Or the dark mine, procure with ceaseless pains
A hard-earn’d pittance–than who trust to thee!
More blest the hind, who from his bed of flock
Starts–when the birds of morn their summons give,
And waken’d by the lark–‘ the shepherd’s clock,’
Lives but to labour–labouring but to live.
More noble than the sycophant, whose art
Must heap with tawdry flowers thy hated shrine;
I envy not the meed thou canst impart
To crown his service–while, tho’ pride combine
With Fraud to crush me–my unfetter’d heart
Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine.

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