How blest is the mortal who never reposes
In seat of the scorner, nor roams o’er the ground,
Where Pleasure is strewing her thorn-covered roses.
And waving her gay silken banners around.
Who worships his Maker when evening is throwing
Her somberest shadows o’er mountain and lea;
And kneels in devotion when daylight is glowing,
And gilding the waves of the dark rolling sea.
He shall be like a tree on the calm river waving,
That riseth all glorious all lovely to view,
Whose deeply fix’d root the pure waters are laving,
Whose boughs are enriched with the kindliest dew.
Not so the ungodly! his fate shall resemble
The chaff by autumnal winds wafted away;
And when life’s fading lamp in its socket shall tremble
Shall look to the judgment with fear and dismay!