Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/397

371 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

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,