On Poverty

THERE's no ill on Earth which mortals fly With so much dread, as abject Poverty. O despicable name! We thee to shun, On every other evil blindly run. For fear of thee, distrustful Niggards go In tatter'd rags, and starve their bodies too; And still are poor, for fear of being so. For fear of thee, the trader swears and vows His wares are good, altho' his conscience knows That he hath us'd his utmost art and skill, Their faults and imperfections to conceal. The sailor terrify'd with thoughts of thee, Boldly attempts the dangers of the sea: From East to West, o'er rocks and quick-sands steers, 'Tis Poverty, 'tis that alone he fears. The soldier too, whom nought but thee can scare, In hopes of plunder, bravely meets the war: To fly from Poverty, he runs on death, And shews he prizes riches more than breath. Strange terror of mankind! by thee misled, Not conscience, quick-sands, rocks, or death, they dread; And yet thou art no formidable foe, Except to little souls, who think thee so. 'Tis only the imagination, that The blunted edge of Poverty can whet. 'Tis servile fear that does us most affect; 'Tis that transforms a shadow to a ghost. Thus when a tim'rous man, in fears grown old, Reminds the Fairy Tales his nurse has told; In the dark night he oft will sideways squint, And see's a Gobling, when there's nothing in't.

Contented Poverty's no dismal thing, Free from the cares unwieldy riches bring: At distance both alike deceive our view, Nearer approach'd, they take another hue. The poor Man's Labour relishes his meat; His morsel's pleasant, and his rest is sweet. The little, nature craves, we find with ease; Too much but surfeit into a disease: And what we have, more than we can enjoy, Instead of satisfying, does but cloy.

But should we in another prospect take it; Was Poverty so hideous as they make it; That steady Man is worthy of our praise, Who in distress, or pinch'd with hunger, says, Let Poverty, or Want, be what it will, It does proceed from God, therefore's no ill. How does his great heroic soul aspire Above that sordid wealth the rest admire! His noble thoughts are fix'd on things above, Where by true faith, he sees the God of love Hold forth th' attractive prize, which makes him run His moral race, to gain th' immortal crown. Not all the snares a crafty Devil can lay, Can intercept, or stop him in his way; His God-like soul pursues the thing that's good, And soars above the common multitude.

Not all the scornful insults of the proud, Nor censures of the base and groveling crowd Nor Poverty, in all her terrors drest, Can shake the solid quiet of his breast. Unmov'd he stands, against his worst of foes, And mocks the darts which adverse fortune throws; Calm and compos'd amidst or ease or pain, Enjoys that true content, which others seek in vain.

So stands a fix'd rock, lofty and steep, Within the confines of the briny deep: Lash'd by the foaming surges on each side, Yet can't be shaken by th' indignant tide.

Then why should phantoms discompose the mind, Or woes, so far from real, fright mankind? Since wealth is but imaginary fame, Since Poverty is nothing but a name; Since both from God's unerring hand are sent, Lord, give me neither, give me but content.