Ne'er to return! That birthright now is lost.
Economists will tell you that the State

Thrives by the forfeiture, unfeeling thought,
And false as monstrous! Can the mother thrive
By the destruction of her innocent sons,
In whom a premature necessity

Blocks out the forms of Nature, preconsumes
The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up
The infant Being in itself, and makes
Its very Spring a season of decay!
The lot is wretched, the condition sad,
Whether a pining discontent survive,

And thirst for change; or habit hath subdued
The soul deprest, dejected-even to love
Of her close tasks and long captivity.

O, banish far such wisdom as condemns
A native Briton to these inward chains,
Fix'd in his soul, so early and so deep;
Without his own consent, or knowledge, fix'd!
He is a slave to whom release comes not,

And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns,
Is still a prisoner; when the wind is up

Among the clouds, and roars through th' ancient woods; Or when the Sun is shining in the East,

Quiet and calm. Behold him, in the school
Of his attainments? no; but with the air
Fanning his temples under heaven's blue arch.
His raiment, whiten'd o'er with cotton-flakes
Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes.
Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale,
His respiration quick and audible;

And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam
Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush
Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form,
Is that the countenance, and such the port,
Of no mean Being? one who should be clothed
With dignity befitting his proud hope;
Who, in his very childhood, should appear
Sublime from present purity and joy?
The limbs increase; but liberty of mind
Is gone for ever; and this organic frame,
So joyful in its motions, is become

Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead;
And even the touch, so exquisitely pour'd
Through the whole body, with a languid will
Performs its functions; rarely competent

To impress a vivid feeling on the mind
Of what there is delightful in the breeze,
The gentle visitations of the sun,

Or lapse of liquid element, by hand

Or foot or lip, in Summer's warmth, perceived.
Can hope look forward to a manhood raised
On such foundations?"

"Hope is none for him!"

The pale Recluse indignantly exclaim'd,
"And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep.
Yet be it ask'd, in justice to our age,

If there were not, before those arts appear'd,
These structures rose, commingling old and young,
And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint;
If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle,
Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed
Air unimprison'd, and had lived at large;
Yet walk'd beneath the Sun, in human shape,
As abject, as degraded? At this day,
Who shall enumerate the crazy huts
And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth
A ragged Offspring, with their upright hair
Crown'd like the image of fantastic Fear;

Or wearing, (shall we say?) in that white growth,
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence

Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows,
By savage Nature? Shrivell'd are their lips;
Naked, and colour'd like the soil, the feet
On which they stand; as if thereby they drew
Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots,
From earth, the common mother of us all.
Figure and mien, complexion and attire

Are leagued to strike dismay; but outstretch'd hand
And whining voice denote them supplicants
For the least boon that pity can bestow.

Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found;
And with their parents occupy the skirts

Of furze-clad commons; such are born and rear'd
At the mine's mouth under impending rocks;
Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave;

Or where their ancestors erected huts,

For the convenience of unlawful gain,

In forest purlieus; and the like are bred,

All England through, where nooks and slips of ground Purloin'd, in times less jealous than our own,

From the green margin of the public way,

A residence afford them, 'mid the bloom
And gaiety of cultivated fields.

Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale)
Do I remember oft-times to have seen

'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch,
Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand;
Then, following closely with the cloud of dust,
An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone
Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage.
Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin,
And, on the freight of merry passengers
Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed;
And spin-and pant- and overhead again,
Wild pursuivants! until their breath is lost,
Or bounty tires, and every face that smiled
Encouragement hath ceased to look that way.
But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe,
These, bred to little pleasure in themselves,
Are profitless to others.

Turn we, then,

To Britons born and bred within the pale
Of civil polity, and early train'd

To earn, by wholesome labour in the field,
The bread they eat. A sample should I give
Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich
The tender age of life, ye would exclaim,

Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes
Impart new gladness to the morning air?'
Forgive me if I venture to suspect

That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse,
Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints;
Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees
Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear,
Fellows to those that lustily upheld
The wooden stools for everlasting use,

Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow!

Under whose shaggy canopy are set

Two eyes-not dim, but of a healthy stare —
Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange, -
Proclaiming boldly that they never drew
A look or motion of intelligence

From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row,
Or puzzling through a primer, line by line,
Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last.

What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand,. What penetrating power of sun or breeze,

Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul
Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheath'd in ice?
This torpor is no pitiable work

Of modern ingenuity; no town

Nor crowded city can be tax'd with aught
Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law,
To which (and who can tell where or how soon?).
He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce:
His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe,
The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests
In air high-towering with a boorish pomp,
The sceptre of his sway, his country's name,
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools,
What have they done for him? And, let me ask,
For tens of thousands uninform'd as he?
In brief, what liberty of mind is here?"

This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man,
To whom th' appeal couch'd in its closing words
Was pointedly address'd; and to the thoughts
That, in assent or opposition, rose

Within his mind, he seem'd prepared to give
Prompt utterance; but the Vicar interposed
With invitation urgently renew'd.-
We follow'd, taking as he led, a path
Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall,

Whose flexile boughs, low bending with a weight

Of leafy spray, conceal'd the stems and roots

That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds Howl from the North, what kindly warmth, methought, Is here, how grateful this impervious screen!

Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot

On rural business passing to and fro

Was the commodious walk: a careful hand

Had mark'd the line, and strewn its surface o'er
With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights
Fetch'd by a neighbouring brook. Across the vale
The stately fence accompanied our steps;
And thus the pathway, by perennial green
Guarded and graced, seem'd fashion'd to unite,
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain,

The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer.
Like image of solemnity, conjoin'd

With feminine allurement soft and fair,
The mansion's self display'd; - a reverend pile,
With bold projections and recesses deep;
Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood

Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admire
The pillar'd porch, elaborately emboss'd;
The low wide windows with their mullions old;
The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone;
And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose,
By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers
And flowering shrubs, protected and adorn'd:
Profusion bright! and every flower assuming
A more than natural vividness of hue,
From unaffected contrast with the gloom
Of sober cypress, and the darker foil
Of yew, in which survived some traces, here
Not unbecoming, of grotesque device
And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof
Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore,
Blending their diverse foliage with the green
Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasp'd
The huge round chimneys, harbour of delight
For wren and redbreast, where they sit and sing
Their slender ditties when the trees are bare.
Nor must I leave untouch'd (the picture else
Were incomplete) a relique of old times
Happily spared, a little Gothic niche
Of nicest workmanship; that once had held
The sculptured image of some patron-saint,
Or of the blessèd Virgin, looking down
On all who enter'd those religious doors.

But, lo! where from the rocky garden-mount,
Crown'd by its antique summer-house, descends,
Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl;
For she hath recognised her honour'd friend,
The Wanderer ever welcome! A prompt kiss
The gladsome Child bestows at his request;
And, up the flowery lawn as we advance,
Hangs on the old Man with a happy look,
And with a pretty restless hand of love.
We enter, by the Lady of the place
Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port:
A lofty stature undepress'd by time,
Whose visitation had not wholly spared
The finer lineaments of form and face;

To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in And wisdom loves. But, when a stately ship

Sails in smooth weather by the placid coast
On homeward voyage, what if wind and wave,
And hardship undergone in various climes,