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.