By loss of all things, by all others sought, ODE UPON LIBERTY. FREEDOM with Virtue takes her seat; Her Is in the golden mean, She lives not with the poor nor with the great. And they're in Fortune's bridewell whipt These are by various tyrants captive led. Like toilsome oxen, to the plough; And sometimes Lust, like the misguided light, If any few among the great there be From these insulting passions free, By custom, business, crowds, and formal decency And, wheresoe'er they stay, and wheresoe'er they go, These are the small uneasy things Which about greatness still are found, And rather it molest than wound: Like gnats, which too much heat of summer brings; But cares do swarm there, too, and those have stings: As, when the honey does too open lie, A thousand wasps about it fly: Nor will the master even to share admit ; The master stands aloof, and dares not taste of it. 'Tis morning well; I fain would yet sleep on : You cannot now; you must be gone To court, or to the noisy hall: Besides, the rooms without are crowded all; And a spring-tide of clients is come in. Ah cruel guards, which this poor prisoner keep! Make an escape; out at the postern flee, To thy bent mind some relaxation give, VOL. III. N Why, mighty madman, what should hinder thee In all the freeborn nations of the air, Never did bird a spirit so mean and sordid bear, Of soaring boldly up into the sky, Or the false forest of a well-hung room, Who keep your primitive powers and rights so well, Of all material lives the highest place To you is justly given; And ways and walks the nearest heaven. Whilst wretched we, yet vain and proud, think fit None, but a few unhappy household fowl, Who from their birth corrupted were By bondage, and by man's example here. He's no small prince, who every day Thus to himself can say: Now will I sleep, now eat, now sit, now walk, Now meditate alone, now with acquaintance talk; This I will do, here I will stay, Or, if my fancy call me away, My man and I will presently go ride As if thy last thou wert to make, A hundred horse and men to wait on thee, What an unwieldy man thou art! A journey, too, might go. Where honour, or where conscience does not bind, No other law shall shackle me; Slave to myself I will not be, Nor shall my future actions be confin'd By my own present mind. Who by resolves and vows engag'd does stand Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his estate The bondman of the cloister so, All that he does receive, does always owe; Which his hours-work, as well as hours, does tell! If life should a well-order'd poem be (In which he only hits the white Who joins true profit with the best delight), Mine the Pindarick way I'll make ; The matter shall be grave, the numbers loose and free, In the same tune it shall not always chime, And yet shall manage all without offence Or to the sweetness of the sound or greatness of the sense; Nor shall it never from one subject start, Nor seek transitions to depart, Nor its set way o'er stiles and bridges make, |