  Let quiet people talk of peace— Contentment of the mind, But he who lives at perfect ease Can never bless mankind. If each no higher end should seek Than that which now he fills, But be content, subdued, and meek, 'Twould bring a thousand ills. Advancement then would have an end. Progression then would cease, Invention have no earnest friend, And science no increase. But Discontent, though called a fiend, Is progress in disguise, 'Tis this by which our end's attained, 'Tis this by which we rise. The pupil may surpass the sage If such his aim shall be, May fathom truths for many an age Were wrapped mystery. The genius may invent some plan To ease the laborer's toil, Or add facility for man To cultivate the soil. Contentment never did aspire To elevate mankind, It never raised the standard higher Of science or of mind. 'Tis Discontent that gains the prize In every useful art; Although it brings us tearful eyes And restlessness of heart; But then it has a sweet reward— Progression is the fruit, But some this sweetness have abhorred For others have the boot. For he who blesses most mankind, Himself is seldom blessed, And he whose deeds should be enshrined Will seldom be caressed. Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled, Our lives in quiet spent; For 'tis a truth that all the world Still thrives on Discontent. |
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