The New York Packet

POET's CORNER.

Written at an Inn on a particular occasion

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire,
From flattery, fasting, dice and din:
Nor art thou found in domes much higher,
Than the low cot, or humble Inn.

'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champaign;
For Freedom crowns it at an Inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an Inn.

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me Freedom at an Inn.

And now once more I shape my way
Through rain or shine, through thick and thin;
Secure to meet, at close of day,
With kind reception at an Inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his various tour has been,
May sigh to think how oft he found
His warmest welcome at an Inn.