The Meditation. Poem by Henry Baker

If Wealth produc'd Content, if Heaps of Gold
Could Happiness insure, I too would toil,
And break my Rest: wou'd seek the busy World
And bustle thro' the Crowd; no Labour spare,
No Danger shun, but resolute, through all
Urge on, impetuous, 'till I might obtain
An ample store of Metal: Fortune's Smiles
Would court, obsequious, and to her prefer
My daily Adorations.-- --But since she,
With all her Gifts of Power, Wealth, and Name,
From Care and Wretchedness cannot secure
Her darling Minions: Since that gawdy Glare
Which strikes the vulgar Eye, is all a vain
Imaginary Good: Since Gold increas'd,
Is but increas'd Anxiety, and Power
To endless Fears obnoxious; much more blest
Beneath this spreading Beech, am I than He
Whose Brows a Coronet circles. Here, unknown,
Unenvy'd, undisturb'd, the Muse and I
Enjoy an humble Quiet: O you Powers
All--over--ruling! long may we enjoy
This humble Quiet, lowly, yet content!

And, thou, my Muse! Companion best belov'd!
Remote from Courts and Noise, still, still, may'st thou
Chant forth thy Strains, harmonious, in the Praise
Of Virtue, and of Beauty: but not deign,
O never may'st thou deign to sooth the Great!
Or stoop to servile Flattery!--sincere,
Honest, without Ambition, still bestow,
What little Share of Fame thou canst bestow,
On those who best deserve! where Virtue calls,
Or Beauty shines, or Gratitude inspires.