The Philosopher Poem by Samuel Bowden

The Philosopher



Happy the Man, old Solon cry'd,
Who with his farm content,
Can smile at Croesus' pomp and pride,
From his low tenement.


Who can at freedom range the wood,
Or rest upon a rock;
Can at some fountain take his food,
Or tend his fleecy flock.


Harmless and innocent as they,
And free from clam'rous strife,
He reads or sings the time away,
And tastes the sweets of life.


Happy the man, say all the wise,
Who wears a chearful mien,
Scorns to be govern'd by the skies,
Or clouded by the spleen.


Whose thoughts, free, open, unconfin'd,
Are void of all deceit;
Where reason only rules the mind,
And keeps her God-like seat.


Smooth thro' his heart glides soft repose,
No storms that seat surprize;
Calm as the stream which by him flows,
Or cavern where he lies.


On Virtue's turret rais'd he stands,
And crowds beneath him sees;
Firm as a pile on rocky lands,
Sublime as cedar trees.


No dangers fright his steady soul,
Nor discompose his rest;
Let the earth shake, or thunders roll,
'Tis sun-shine in his breast.


Thus unconcern'd, Fabricius sat,
When Pyrrhus plac'd, unseen,
The monster arm'd in dreadful state,
Behind the Roman's screen.


Sedate, and steady as before,
He saw the beast appear,
And o'er his head, with hideous roar,
His great proboscis rear.

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