WHEN fallen man from Paradise was driven, 
Forth to a world of labour, death, and care; 
Still, of his native Eden, bounteous Heaven 
Resolved one brief memorial to spare, 
And gave his offspring an imperfect share 
Of that lost happiness, amid decay; 
Making their first approach to life seem fair, 
And giving, for the Eden past away, 
CHILDHOOD, the weary life's long happy holyday. 
II.

Sacred to heavenly peace, those years remain! 
And when with clouds their dawn is overcast, 
Unnatural seem the sorrow and the pain 
(Which rosy joy flies forth to banish fast, 
Because that season's sadness may not last). 
Light is their grief! a word of fondness cheers 
The unhaunted heart; the shadow glideth past; 
Unknown to them the weight of boding fears, 
And soft as dew on flowers their bright, ungrieving tears. 
III.

See the Stage-Wonder (taught to earn its bread 
By the exertion of an infant skill), 
Forsake the wholesome slumbers of its bed, 
And mime, obedient to the public will. 
Where is the heart so cold that does not thrill 
With a vexatious sympathy, to see 
That child prepare to play its part, and still 
With simulated airs of gaiety 
Rise to the dangerous rope, and bend the supple knee? 
IV.

Painted and spangled, trembling there it stands, 
Glances below for friend or father's face, 
Then lifts its small round arms and feeble hands 
With the taught movements of an artist's grace: 
Leaves its uncertain gilded resting-place-- 
Springs lightly as the elastic cord gives way-- 
And runs along with scarce perceptible pace-- 
Like a bright bird upon a waving spray, 
Fluttering and sinking still, whene'er the branches play. 
V.

Now watch! a joyless and distorted smile 
Its innocent lips assume; (the dancer's leer!) 
Conquering its terror for a little while: 
Then lets the TRUTH OF INFANCY appear, 
And with a stare of numbed and childish fear 
Looks sadly towards the audience come to gaze 
On the unwonted skill which costs so dear, 
While still the applauding crowd, with pleased amaze, 
Ring through its dizzy ears unwelcome shouts of praise. 
VI.

What is it makes us feel relieved to see 
That hapless little dancer reach the ground; 
With its whole spirit's elasticity 
Thrown into one glad, safe, triumphant bound? 
Why are we sad, when, as it gazes round 
At that wide sea of paint, and gauze, and plumes, 
(Once more awake to sense, and sight, and sound,) 
The nature of its age it re-assumes, 
And one spontaneous smile at length its face illumes? 
VII.

Because we feel, for Childhood's years and strength, 
Unnatural and hard the task hath been;-- 
Because our sickened souls revolt at length, 
And ask what infant-innocence may mean, 
Thus toiling through the artificial scene;-- 
Because at that word, CHILDHOOD, start to birth 
All dreams of hope and happiness serene-- 
All thoughts of innocent joy that visit earth-- 
Prayer--slumber--fondness--smiles--and hours of rosy mirth. 
VIII.

And therefore when we hear the shrill faint cries 
Which mark the wanderings of the little sweep; 
Or when, with glittering teeth and sunny eyes, 
The boy-Italian's voice, so soft and deep, 
Asks alms for his poor marmoset asleep; 
They fill our hearts with pitying regret, 
Those little vagrants doomed so soon to weep-- 
As though a term of joy for all was set, 
And that their share of Life's long suffering was not yet. 
IX.

Ever a toiling child doth make us sad: 
'T is an unnatural and mournful sight, 
Because we feel their smiles should be so glad, 
Because we know their eyes should be so bright. 
What is it, then, when, tasked beyond their might, 
They labour all day long for others' gain,-- 
Nay, trespass on the still and pleasant night, 
While uncompleted hours of toil remain? 
Poor little FACTORY SLAVES--for You these lines complain! 
X.

Beyond all sorrow which the wanderer knows, 
Is that these little pent-up wretches feel; 
Where the air thick and close and stagnant grows, 
And the low whirring of the incessant wheel 
Dizzies the head, and makes the senses reel: 
There, shut for ever from the gladdening sky, 
Vice premature and Care's corroding seal 
Stamp on each sallow cheek their hateful die, 
Line the smooth open brow, and sink the saddened eye. 
XI.

For them the fervid summer only brings 
A double curse of stifling withering heat; 
For them no flowers spring up, no wild bird sings, 
No moss-grown walks refresh their weary feet;-- 
No river's murmuring sound;--no wood-walk, sweet 
With many a flower the learned slight and pass;-- 
Nor meadow, with pale cowslips thickly set 
Amid the soft leaves of its tufted grass,-- 
Lure them a childish stock of treasures to amass.