Sonnet Lvii. To Dependence

DEPENDENCE! heavy, heavy are thy chains, And happier they who from the dangerous sea, 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.