Whose very soul is moulded to the yoke,
And stamp’d with servitude. What! is it life
Thus at a breeze to start, to school thy voice
Into low fearful whispers, and to cast
Pale jealous looks around thee, lest, e’en then,
Strangers should catch its echo?—Is there aught
In this so precious, that thy furrow’d cheek
Is blanch’d with terror at the passing thought
Of hazarding some few and evil days,
Which drag thus poorly on?