Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/399

373 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