A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations / Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

by Unknown

CONTENT.

But godliness, with contentment, is great gain.

For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out.

And having food and raiment, let us be therewith content.—I. Timothy, vi. 6, 7, 8.

I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.—Philippians, iv. 11.

Let your conversation be without covetousness; and be content with such things as ye have: for He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.—Hebrews, xiii. 5.

Poor and content is rich and rich enough.

Shakspere.

My conscience is my crown,

Contented thoughts my rest;

My heart is happy in itself,

My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth,

A mean the surest lot;

That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy’s shot.

Robert Southwell.

Though still thou get’st, yet is thy want not spent,

But, as thy wealth, so grows thy wealthy itch;

But with my little I have much content—

Content hath all; and who hath all, is rich:

Then this in reason thou must needs confess—

If I have little, yet that thou hast less.

Whatever man possesses, God hath lent,

And to his audit liable is, ever,

To reckon how, and when, and where he spent;

Then this thou bragg’st—thou art a great receiver:

Little my debt, when little is my store—

The more thou hast, the debt still grows the more.

Phineas Fletcher.

I grieve, and dare not show my discontent;

I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;

I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,

I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate:

I am, and not, I freeze, and yet am burn’d,

Since from myself my other self I turn’d.

My care is like my shadow in the sun—

Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it;

Stands and lies by me, does what I have done,

This too-familiar care does make me rue it.

No means I find to rid him from my breast,

Till by the end of things it is suppress’d.

Some gentler passions slide into my mind,

For I am soft, and made of melting snow;

Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind,

Let me or float or sink, be high or low,

Or let me live with some more sweet content,

Or die, and so forget what love e’er meant.

Queen Elizabeth.

Welcome pure thoughts, welcome ye silent groves,

These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:

Now the wing’d people of the sky shall sing

My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:

A prayer book now shall be my looking-glass,

In which I will adore sweet virtue’s face.

Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,

No broken vows dwell here, no pale-faced fears:

Then here I’ll sit, and sigh my hot love’s folly,

And learn ’t affect an holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,

I’ll ne’er look for it but in Heaven again.

Sir Henry Wotton.

There’s discontent from sceptre to the swain,

And from the peasant to the king again.

Then whatsoever in thy will afflict thee,

Or in thy pleasure seem to contradict thee,

Give it a welcome as a wholesome friend,

That would instruct thee to a better end.

Since no condition from defect is free,

Think not to find what here can never be.

Alexander Nicholas.

Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy,

And look on riches with untainted eye.

To others let the glittering baubles fall,

Content shall place us far above them all.

Churchill.

O may I with myself agree,

And never covet what I see!

Content me with an humble shade;

My passions tamed, my wishes laid;

For while our wishes idly roll,

We banish quiet from the soul;

’Tis then we busy beat the air,

And misers gather wealth and care.

Dyer.

Happy is he, who, though the cup of bliss

Has ever shunn’d him when he thought to kiss,

Who still in abject poverty or pain,

Can count with pleasure what small joys remain;

Though, were his sight convey’d from zone to zone,

He would not find one spot of ground his own;

Yet as he looks around, he cries with glee,

These bounding prospects all are made for me:

For me yon waving fields their burden bear,

For me yon labourer guides the shining share;

While happy I, in idle ease recline,

And mark the glorious visions as they shine.

This is the charm, by sages often told,

Converting all it touches into gold.

Content can soothe, where’er by fortune placed,

Can rear a garden in the desert waste.

H. K. White.

O Thou, who kindly dost provide

For every creature’s want!

We bless Thee, God of Nature wide,

For all thy goodness lent;

And if it please Thee, Heavenly Guide,

May never worse be sent;

But whether granted, or denied,

Lord! bless us with content!

Burns.

There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy,

No chemic art can counterfeit;

It makes men rich in greatest poverty,

Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,

The homely whistle to sweet music’s strain;

Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent,

That much in little—all in nought—content.

Anon.

Ye venerable groves! whose open glades

Invite the musing wanderer to your shades,

Ye birds! whose honied notes enthral the ear,

Wake the bright morn, the darksome evening cheer,

Ye fountains! murmuring music as ye flow,

Ye flowers! that on their purple margins glow,

Ye winds! that o’er those flowers soft breathing play,

Calm the hot sky, and mitigate the day;—

Take me, O take me to your loved retreats;

All, all conspire to bless me with your sweets.

Here in your soft enclosure let me prove

The shade and silence of the life I love!

Not idle here;—for, as I rove along,

I form the verse, and meditate the song;

Or mend my mind by what the wise have taught,

Studious to be the very thing I ought

Here will I taste the blessings of content,

No hope shall flatter, and no fear torment:

Unlike the sea, the sport of every wind,

And rich with wrecks, the ruin of mankind,

My life an honest, humble praise shall claim,

As the small stream, scarce honoured with a name,

Whose gladdening waters through my garden play,

Give a few flowers to smile, then glide away.

Bishop Hurd.

The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they

That ever walk content with Nature’s way,

God’s goodness measuring bounty as it may;

For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,

Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,

Is with that wholesome office satisfied;

While unrepining sadness is allied

In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

Wordsworth.

Grant, gracious Lord, as through this troubled scene

I walk unsafely, stumbling as I go,

Glimpses of hope, the murky clouds between,

May break at times, and light the way below;

But if I may not such sweet solace find,

Give me a prayerful and contented mind.

Egone.