There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing space.
I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my race;
Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run;
She has caught me like a wild-goat, but she shall not catch my son.
He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf,
Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself.
Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss,
But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this.
Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains,
Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes;