The poor man had health, more dear than gold; , Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring ? Stout bone and muscle strong,

O sweet content ! That neither faint nor weary grew,

Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine To toil the June day long;

own tears ? And the fiend, his god, cried hoarse and loud,

O punishment ! “Thy strength thou must forego,

Then he that patiently want's burden bears Or thou no worshipper art of mine";

No burden bears, but is a king, a king! And the poor man ne'er said “No!"

O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content !

Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Three children blest the poor man's home, – Honest labor bears a lovely face ; Stray angels dropped on earth,

Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny ! The liend beheld their sweet blue eyes,

And he laughed in fearful mirth : Bring forth thy little ones," quoth he, “My godhead wills it so !

I want an evening sacrifice";
And the poor man ne'er said “No!”

Sweet is the pleasure

Itself cannot spoil ! A young wife sat by the poor man's fire,

Is not true leisure
Who, since she blushed a bride,

One with true toil ?
Had gilded his sorrow, and brightened his joys,
His guardian, friend, and guide.

Thou that wouldst taste it,
Foul fall the fiend ! he gave command,

Still do thy best ; “Come, mix the cup of woe,

Use it, not waste it, – Bid thy young wife drain it to the dregs" ;

Else 't is no rest. And the poor man ne'er said “No!”

Wouldst behold beauty 0, misery now for this poor man!

Near thee? all round ? 0, deepest of misery !

Only hath duty Next the fiend his godlike reason took,

Such a sight found. And amongst beasts fed he ;

Rest is not quitting And when the sentinel mind was gone,

The busy career ; He pilfered his soul also ;

Rest is the fitting And - marvel of marvels ! - he murmured not;

Of self to its sphere. The poor man ne'er said “No!"

'T is the brook's motion, Now, men and matrons in your prime,

Clear without strife, Children and grandsires old,

Fleeing to ocean Come listen, with soul as well as ear,

After its life. This saying whilst I unfold ; 0, listen ! till your brain whirls round,

Deeper devotion And your heart is sick to think,

Nowhere hath knelt; That in England's isle all this befell,

Fuller emotion
And the name of the fiend was — - Drink!

Heart never felt.
'T is loving and serving

The highest and best ;

'T is onwards ! unswerving, – THE HAPPY HEART.

And that is true rest.

JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT. Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ?

O sweet content !
Art thon rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ?

O punishment !
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ?

The village smithy stands ; O sweet content ! O sweet, O sweet content !

The smith, a mighty man is he, Work apace, apace, apace, apace;

With large and sinewy hands ; Honest labor bears a lovely face ;

And the muscles of his brawny arms Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny !

Are strong as iron bands.


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