Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CONTENTMENT; PINDARIC ODE, by CHARLES COTTON


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CONTENTMENT; PINDARIC ODE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Thou precious treasure of the peaceful mind
Last Line: Though sometimes pleas'd, say, he's a contented man.
Subject(s): Contentment


I

THOU precious Treasure of the peaceful mind,
Thou jewel of inestimable price,
Thou bravest soul's terrestrial Paradise,
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 banish'd thee the World,
And in thy stead despairing sorrow hurl'd
Into the breasts of human kind?
Ah, whither 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 vanish'd 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!

III

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

IV

Show me that man on earth, that does profess
To have the greatest share of happiness,
And let him, if he can,
Forbear to show the discontented man:
A few hours' observation will declare,
He 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,
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'er 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 mind's wolf, a strange disease,
That ev'n satiety 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 lie.

VII

I then would know where lies the happiness
Of being great,
For which we blindly so much strive, and press,
Fawn, bribe, dissemble, toil and sweat;
Whilst the mind tortur'd in the doubtful quest,
Is so solicitous to be at rest;
Nay, when that greatness is obtain'd, is yet
More anxious how to keep than 'twas 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.

IX

And he who says he is content,
But hides ill nature from men's 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 taste goes with his appetite.
Frailty the peace of human 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 control
The rational immortal soul,
Which, whilst by these subjected, and opprest,
Cannot enjoy itself, nor be at rest;
But or transported is with ire,
Puff'd up with vain, and empty pride;
Or languishes with base desire,
Or pines with th' envy it would hide.
And (the grave Stoic 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.





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