 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
180
A Hymn to Contentment.
By the late Dr. B***ll***e.
Come, thou lovely peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heav'nly nymphs, more beauteous far
Than the Sister graces are!
All around, where'er thou tread'st
Soft repose, sweet nymph, thou spread'st;
What the shady bow'rs retreat,
From the noon-tide's scorching heat;
What the bow'r with woodbine drest,
Without thee, celestial guest?
Not the mildest western sun,
When it's destin'd course is run,
Can refresh the wearied sight,
With a beam so soft of light,
As those purpling rays which spread,
Mildness round thy shining head.
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heav'nly nymphs, more beauteous far
Than the Sister graces are!
All around, where'er thou tread'st
Soft repose, sweet nymph, thou spread'st;
What the shady bow'rs retreat,
From the noon-tide's scorching heat;
What the bow'r with woodbine drest,
Without thee, celestial guest?
Not the mildest western sun,
When it's destin'd course is run,
Can refresh the wearied sight,
With a beam so soft of light,
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Mildness round thy shining head.
Where, O nymph, dost thou resort?
Never, O never seen at court!
There the noisy, and the proud,
There tumultuous passions croud:
Dost thou, then, affect to dwell
With poverty, in lonely cell?
Pinching hunger, wrinkled care,
Meagre aspects threaten there;
These thy fav'rites cannot be,
Nought like care can dwell with thee:
Chearful, and of easy mien,
Are thy glad companions seen;
Wreathed smiles with pleasing grace,
Play about each joyous face;
Pleasing smiles, which laughter vain,
(Folly of loud mirth) disdain.
Never, O never seen at court!
There the noisy, and the proud,
There tumultuous passions croud:
Dost thou, then, affect to dwell
With poverty, in lonely cell?
Pinching hunger, wrinkled care,
Meagre aspects threaten there;
These thy fav'rites cannot be,
Nought like care can dwell with thee:
Chearful, and of easy mien,
Are thy glad companions seen;
Wreathed smiles with pleasing grace,
Play about each joyous face;
Pleasing smiles, which laughter vain,
(Folly of loud mirth) disdain.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |