Ode: How lives the man, whose thoughts obey

I.
How lives the man, whose thoughts obey
Stern Custom's arbitrary sway?
He razes from his abject breast
The stamp by Nature's seal imprest;
He floats on Dissipation's tide,
Or cringes at the shrine of pride.
Sees as the Croud directs his eyes,
Or wears the garb of mean disguise,
Unconscious wastes his genial prime,
Still deeper plunged in guilt by time.

II.
When age steals on with tardy pace,
And bounds fantastic Pleasure's race,
No cheerful scene Reflection yields,
But dreary glades, or barren fields;
Avarice usurps his tortured mind,
He loathes the sun, and hates mankind.
On Him no pious Care attends,
To Him no fond Affection bends,
All view him with indignant gloom,
And wish him in the silent tomb.

III.
How lives the man, whose thoughts have broke
Imperious Custom's servile yoke?
Him Nature guiding by the hand,
Leads on where Truth and Reason stand;
Virtue her mantle round him flings,
And Honour waves her silver wings:
He dares not stoop to foreign laws,
But wisely courts his own applause:
Health beams delighted from his eye,
And Innocence walks smiling by.

IV.
When sinking in the vale of years
His head the hoary foliage bears,
Backward He casts his tranquil sight
And views each scene reflected bright;
No sullen damps his joy infest,
No plagues of Avarice tear his breast;
Him willing Duty hastes to serve,
And strains with zeal each labouring nerve,
While Love stands gazing on his face,
Intent the latent wish to trace.