O may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see! _Content_ me with an humble shade; My passions tamed, my wishes laid; For while our wishes idly roll, We banish quiet from the soul; ’Tis then we busy beat the air, And misers gather wealth and care. _Dyer._ Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss Has ever shunn’d him when he thought to kiss, Who still in abject poverty or pain, Can count with pleasure what small joys remain; Though, were his sight convey’d from zone to zone, He would not find one spot of ground his own; Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee, These bounding prospects all are made for me: For me yon waving fields their burden bear, For me yon labourer guides the shining share; While happy I, in idle ease recline, And mark the glorious visions as they shine. This is the charm, by sages often told, Converting all it touches into gold. _Content_ can soothe, where’er by fortune placed, Can rear a garden in the desert waste. _H. K. White._ O Thou, who kindly dost provide For every creature’s want! We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, For all thy goodness lent; And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent; But whether granted, or denied, Lord! bless us with _content_! _Burns._ There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, No chemic art can counterfeit; It makes men rich in greatest poverty, Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain; Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, That much in little--all in nought--_content_. _Anon._