by Charles Lamb (1775-1834)
The frugal snail, with forecast of repose,
Carries his house with him where’er he goes;
Peeps out,—and if there comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicile again.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn, – ’tis well, –
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He ’s his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o’ nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Wheresoe’er he roam, –
Knock when you will, – he ’s sure to be at home.
by Charles Lamb
What’s Life still changing ev’ry hour?
Tis all the seasons in a Day!
The Smile, the Tear, the Sun, the Show’r”
Tis now December, now tis May
At morn we hail some envied Queen;
At eve she sinks some Cottage guest;
Yet if contentment gilds the scene
Contentment makes the Cottage blest.
Who more than I, this truth can feel?
I feel it yet am charm’d to find
While thus I turn the spinning-wheel
The station humbles not the mind.
Ah no! in days of youth and health
Nature will smile tho’ fortune frown
Be this my song Content is wealth”
And duty ev’ry toil shall crown.