From "The Village Minstrel"

There once were lanes in nature's freedom dropt,
There once were paths that every valley wound,—
Inclosure came, and every path was stopt;
Each tyrant fix'd his sign where paths were found,
To hint a trespass now who cross'd the ground:
Justice is made to speak as they command;
The high road now must be each stinted bound:
—Inclosure, thou'rt a curse upon the land,
And tasteless was the wretch who thy existence plann'd. ...

O England! Boasted land of liberty,
With strangers still thou mayst thy title own,
But they poor slaves the alteration see,
With many a loss to them the truth is known:
Like emigrating birds thy freedom's flown;
While mongrel clowns, low as their rooting plough,
Disdain thy laws to put in force their own;
And every village owns its tyrants now,
And parish-slaves must live as parish-kings allow.