Who Flies the Madden'd Storm

Who flies the madden'd storm, or fears the lightning's ire,
Should lurk in life's low vale, nor to proud heights aspire.
The lowly roof may stand by the fierce bolt unriven
When the loud tempest sends its mandate through the heaven,
And shakes the stubborn rocks that lift their heads on high,
Braving with granite crowns the blue and lofty sky ; —
It strikes the mighty tower, the monarch's citadel,
But spares the clay-built shed, where peace and meekness dwell.
Oh ! happy, happy he, whose generous soul can rise
Above the dross of wealth, or pomp, or vanities —
Scorn splendour, pleasure, fame ; and say with honest pride, —
I have ye not indeed, but yet am satisfied.