Where kings have toil’d, and poets wrote for fame—

fame—

25

One sink of level avarice shall lie,

And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour’d die.

Yet think not, thus when freedom’s ills I state,

I mean to flatter kings, or court the great.

Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire,

Far from my bosom drive the low desire;

And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel

The rabble’s rage, and tyrant’s angry steel—

steel—

Thou transitory flower, alike undone

By proud contempt, or favour’s fostering sun—

sun—

Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure!

I only would repress them to secure;

For just experience tells, in every soil,

That those who think must govern those that toil—

toil—

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