THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE
CONTENTMENT

THE MOTHER BY THE CRADLE.

Sleep, baby boy, sleep sweet, secure;
Thy father’s very miniature!
That art thou, though thy father goes
And says that thou hast not his nose.

This very moment here was he,
His face o’er thine did pose
And said—Much has he sure of me,
But no, ‘tis not my nose.

I think myself, it is too small,
But it is his nose after all;
For if thy nose his nose be not,
Whence came the nose that thou hast got?

Sleep, boy! thy father only chose
To tease me—that’s his part!
Never you mind about his nose,
But see you have his heart.

CONTENTMENT.

I am content. In triumph’s tone
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.

The Mogul’s gold, the Sultan’s show,
The hero’s bliss, who, vext
To find no other world below,
Up to the moon looked next—
I’d none of them; for things like that
Are only fit for laughing at.

My motto is—Content with this.
Gold—rank—I prize not such.
That which I have, my measure is;
Wise men desire not much.
Men wish and wish, and have their will,
And wish again, as hungry still.

And gold or honour, though it rings,
Is but a brittle glass;
Experience of changing things
Might teach a very ass!
Right often Many turns to None,
And honour has but a short run.

To do right, to be good and clear,
Is more than rank and gold;
Then art thou always of good cheer,
And blisses hast untold;
Then art thou with thyself at one,
And hatest no man, fearest none.

I am content. In triumph’s tone,
My song, let people know!
And many a mighty man, with throne
And sceptre, is not so.
And if he is, why then, I cry,
The man is just the same as I.