Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/246

 THOMAS CAMPION

The man whose silent days In harmless joys arc spent,

Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrow discontent,

That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence,

Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence:

He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes

The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings,

He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things,

Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age,

The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage.

��1 86 O come quickly!

NEVER weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled

breast

O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest'

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