LIV.
Thus, for the most part, willing to obey,
Men rarely set Authority at naught:
Albeit a weaker or a worse than they
May hold the rule with such importance fraught;
And thus the peasant, from his cradle taught
That some must own, while some must till the land,
Rebels not—murmurs not—even in his thought.
Born to his lot, he bows to high command,
And guides the furrowing plough with a contented hand.
LV.
But, if the weight which habit renders light
Is made to gall the Serf who bends below—
The dog that watched and fawned, prepares to bite!
Too rashly strained, the cord snaps from the bow—
Too tightly curbed, the steeds their riders throw—
And so, (at first contented his fair state
Of customary servitude to know,)
Too harshly ruled, the poor man learns to hate
And curse the oppressive law that bids him serve the Great.
LVI.
Then first he asks his gloomy soul the Cause
Of his discomfort; suddenly compares—
Reflects—and with an angry spirit draws
The envious line between his lot and theirs,
Questioning the Justice of the unequal shares.
And from the gathering of this discontent,
Where there is strength, Revolt his standard rears;
Where there is weakness, evermore finds vent
The sharp annoying cry of sorrowful complaint.
