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THE WANTS OF MAN
BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS
“ Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long." 'T is not with me exactly so;
But 't is so in the song.
Would muster many a score;
I still should long for more.
What first I want is daily bread
And canvas-backs - and wine
Before me, when I dine.
My appetite to quell;
To dress my dinner well.
What next I want, at princely cost,
Is elegant attire:
And silks for summer's fire,
My bosom's front to deck,
I want (who does not want?) a wife,
Affectionate and fair;
And all its joys to share.
Of firm, yet placid mind, -
With sentiment refined.
And as Time's car incessant runs,
And Fortune fills my store,
From eight to half a score.
Such bliss on earth to crave?)
The boys all wise and brave.
I want a warm and faithful friend,
To cheer the adverse hour; Who ne'er to flatter will descend,
Nor bend the knee to power, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,
My inmost soul to see; And that my friendship prove as strong
For him as his for me.
I want the seals of power and place,
The ensigns of command; Charged by the People's unbought grace To rule my native land.
Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask
But from my country's will,
Her cup of bliss to fill.
I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,
The friend of human kind,
Exulting may proclaim
Their blessings on my name.
These are the Wants of mortal Man,
I cannot want them long,
And earthly bliss a song.
Is, when beneath the sod,
The Mercy of my God.
ROCK ME TO SLEEP
BY ELIZABETH ANN AKERS
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
SHE AND HE
BY EDWIN ARNOLD
“She is dead!” they said to him.
“Come away; Kiss her! and leave her! — thy love is clay!” They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair: Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;