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464                                   Written at an Inn at Henley

TO thee, fair freedom! I retire
   From flattery, cards, and dice, and din:
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
   Than the low cott, or humble inn.
’Tis here, with boundless pow’r, I reign;
   And ev’ry health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champaigne;
   Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
   Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store;
   It buys me freedom, at an inn.
And now once more I shape my way
   Thro’ rain or shine, thro’ thick or thin,
Secure to meet, at close of day,
   With kind reception, at an inn.

Whoe’er has travell’d life’s dull round,
   Where’er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
   The warmest welcome, at an inn.


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