CONTENTMENT.

Otago Witness, Issue 1981, 11 February 1892, Page 37

CONTENTMENT.

Contentment ! yes, the very sound Conveys a holy calm, — 'Tis full of peace and happiness, And fraught with healing balm. Oh what a depth of moaning lies Within this English word,— In all the language of our race No sweeter sound is heard. If life were this sweet grace denied, Could aught her place supply ? Ah, no ! Contentment, in herself, Alone can satisfy. Behold the monarch on his throne In all the pomps of State ; Observe the many menials there That on his pleasure wait. A power unlimited is his, — He orders what he may_ ; A nation vast obeys his will, No voice disputes his sway. There surely, if in any place, Contentment holds her reignAlas ! that monarch absolute Counts happiness in vain. The peasant toils in human life, His face is ever bright ; To crown his board he works all day, And calmly bleeps at night. A loving wife adores his home, Sweet children round her play ; Untrammelled by a kingly court, No etiquette have they. Contentment sits enthroned o'er all, No more can sceptre bring ; Thus in his cot the lab'ring man Is happier than a king. Again, in Fame's ambitious field Contentment will not stay, — A season brief she tarries there, Then mounts and Hies away. The famous man may win renown, Command whate'er he will, Yet find, with all the world's applause, There's something wanting still ; While he who never counted fame, Nor felt Ambition's sway, May sip the sweets of peacefulness, And bid Contentment stay. Nor can a store of wealth impart The joys of happiness, For oftentimes the power of gold Is stamped with sin's impress. How many in this world we find Possessed of golden store, And yet with all they cannot taste The comforts of the poor. Too oft the rich man's envied lot Is marked with sorrow's hand, And joys, unknown to him, attend The poorest in the land. E'en Love, that passion of the heart So strong in every race, Can never fully satisfy, Nor fill Contentment's place. What is the wondrous magic, then, That conquers rank and self? The spirit of sweet thankfulness, Complete within itself. No rarer gem, no brighter jewel, Adores the human mind, And yet the power to gain this boon Is given to all mankind. When foul disease sweeps o'er the home, With dank and poisoned breath, Distraction rends the loving soul At thoughts of coining death ; And Pity's tear wells up for friends On beds of anguish sore ; Yet in our hearts we little dream That Discontent kills more. Vain mortal ! insignificant ! Why still in sorrow groan ? And charge the gracious Providence With failures all thine own ? Take sweet Contentment to thy heart, She'll calmly nestle there, And all thy cares, like morning dew, Will vanish in the air.

-*John M 'Combe,

Roxburgh, February 3.