C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

John Quincy Adams (1767–1848)

The Wants of Man

“MAN wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long.”

’Tis not, with me exactly so—

But ’tis so in the song.

My wants are many, and if told,

Would muster many a score;

And were each wish a mint of gold,

I still should long for more.

What first I want is daily bread,

And canvas-backs and wine;

And all the realms of nature spread

Before me when I dine;—

Four courses scarcely can provide

My appetite to quell,

With four choice cooks from France beside,

To dress my dinner well.

What next I want, at heavy cost,

Is elegant attire:

Black sable furs for winter’s frost,

And silks for summer’s fire,

And cashmere shawls and Brussels lace

My bosom’s front to deck;

And diamond rings my hands to grace,

And rubies for my neck.

And then I want a mansion fair,

A dwelling-house, in style,

Four stories high for wholesome air,—

A massive marble pile:

With halls for banquets and for balls,

All furnished rich and fine;

With stabled studs in fifty stalls,

And cellars for my wine.

I want a garden and a park

My dwelling to surround;

A thousand acres (bless the mark),

With walls encompassed round,

Where flocks may range and herds may low,

And kids and lambkins play,

And flowers and fruits commingled grow

All Eden to display.

I want, when summer’s foliage falls,

And autumn strips the trees,

A house within the city’s walls

For comfort and for ease;—

But here, as space is somewhat scant

And acres rather rare,

My house in town I only want

To occupy—a square.

I want a steward, butler, cooks,

A coachman, footman, grooms,

A library of well-bound books,

And picture-garnished rooms—

Correggio’s ‘Magdalen’ and ‘Night,’

The ‘Matron of the Chair,’

Guido’s fleet coursers in their flight,

And Claudes at least a pair.

I want a cabinet profuse

Of medals, coins, and gems;

A printing-press for private use

Of fifty thousand ems;

And plants and minerals and shells,

Worms, insects, fishes, birds,

And every beast on earth that dwells,

In solitude or herds.

I want a board of burnished plate

Of silver and of gold,

Tureens of twenty pounds in weight

With sculpture’s richest mold;

Plateaus with chandeliers and lamps,

Plates, dishes all the same;

And porcelain vases with the stamps

Of Sèvres or Angoulême.

And maples of fair glossy stain

Must form my chamber doors,

And carpets of the Wilton grain

Must cover all my floors.

My walls, with tapestry bedecked,

Must never be outdone;

And damask curtains must protect

Their colors from the sun.

And mirrors of the largest pane

From Venice must be brought;

And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane

For chairs and tables bought;

On all the mantelpieces, clocks

Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand,

And screens of ebony and box

Invite the stranger’s hand.

I want (who does not want?) a wife,

Affectionate and fair;

To solace all the woes of life,

And all its joys to share;

Of temper sweet, of yielding will,

Of firm yet placid mind;

With all my faults to love me still

With sentiment refined.

And as Time’s car incessant runs

And Fortune fills my store,

I want of daughters and of sons

From eight to half a score.

I want (alas! can mortal dare

Such bliss on earth to crave?)

That all the girls be chaste and fair,

The boys all wise and brave.

And when my bosom’s darling sings

With melody divine,

A pedal harp of many strings

Must with her voice combine.

A piano, exquisitely wrought,

Must open stand, apart,

That all my daughters may be taught

To win the stranger’s heart.

My wife and daughters will desire

Refreshment from perfumes,

Cosmetic for the skin require

And artificial blooms.

The civet, fragrance shall dispense

And treasured sweets return;

Cologne revive the flagging sense,

And smoking amber burn.

And when, at night, my weary head

Begins to droop and doze,

A southern chamber holds my bed

For nature’s soft repose;

With blankets, counterpanes, and sheet,

Mattress and bed of down,

And comfortables for my feet,

And pillows for my crown.

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 a kind and tender heart,

For others’ wants to feel;

A soul secure from Fortune’s dart,

And bosom armed with steel

To bear divine chastisement’s rod;

And mingling in my plan,

Submission to the will of God

With charity to man.

I want a keen, observing eye;

An ever listening ear,

The truth through all disguise to spy,

And wisdom’s voice to hear;

A tongue to speak at virtue’s need,

In Heaven’s sublimest strain;

And lips, the cause of man to plead,

And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health

Throughout my long career;

And streams of never-failing wealth

To scatter far and near,

The destitute to clothe and feed,

Free bounty to bestow,

Supply the helpless orphan’s need,

And soothe the widow’s woe.

I want the genius to conceive,

The talents to unfold

Designs, the vicious to retrieve,

The virtuous to uphold;

Inventive power, combining skill;

A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mold the will

And reach from pole to pole.

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,

By day, by night, to ply the task

Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise

To follow me behind;

And to be thought in future days

The friend of human-kind:

That after ages, as they rise,

Exulting may proclaim,

In choral union to the skies,

Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man;

I cannot want them long—

For life itself is but a span

And earthly bliss a song.

My last great want, absorbing all,

Is, when beneath the sod,

And summoned to my final call—

The mercy of my God.

And oh! while circles in my veins

Of life the purple stream,

And yet a fragment small remains

Of nature’s transient dream,

My soul, in humble hope unscared,

Forget not thou to pray,

That this thy want may be prepared

To meet the Judgment Day.

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