To Louisa Morgan

How blest is he who in his age, exempt From fortune's frowns, and from the troublous strife Of storms that harass still the private life, "Below ambition, and above contempt," Hath gain'd a quiet harbour, where he may Look back on shipwrecks past, without a sigh For busier scenes, and hope's gay dreams gone by! And such a nook of blessedness, they say, Your Sire at length has found; while you, best Child, Content in his contentment, acquiesce In patient toils; and in a station less, Than you might image, when your prospects smiled. In your meek virtues there is found a calm, That on his life's soft evening sheds a balm.