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.