How blest, my soul, how blest are those
Who pass a life in such repose;
Who still in rural shades abide,
Where all their hours thus smoothly glide;
Whose humble aims no higher tend,
Than to enjoy a book and friend;
Whom anxious projects ne'er molest,
Nor war nor love disturb their rest;
Who form no wish of rising higher,
But learn betimes to check desire;
Whose happy and yet humble state
Provokes no threatening frowns of Fate:
So humble shrubs in safety grow,
When storms the lofty pine o'erthrow.