When The Rough Storm Roars Round The Peasant'S Cot, And Bursting Thunders Roll Their Awful Din; While Shrieks The Frighted Night-Bird O'Er The Spot, Oh! What Serenity Remains Within! For There Contentment, Health, And Peace, Abide, And Pillow'D Age, With Calm Eye Fix'D Above; Labour'S Bold Son, His Blithe And Blooming Bride, And Lisping Innocence, And Filial Love. To Such A Scene Let Proud Ambition Turn, Whose Aching Breast Conceals Its Secret Woe; Then Shall His Fireful Spirit Melt, And Mourn The Mild Enjoyments It Can Never Know; Then Shall He Feel The Littleness Of State, And Sigh That Fortune E'Er Had Made Him Great.