The Mother left alone,-no helping hand To rock the cradle of her peevish babe; No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, Or in dispatch of each day's little growth Of household occupation; no nice arts Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire,
Where once the dinner was prepared with pride; Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind; Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command!
The Father, if perchance he still retain His old employments, goes to field or wood, No longer led or followed by his Sons;
Idlers perchance they were,-but in his sight; Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth "Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 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 depressed, dejected-even to love Of her dull tasks, and close captivity.
Oh, banish far such wisdom as condemns A native Briton to these inward chains, Fixed in his soul, so early and so deep; Without his own consent, or knowledge, fixed! 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 in the ancient woods; Or when the sun is rising in the heavens, 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, whitened 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 From out those languid eyes could break, or 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 Thus gone for ever, this organic frame, Which from Heaven's bounty we receive, instinct With light, and gladsome motions, soon becomes Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead: And even the touch, so exquisitely poured 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 exclaimed, "And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. Yet be it asked, in justice to our age,
If there were not, before those arts appeared, These structures rose, commingling old and young, And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint; Then if there were not, in our far-famed Isle, Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed Air unimprisoned, and had lived at large; Yet walked 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 own blanched hair Crowned like the image of fantastic Fear;
Or wearing, we might say in that white growth
An ill-adjusted turban, for defence
Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt brows, By savage Nature's unassisted care.
Naked, and coloured 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 framed to strike dismay; but the outstretched 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 dwell upon the skirts
Of furze-clad commons: and are born and reared
At the mine's mouth beneath impending rocks;
Or in the chambers of some natural cave;
And 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 Purloinca, 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. Upon the 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.
To Britons born and bred within the pale Of civil polity, and early trained
To earn, by wholesome labour in the field,
The bread they eat. A sample should I give Of what this stock produces to enrich
And beautify the tender age of life,
A sample fairly culled, 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: his joints are stiff; Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, Fellows to those which lustily upheld The wooden stools for everlasting use,
On which 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 caterpiller sheathed in ice? This torpor is no pitiable work
Of modern ingenuity; no town
Nor crowded city may be taxed with aught Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law,
To which in after years he may be roused. -This Boy the fields produce: his spade and hoe, The carter's whip which 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 uninformed as he? In brief, what liberty of mind is here?"
This cheerful sally pleased the mild good Man, To whom the appeal couched in those closing words Was pointedly addressed; and to the thoughts Which, in assent or opposition, rose
Within his mind, he seemed prepared to give Prompt utterance; but rising from our seat, The hospitable Vicar interposed
With invitation earnestly renewed.
-We followed, taking as he led, a path
Along a hedge of stately hollies framed,
Whose flexile boughs descending with a weight
Of leafy spray, concealed the stems and roots
That gave them nourishment. How sweet methought,
When the fierce wind comes howling from the north,
How grateful, this impenetrable screen!
-Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot
On rural business passing to and fro
Was the commodious walk: a careful hand
Had marked the line, and strewn the surface o'er
With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights
Fetched by the neighbouring brook.-Across the vale The stately fence accompanied our steps;
And thus the pathway, by perennial green
Guarded and graced, seemed fashioned to unite,
As by a beautiful yet solemn chain,
The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer.
Like image of solemnity, conjoined With feminine allurement soft and fair, The mansion's self displayed;-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 pillared porch, elaborately embossed; 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 adorned: 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 clasped 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 pass unnoticed leaving else The picture incomplete, as it appeared Before our eyes, a relique of old times Happily spared, a little Gothic niche
Of nicest workmanship; which once had held The sculptured image of some patron-saint, Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down
On all who entered those religious doors.
But lo! where from the rocky garden-mount Crowned by its antique summer-house-descends, Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl; For she hath recognised her honoured 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-need I tell the courteous guise In which the Lady of the place received Our little Band, with salutation meet To each accorded? Graceful was her port: A lofty stature undepressed by time, Whose visitation had not spared to touch The finer lineaments of frame 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, Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, And that full trim of inexperienced hope With which she left her haven-not for this, Should the sun strike her, and the impartial breeze Play on her streamers, doth she fail to assume Brightness and touching beauty of her own, That charm all eyes. So bright, to us, appeared This goodly Matron, shining in the beams Of unexpected pleasure.-Soon the board Was spread, and we partook a plain repast.
Here, in cool shelter, while the scorching heat Oppressed the fields, we sate, and entertained The mid-day hours with desultory talk; From trivial themes to general argument Passing, as accident or fancy led,
Or courtesy prescribed. While question rose And answer flowed, the fetters of reserve
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