I dropt the hateful View,
And thus I sought past Pleasures to renew.
To heav'nly Love my Thoughts I next compose,
Then quick as thought the following Sigh[t]s disclose:
Streams, Meadows, Grotto's, Groves, Birds carrolling,
Calmness, and temp'rate Warmth, and endless Spring;
A perfect Transcript of these upper Bowers,
The Habitation of th'immortal Powers.

Back to the Palace ravished I went,
Resolved to reside with blest Content,
Where all my special Friends methought I met,
In Order 'mongst the best of Mankind set:
My Soul with too much Pleasure overcharg'd,
The captiv'd Senses to their Post enlarg'd:
Lifting mine Eyes I view'd declining Day,
Sprang from the Green, and homeward bent my Way,
Reflecting on that Hurry, Pain and Strife
Which flow from false and real Ills of Life.

Democritus.

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