Classic Poem

Ye may pass me by with pitying eye,
And cry, “Poor captive thing!”
But I'll prove ye are caged as safely as I,
If ye'll hearken the notes I sing.

I flutter in thrall, and so do all;—
Ye have bonds ye cannot escape,
With only a little wider range,
And bars of another shape.

The noble ranks of fashion and birth
Are fettered by courtly rule;
They dare not rend the shackles that tend
To form the knave and fool,

The parasite, bound to kiss the hand
That, perchance, he may lothe to touch;
The maiden, high-born, wedding where she may scorn,
Oh! has earth worse chains than such?

The one who lives but to gather up wealth,
Though great his treasures may be,
Yet, guarding with care and counting by stealth,—
What a captive wretch is he!

The vainly proud, who turn from the crowd,
And tremble lest they spoil
The feathers of the peacock plume
With a low plebeian soil;—

Oh! joy is mine to see them strut
In their chosen narrow space;
They mount a perch, but ye need not search
For a closer prison place.

The being of fitful curbless wrath
May fiercely stamp and rave;
He will call himself free, but there cannot be
More mean and piteous slave;—

For the greatest victim, the fastest bound,
Is the one who serves his rage:
The temper that governs will ever be found
A fearful torture cage.

Each breathing spirit is chastened down
By the hated or the dear;
The gentle smile or tyrant frown
Will hold ye in love or fear.

How much there is self-will would do,
Were it not for the dire dismay
That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think
Of “What will my neighbor say?”

Then pity me not; for mark mankind
Of every rank and age;
Look close to the heart, and ye'll ever find,
That each is a bird in a cage.