Poems (Angier)/Song of the Contented One
SONG OF THE CONTENTED ONE.
Once, in a quiet village home, This cheerful song was heard;The melody seemed sweeter far, Than carol of a bird;I paused and listened to the notes, As they stole, one by one;But I may not tell who tuned the lay That blithely thus begun:
"Contented, yes, contented— Why should I ask for more?Though all may call my stock but small, Say scanty is my store.A home where calm-browed Peace presides, Where Love holds gentle sway;Drives dark suspicion and distrust From heart and hearth away.
True, ours is not a dainty board, With foreign luxuries spread;But frugal is our daily fare— Old-fashioned, home-made bread; With treasures from the garden, field, Fruits, butter, milk, and meat,And be the table e'er so full, One more may find a seat.
Nor are these outward comforts all,— Our plain book-shelves are linedWith choicest, rarest gems of thought— Food for the deathless mind.These feasts of reason charm the taste, And inspiration give;A halo fling o'er household ways, And teach us how to live.
What though our parlor be not graced With costly works of art?Its walls are hung with pictured scenes, That waken in the heartFond memories of other times, Of sunny childhood's years;While gazing on them, eyes have oft Grown dim with gushing tears.
The rosy dawn of every morn That through my casement streams,Calls forth a song of praise to Him Who giveth sleep and dreams; And nightly with a prayer for all, I grateful seek my bed,With tender thoughts of Him, who had Not where to lay His head.
Come daily to our dear abode, Those bowed with secret care;And 'tis our highest, purest joy The mourner's grief to share;Their spirits cheer, whose cherished hopes Have known a withering blight;And tell them of His changeless love, Who makes the burden light.
Our sky is not a cloudless one, No mortal's e'er has been;But ever, in the darkest hour, Our Father's face is seen;When through the furnace walking, One with celestial formAssures us both shall work for good,— Life's sunshine and its storm.
Contented, yes, contented— Heaven grant that every homeMay shadow forth the perfect bliss Of that bright world to come; When naught but calm contentment reigns, All earth-born sorrows o'er;The soul's deep yearnings satisfied— What could it ask for more?"
The singer ceased—the song was done— It closed with that pure prayer;And now a hallowed spell seems left On this still evening air;I catch a glimpse of stars, that gleam In yon blue arch above;And fancy them the lamps that light Our Father's home of love.