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Happy the man that, when his day is done, / Lies down to sleep with nothing of regret -- / The battle he has fought may not be won -- / The fame he sought be just as fleeting yet; / Folding at last his hands upon his breast, / Happy is he, if hoary and forespent, / He sinks into the last, eternal rest, / Breathing these only works: "I am content."
But happier he, that, while his blood is warm, / See hopes and friendships dead about him lie -- / Bares his brave breast to envy's bitter storm, / Nor shuns the poison barbs of calumny; / And 'mid it all, stands sturdy and elate, / Girt only in the armor God hath meant / For him who 'neath the buffetings of fate / Can say to God and man: "I am content. "