THE man of life upright,   Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds,   Or thought of vanity;

The man whose silent days   In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude,   Nor sorrow discontent;

That man needs neither towers   Nor armour for defence, Nor secret vaults to fly   From thunder's violence:

He only can behold   With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep   And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares   That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book,   His wisdom heavenly things;

Good thoughts his only friends,   His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn   And quiet pilgrimage.