What, if no grievous fears their lives annoy,
Is it not worse no prospects to enjoy? 
’Tis cheerless living in such bounded view,
With nothing dreadful, but with nothing new;
Nothing to bring them joy, to make them weep, —
The day itself is, like the night, asleep;
Or on the sameness if a break be made,
’Tis by some pauper to his grave convey’d;
By smuggled news from neighb’ring village told,
News never true, or truth a twelvemonth old;
By some new inmate doom’d with them to dwell,
Or justice come to see that all goes well;
Or change of room, or hour of leave to crawl
On the black footway winding with the wall,
Till the stern bell forbids, or master’s sterner call. 
   Here too the mother sees her children train’d,
Her voice excluded and her feelings pain’d: 
Who govern here, by general rules must move,
Where ruthless custom rends the bond of love. 
Nations we know have nature’s law transgress’d,
And snatch’d the infant from the parent’s breast;
But still for public good the boy was train’d,
The mother suffer’d, but the matron gain’d: 
Here nature’s outrage serves no cause to aid;
The ill is felt, but not the Spartan made. 
   Then too I own, it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for care and industry approved,
For truth respected, and for temper loved;
And who, by sickness and misfortune tried,
Gave want its worth and poverty its pride: 
I own it grieves me to behold them sent
From their old home; ’tis pain, ’tis punishment,
To leave each scene familiar, every face,
For a new people and a stranger race;
For those who, sunk in sloth and dead to shame,
From scenes of guilt with daring spirits came;
Men, just and guileless, at such manners start,
And bless their God that time has fenced their heart,
Confirm’d their virtue, and expell’d the fear
Of vice in minds so simple and sincere. 
   Here the good pauper, losing all the praise
By worthy deeds acquired in better days,
Breathes a few months, then, to his chamber led,
Expires, while strangers prattle round his bed. 
   The grateful hunter, when his horse is old,
Wills not the useless favourite to be sold;
He knows his former worth, and gives him place
In some fair pasture, till he runs his race: 
But has the labourer, has the seaman done
Less worthy service, though not dealt to one? 
Shall we not then contribute to their ease,
In their old haunts, where ancient objects please? 
That, till their sight shall fail them, they may trace
The well-known prospect and the long-loved face. 
   The noble oak, in distant ages seen,
With far-stretch’d boughs and foliage fresh and green,
Though now its bare and forky branches show
How much it lacks the vital warmth below,
The stately ruin yet our wonder gains,
Nay, moves our pity, without thought of pains: