Thomas Gent

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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;
Labor'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 it's 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.