Glitter-but undisturbing, undisturbed; As if their silent company were charged With peaceful admonitions for the heart Of all-beholding Man, earth's thoughtful lord; Then, in full many a region, once like this The assured domain of calm simplicity And pensive quiet, an unnatural light Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge; And at the appointed hour a bell is heard, Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll
That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest-- A local summons to unceasing toil!
Disgorged are now the ministers of day;
And, as they issue from the illumined pile,
A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door- And in the courts-and where the rumbling stream, That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels,
Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed
Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, Mother and little children, boys and girls, Enter, and each the wonted task resumes Within this temple, where is offered up To Gain, the master idol of the realm, Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old Our ancestors, within the still domain Of vast cathedral or conventual church, Their vigils kept; where tapers day and night On the dim altar burned continually,
In token that the House was evermore
Watching to God. Religious men were they; Nor would their reason, tutored to aspire Above this transitory world, allow
That there should pass a moment of the year, When in their land the Almighty's service ceased.
Triumph who will in these profaner rites Which we, a generation self-extolled, As zealously perform! I cannot share His proud complacency :-yet I exult, Casting reserve away, exult to see An intellectual mastery exercised O'er the blind elements; a purpose given, A perseverance fed; almost a soul
Imparted to brute matter. I rejoice,
Measuring the force of those gigantic powers
Which, by the thinking mind, have been compelled To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man.
For with the sense of admiration blends
The animating hope that time may come
When, strengthened, yet not dazzled, by the might Of this dominion over nature gained,
Men of all lands shall exercise the same
In due proportion to their country's need;
Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, All praise, all safety, and all happiness, Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves, Palmyra, central in the desert, fell;
And the Arts died by which they had been raised. -Call Archimedes from his buried tomb Upon the plain of vanished Syracuse, And feelingly the Sage shall make report How insecure, how baseless in itself, Is that Philosophy whose sway is framed For mere material instruments;-how weak Those arts, and high inventions, if unpropped By virtue.-He, with sighs of pensive grief, Amid his calm abstractions, would admit That not the slender privilege is theirs
To save themselves from blank forgetfulness!"
When from the Wanderer's lips these words had fallen,
I said, "And, did in truth these vaunted Arts Possess such privilege, how could we escape Regret and painful sadness, who revere And would preserve, as things above all price, The old domestic morals of the land, Her simple manners, and the stable worth That dignified and cheered a low estate? Oh! where is now the character of peace, Sobriety, and order, and chaste love,
And honest dealing, and untainted speech, And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer; That made the very thought of country-life A thought of refuge, for a mind detained Reluctantly amid the bustling crowd? Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept With conscientious reverence, as a day By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced Holy and blest? and where the winning grace Of all the lighter ornaments attached
To time and season, as the year rolled round?" "Fled!" was the Wanderer's passionate response, "Fled utterly! or only to be traced
In a few fortunate retreats like this;
Which I behold with trembling, when I think What lamentable change, a year-a month- May bring; that brook converting as it runs Into an instrument of deadly bane
For those, who, yet untempted to forsake The simple occupations of their sires, Drink the pure water of its innocent stream With lip almost as pure.-Domestic bliss, (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name)
How art thou blighted for the poor Man's heart Lo! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, The habitations empty! or perchance
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, Ilis 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 Purloined, 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,
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