Ode upon Liberty, VI

If Life should a well-ordered poem be (In which he only hits the white Who joins true profit with the best delight), The more heroic strain let others take, Mine the Pindaric way I’ll make, The matter shall be grave, the numbers loose and free. It shall not keep one settled pace of time, In the same tune it shall not always chime, Nor shall each day just to his neighbour rhyme. A thousand liberties it shall dispense, And yet shall manage all without offence Or to the sweetness of the sound, or greatness of the sense; Nor shall it never from one subject start, Nor seek transitions to depart, Nor its set way o’er stiles and bridges make, Nor thorough lanes a compass take As if it feared some trespass to commit, When the wide air’s a road for it. So time imperial eagle does not stay Till the whole carcase he devour That’s fallen into its power; As if his generous hunger understood That he can never want plenty of food, He only sucks the tasteful blood, And to fresh game flies cheerfully away; To kites and meaner birds he leaves the mangled prey.