Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/421

395 Of this unhappy lot, in early youth

We both have witnessed, lot which I myself

Shared, though in mild and merciful degree:

Yet was my mind to hindrances exposed,

Through which I struggled, not without distress

And sometimes injury, like a Sheep enthralled

Mid thorns and brambles; or a Bird that breaks

Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind,

Though with her plumes impaired. If they, whose souls

Should open while they range the richer fields

Of merry England, are obstructed less

By indigence, their ignorance is not less

Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt

That tens of thousands at this day exist

Such as the Boy you painted, lineal Heirs

Of those who once were Vassals of her soil,

Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees

Which it sustained. But no one takes delight

In this oppression; none are proud of it;

It bears no sounding name nor ever bore;

A standing grievance, an indigenous vice

Of every country under heaven. My thoughts

Were turned to evils that are new and chosen,