ESTIVATION.

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR.

IN candent ire the solar splendor flames;
The foles, languescent, pend from arid rames;
His humid front the cive, anheling, wipes,
And dreams of erring on ventiferous ripes.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes,
Dorm on the herb with none to supervise,
Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine,
And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come,
Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,
No concave vast repeats the tender hue
That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue !

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids!

O, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,

Depart, be off,- excede, - evade, - erump!

CONTENTMENT.

"Man wants but little here below."

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few;
I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;

And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;
If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three.

I always thought cold victual nice ;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;

Amen!

Give me a mortgage here and there,

Honors are silly toys, I know,

And titles are but empty names;

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,

I'm

To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are bawbles; 't is a sin

To care for such unfruitful things; One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,

A ruby, and a pearl, or so,

Will do for me; I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire ; (Good, heavy silks are never dear ;) I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere, Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

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I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare;

Suits me; I do not care;

Perhaps, for just a single spurt,

Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own
Titians and Raphaels three or four,

I love so much their style and tone, ·
One Turner, and no more,

(A landscape, foreground golden dirt, — The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,

some fifty score

For daily use, and bound for wear;

The rest upon an upper floor;

Some little luxury there

Of red morocco's gilded gleam,

And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems, such things as these,

Which others often show for pride,

I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride ;

CONTENTMENT.

One Stradivarius, I confess,

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,

Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;-
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share, –
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,

Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,

Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

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