JOHN BYROM.

51

JOHN BYROM.

[1691-1763.]

CARELESS CONTENT.

I AM content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me; When fuss and fret was all my fare, It got no ground as I could see: So when away my caring went, I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,

I strive to make my matters meet; To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.

With good and gentle-humored hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.

For chance or change of peace or pain,
For Fortune's favor or her frown,
For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge nor up nor down;

But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide;
For shining wealth or scaring woe,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,

I shun the rancors and the routs;

And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.

Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;

But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:
I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.

Fond of a true and trusty tie,
I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath; For should I burn, or break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains?

Was naught around but images of rest: Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between;

And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest,

From poppies breathed; and beds of pleasant green,

Where never yet was creeping crea

ture seen.

Meantime unnumbered

streamlets played,

glittering

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky: There eke the soft delights, that witchingly

Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,

And the calm pleasures, always hovered nigh;

But whate'er smacked of noyance or unrest

sheen;

By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.

Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined,

And spreads a common feast for all that lives.

In winter awful thou! with clouds and

storms

Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled,

Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing,

Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore,

And humblest nature with thy northern

blast.

force divine,

Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art,

Such beauty and beneficence combined; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade;

And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still.

But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,

Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand,

That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ;

Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, thence

The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring;

Flings from the sun direct the flaming day;

Feeds every creature; hurls the tempests forth;

And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,

With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join every living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join; and, ardent, raise One general song! To him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes:

O, talk of him in solitary glooms; Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine

Fills the brown shade with a religious awe!

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven

The impetuous song, and say from whom

fall.

Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,

In mingled clouds to him, whose sun exalts,

Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.

Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him;

Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart,

As home he goes beneath the joyous

moon.

Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep

Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams,

Ye constellations, while your angels strike,

Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day! best image here below

Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, From world to world, the vital ocean round,

On Nature write with every beam his praise.

The thunder rolls: be hushed the prostrate world;

While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.

Bleat out afresh, ye hills; ye mossy rocks,

Retain the sound; the broad responsive low,

Ye valleys, raise; for the great Shepherd reigns,

And his unsuffering kingdom yet will

come.

Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song

Burst from the groves; and when the restless day,

Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Sweetest of birds! sweet Philomela, charm

The listening shades, and teach the night his praise.

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation. smiles,

At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all,

Crown the great hymn! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men to the deep organ join