This evil vexed not Courthope’s happy ways,
Who wants no extra coat on coldest days. 
His face, his walk, his dress—­whate’er you scan,
He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman. 
Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears
The hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears.

Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know,
While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow,
Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey;
For him e’en Leech will work a good half day;
He strives to hide the fear he still must feel,
Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.

Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires
True genius kindles and fair fame inspires;
Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas,
And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees;
Should such a man, couched on his easy throne,
(Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone;
View every virgin with distrustful eyes,
And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize,
Alike averse to blame, or to commend,
Not quite their foe, but something less than friend;
Dreading e’en widows, when by these besieged;
And so obliging, that he ne’er obliged;
Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws,
And sits, and meditates on Salic laws;
While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise,
And spinsters wonder at his works and ways;
Who would not smile if such a man there be? 
Who would not weep if Atticus were he?

Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they,
On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray;
Who find in Duty’s path unmixed delight,
And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right;
Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share,
Unsought for blessings, like the light and air,
And grateful even for the ills they bear;
Wedded or single, taking nought amiss,
And learning that Content is more than Bliss.

Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine,
Be no unpleasing melancholy mine. 
As rolling years disclose the will of Fate,
I see you wedded to some equal mate;
Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys,
A heap of troubles, but a host of joys. 
On sights like these, should length of days attend,
Still may good luck pursue you to the end;
Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store;
Still make you, what you would be, more and more;
Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene,
Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.

YOUNG ENGLAND.

The times still “grow to something strange”;
   We rap and turn the tables;
We fire our guns at awful range;
   We lay Atlantic cables;
We bore the hills, we bridge the seas—­
   To me ’tis better far
To sit before my fire at ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

We start gigantic bubble schemes,—­
   Whoever can invent ’em!—­
How splendid the prospectus seems,
   With int’rest cent. per centum
His shares the holder, startled, sees
   At eighty below par: 
I dawdle to my club at ease,
   And light a mild cigar.