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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.

Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men !
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ;-
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and Man's unconquerable mind.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1802.

And saw,

INLAND, within a hollow Vale, I stood ;

while sea was calm and air was clear, The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair, A span of waters; yet what power is there! What mightiness for evil and for good! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and Waters roll, Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul

nly the Nations shall be great and free.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF

SWITZERLAND.

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against Him ; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left!
For, high-sould Maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1802.

Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee : she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bowe
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again ;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea :
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

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VANGUARD of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,
Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance
Her haughty brow against the coast of France,
Now is the time to prove your hardiment!
To France be words of invitation sent!

They from their Fields can see the countenance
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance,
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.
Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore,
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ;
Confirm’d the charters that were yours before ;-
No parleying now! In Britain is one breath ;
We all are with you now from Shore to Shore :-
Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death!

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