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What though,
for showing truth to flattered state,
Kind Hunt was
shut in prison, yet has he,
In his immortal spirit,
been as free
As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?
Think you
he nought but prison-walls did see,
Till, so
unwilling, thou unturnedst the key?
Ah, no! far
happier, nobler was his fate!
In Spenser's halls he
strayed, and bowers fair,
Culling enchanted flowers;
and he flew
With daring Milton through the fields of
air:
To regions of his own his genius true
Took
happy flights. Who shall his fame impair
When thou
art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
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