Poems (Cook)/The Happy Mind

by Eliza Cook

THE HAPPY MIND.

Out upon the calf, I say,
Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay
 Because it is not clover.
Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find
Something fair and something kind,
 All the wide world over.

'Tis passing good to have an eye
That always manages to spy
Some star to bear it company,
 Though planets may be hidden.
And Mrs. Eve was foolish, very,
Not to be well content and merry
With peach, plum, melon, grape, and cherry,
 When apples were forbidden.

We love fair flowers, but suppose
We're far from Italy's rich rose,—
Must we then turn up our nose
 At lilies of the valley!
Can't we snuff at something sweet,
In the "bough-pots" that we meet
Cried and sold in city street,
 By "Sally in our Alley!"

Give me the heart that spreads its wings
Like the free bird that soars and sings
And sees the bright side of all things,
 From Behring's Straits to Dover.
It is a bank that never breaks,
It is a store thief never takes,
It is a rock that never shakes,
 All the wide world over.

We like to give old care the slip,
And listen to the "crank and quip"
At social board from fluent lip,—
 No fellowship is better:
But he must lack the gentle grace
That marks the best of human race,
Who cannot see a friendly face
 In mastiff, hound, or setter.

Our hungry eyes may fondly wish
To revel amid flesh and fish,
And gloat upon the silver dish
 That holds a golden plover;
Yet if our table be but spread
With savory cheese and oaten bread,
Be thankful if we're always fed
 As well, the wide world over.

We may prefer Italian notes,
Or choose the melody that floats
About the gay Venetian boats,
 Half wild in our extolling:
But surely music may be found
When some rough, native harp unbound,
Strikes, up, like cherries "round and sound,"
 With English fol-de-rolling.

We may be poor—but then, I guess,
Our trouble with our pomp is less;
For they who wear a russet dress
 Need never fear the rumpling:
And though champagne froth never hums
Between our fingers and our thumbs,
Red apoplexy rarely comes
 To dine with plain stone dumpling.

Then out upon the calf, I say,
Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay
 Because it is not clover.
Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find
Something good and something kind
 All the wide world over.