For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CONTENT'S MISHAP:

A VERITABLE HISTORY.

BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE.

CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot
Beside a stream with music flowing,
Embower'd in shade—a verdant spot—
Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing.
There NATURE lavish of her store
Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain;
A soft entrancing aspect wore,
And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain.
Within the cot where dwelt the maid
PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion,
And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd,
But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion.
There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal
With simple food from NATURE'S bounty;
And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill
Of all the Doctors in the county.
One morning PRIDE, a city belle,
In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring,
The fragrant meads for once to smell,
That way had driven to take an airing.
By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down
A shower to cool the sultry weather,
When PRIDE protested with a frown,
'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather.
CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by,
And thither PRIDE her car directed:
Welcomed with homely courtesy,
She smiled to find her dress protected.
The first brief salutations o'er,
PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage,
Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor—
And turn'd her nose up at the pottage.
Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke:
"I wonder so genteel a maiden
Should dwell in this secluded nook,
As dull as ever hermit pray'd in.
'Tis shameful such a form and face
Should hide themselves in this mean hovel:
That so much loveliness and grace
Should with such stupid people grovel.
How would you grace those splendid halls
Where I and PLEASURE lead the million!
There you would shine at routes and balls,
Queen of the waltz and gay cotillion.
These humdrum folks you live with now
Are cut by all who aim at fashion:
To see you so beset, I vow,
It puts me quite into a passion.
Here's PEACE, a tiresome, dowdy thing,
Fit only for the chimney corner,
To listen while the crickets sing,
And teach the brats their Jacky Horner.
PLENTY is well enough 'tis true,
Where hungry peasants gorge their rations;
But her rude fare would never do,
For FASHION'S delicate collations.
And LOVE,—who once was all the rage,
And turn'd the heads of half the city,
Dealing his shafts on youth and age,
As you have learnt from many a ditty—
Has long been voted quite a bore,
He made so many a sad miscarriage;
And now, the part he play'd before,
CONVENIENCE takes at every marriage.
This rustic-looking, sheepish boy
I ne'er should dream was master CUPID,—
Whom once I knew so full of joy—
He looks so quiet and so stupid.
I cannot bear that you should dwell
In such a lonely sequestration,
When you might reign a city belle,
And taste the sweets of admiration.
Come then, nor longer tarry here
In this retreat so lone and dreary:
In PLEASURE'S brilliant throng appear,
Where TIME'S bright pinions never weary."
The artless nymph, ta'en unawares,
Was dazzled by PRIDE'S invitation;
But still she fear'd the City's snares,
And answer'd with great hesitation.
She said a happy life she led,
That care had ne'er her bosom enter'd
Tho' tenant of an humble shed,
Here all the joys she ask'd for centred.
But PRIDE protested 'twas a sin,
That so perversely she should prattle,
When HOPE, (the jade) who just dropp'd in
That moment—closed the wordy battle.
HOPE whisper'd in the maiden's ear—
What 'twas I never could discover,—
But from her beaming eye, 'twas clear
CONTENT'S resistance all was over.
Suffice to say, the car was brought,
The ladies in it soon were seated:
PRIDE took the reins, and quick as thought,
The valley from their vision fleeted.
'Tis true CONTENT some sorrow felt
At leaving PEACE and LOVE behind her;
But HOPE sat by, and fondly dwelt
On all the happiness design'd her.
* * * * *
Soon by Dame FASHION'S mystic aid
CONTENT became another creature;
Such art was in her form display'd,
She needed not the charms of nature.
* * * * *
Behold our country maiden now!
In PLEASURE'S train a gay attendant;
Before her throng'd admirers bow;
Her beauty was pronounced transcendent.
In every scene where PLEASURE reign'd
CONTENT was found, a radiant charmer;
And while the novelty remain'd,
Her wild career did not alarm her.
Months pass'd in one continued round
Of parties, balls, and routes and levees,
And tired CONTENT at length had found
No happiness in PLEASURE'S bevies.
Jaded in this unceasing maze,
Her eye grew dim, her cheek grew pallid:
PRIDE only could her spirits raise,
And oft her melancholy rallied.
But long even PRIDE could not hold out;
Sorely the maid her change repented—
Her dreams had all been put to route—
CONTENT was sadly discontented.
One morning HOPE, who scarce had seen
The maiden since she sought the City,
To make a flying call, popp'd in,—
And saw her alter'd looks with pity.
"Ah faithless HOPE!" exclaim'd CONTENT:
"Why did you flatter and deceive me—
Why urge the step I now repent,
And be the first to scorn and leave me.
Oh, but for you, deceitful friend,
I still had lived untouched by SORROW,
Where beauteous flowers their fragrance blend,
Nor blushes from cosmetics borrow.
I might have dwelt, a happy maid,
With PEACE and LOVE, in blest seclusion,
Afar from FASHION'S dull parade,
Her endless throngs of gay confusion.
Fain would I to my cottage fly,
But PRIDE resists, and SHAME upbraids me;
And PLEASURE, ever hovering nigh
With some delusive tale dissuades me."
HOPE, with a woman's ready wit,
From all reproach herself defended;
And forced her listner to admit
Her counsel "for the best" intended.
* * * * *
CONTENT at length "made up her mind"
('Gainst PRIDE'S usurp'd control rebelling,)
To leave the bustling town behind,
And seek again her humble dwelling.
'Twas a bright morn in early Spring,
When, HOPE her languid steps attending,
Through vales where birds were on the wing,
To that lone cot the maid was wending.
The sun shone bright on hill and lea,
The flowers from leafy shades were peeping;
The brook ran murmuring merrily,
And flocks were in the valleys leaping.
The Cottage reach'd, she met once more
The smile of PEACE, and LOVE'S embraces;
JOY lit the maiden's eye again,
And from her brow chased sorrow's traces.
Soon HEALTH return'd, with genial glow,
Her languid frame with strength induing,
The blood resumed its wonted flow,
The roses on her cheeks renewing.
HOPE views the change with fond delight;
Vows from CONTENT she ne'er will sever;
Controls each wild impassion'd flight,
And points where mercy beams forever.
What more could Providence bestow
To yield CONTENT an added blessing?
Each hour her heart's pure offerings flow,
To Heaven its gratitude addressing.
And ever since, CONTENT has dwelt
From the gay crowd, in vale secluded:—
Their joyless strife she once has felt,
And cannot be again deluded.
Oft have I seen the humble roof,
Where, with PEACE, LOVE and HOPE uniting,
She dwells, from worldly cares aloof,
Even while her story I am writing.

The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "My Life is Like the Summer Rose."