Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Dearest Contentment, thou best happiness
That Man on Earth can know,
Thou greatest gift Heav'n can on Man bestow,
And greater than Man's Language can express;
(Where highest Epithets would fall so low,
As only in our dearth of words to show,
A part of thy perfection; a poor part
Of what to us, what in thy self thou art)
What Sin has banisht thee the World,
And in thy stead despairing Sorrow hurld
Into the breasts of Humane kind;
Ah, whether art thou fled! who can this Treasure find!

II.

No more on Earth now to be found,
Thou art become a hollow sound,
The empty name of something that of old
Mankind was happy in, but now,
Like a vain Dream, or Tale that's told,
Art vanisht hence we know not how.
Oh, fatal loss, for which we are
In our own thoughts at endless War,
And each one by himself is made a Sufferer?

333

III.

Yet 'twere worth seeking, if a Man knew where,
Or could but ghess of whom t'enquire:
But 'tis not to be found on Earth, I fear,
And who can best direct will prove a Lyar,
Or be himself the first deceiv'd,
By none, but who'd be cheated too, to be believ'd.

IV.

Shew me that Man on Earth, that does profess
To have the greatest share of happiness,
And let him, if he can,
Forbear to shew the Discontented Man:
A few hours Observation will declare,
Hee is the same that others are.
Riches will cure a Man of being poor,
But oft creates a thirst of having more,
And makes the Miser starve, and pine amidst his store.

V.

Or if a plentiful Estate,
In a good Mind, good Thoughts create,

334

A generous Soul, and free,
Will Mourn at least, though not repine,
To want an overflowing Mine
Still to supply a constant Charity;
Which still is Discontent, what e're the Motive be.

VI.

Th' ambitious, who to place aspire,
When rais'd to that they did pretend,
Are restless still, would still be higher;
For that's a Passion has no end.
'Tis the minds Wolf, a strange Disease,
That ev'n Saciety can't appease,
An Appetite of such a kind,
As does by feeding still increase,
And is to eat, the more it eats, inclin'd.
As the Ambitious mount the Sky,
New prospects still allure the Eye,
Which makes them upwards still to fly;
Till from the utmost height of all,
Fainting in their Endeavour, down they fall,
And lower, than at first they were, at last do lye.

335

VII.

I then would know where lies the happiness
Of being Great,
For which we blindly so much strive, and press,
Fawn, Bribe, Dissemble, Toyl, and Sweat;
Whilst the Mind Tortur'd in the doubtful quest,
Is so Sollicitous to be at rest;
Nay, when that Greatness is obtain'd, is yet
More Anxious how to keep, than t'was to get
Unto that glorious height of tickle Place,
And most, when unto honour rais'd, suspects disgrace.

VIII.

Were Men contented, they'd sit still,
Embrace, and hug their present state,
Without contriving Good or Ill,
And have no conflicts with the Will,
That still is prompting them, to Love, to Hate,
Fear, Envy, Anger, and I can't tell what,
All which, and more, do in the mind make War,
And all with Contentation inconsistent are.

336

IX.

And he who says he is content,
But hides ill nature from Mens sight;
Nor can he long conceal it there,
Something will vent,
For all his cunning, and his care,
That will disclose the Hypocrite.
A Man may be contented for an hour
Or two, or three; perhaps a Night;
But then his pleasure wanting Power,
His tast goes with his Appetite.
Frailty the peace of Humane life Confounds;
Flesh does not know, Reason obeys no bounds.

X.

But 'tis our selves that give this frailty sway,
By our own promptness to obey
Our Lust, Pride, Envy, Avarice;
By being so confederate with vice,
As to permit it to Controul
The Rational immortal Soul,

337

Which, whilst by these subjected, and opprest,
Cannot enjoy it self, nor be at rest;
But, or transported is with Ire,
Puff't up with vain, and empty Pride;
Or languishes with base desire,
Or pines with th' Envy it would hide.
And (the Grave Stoick let me not displease)
All Men that we converse with here,
Have some, or all of their disturbances,
And rarely settled are, and clear.
If ever any mortal then could boast
So great a Treasure, with that Man 'tis lost;
And no one should, because none truly can,
Though sometimes pleas'd, say, he's a contented Man.