Thy cautious tongue and sober lip
No words of folly pass,
Nor, are they found to taste and sip
The madness of the glass.
Thy frugal meal is often drawn
From earth, and wood, and stone;
And when thy means by these are gone,
Thou seem’st to live on none.
I hear that in an earthen jar
Sealed close, shut up alive,
From food, drink, air, sun, moon and star,
Thou ’lt live and even thrive:
And that no moan, or murmuring sound
Will issue from the lid
Of thy dark dwelling under ground,
When it is deeply hid.
Thou hast, as ’t were, a secret shelf
Whereon is a supply,
Of nourishment within thyself,
Concealed from mortal eye.
Methinks this self-sustaining art
’T were well for us to know,
To keep us up in flesh and heart,
When outer means grow low.
Could we contain our riches thus,
On such mysterious shelves,
Why, none could rob or beggar us;
Unless we lost ourselves!
But ah! my Toadie, there ’s the rub,
With every human breast—
To live as in the cynic’s tub,
And yet be self-possessed!
For, how to let no boast get round
Beyond our tub, to show
That we in head and heart are sound,
Is one great thing to know.
And yet, the prison-staves and hoop
To let no murmur through,
However hard we find the coop,
Is greater still to do.