The man of life upright,
Whose cheerful mind is free
From weight of impious deeds
and yoke of vanity;
The man whose silent days
In harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude,
Nor sorrows discontent;
That man needs neither towers,
Nor armour for defence,
Nor vaults his guilt to shroud
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,
His book the heavens he makes,
His wisdom heavenly things;
Good thoughts his surest friends,
His wealth a well-spent age,
The earth his sober inn
And quiet pilgrimage.
--Thomas Champion
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