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Forget not: in Thy book record their groans

Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold

Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

The triple tyrant: that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

John Milton


NIANS IN 1895?

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HAT profits it, О England, to prevail

In arts and arms, and mighty realms subdue,
And ocean with thine argosies bestrew,
And wrest thy tribute from each golden gale,
If idly thou must harken to the wail
Of women martyred by the turbaned crew
Whose tenderest mercy was the sword that slew,
And hazard not the denting of thy mail?
We deemed of old thou held’st a charge from Him
Who sits companioned by His seraphim,
To smite the wronger with thy destined rod.
Wait'st thou His sign? Enough, the unanswered cry
Of virgin souls for vengeance, and on high
The gathering blackness of the frown of God!

William Watson

1 Reprinted through special arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.




NCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;

And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
She was a maiden city, bright and free;
No guile seduced, no force could violate;
And, when she took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great is passed away.

William Wordsworth

1 By Napoleon, in 1797. Parts of the sonnet are illustrated by the ollowing extract from a letter dated July 1, 1621: “These wishes come o you from Venice, a place where there is nothing wanting that heart an wish; renowned Venice, the admired'st city in the world, a city that 11 Europe is bound unto, for she is her greatest rampart against that uge Eastern tyrant, the Turk, by sea; else, I believe, he had overrun 11 Christendom by this time. Against him this city hath performed lotable exploits, and not only against him, but divers others; she hath estored emperors to their thrones, and popes to their chairs, and with er galleys often preserved St. Peter's bark from sinking; for which, y way of reward, one of his successors espoused her to the sea, which carriage is solemnly renewed every year in solemn procession by the Doge and all the Clarissimos, and a gold ring cast into the sea out f the great Galeasse, called the Bucentoro, wherein the first ceremony vas performed by the pope himself, above three hundred years since, nd they say it is the self-same vessel still, though often put upon areen, and trimmed” (James Howell to Dr. Francis Mansell).




WO 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-souled 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



TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!

Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plow
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed 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:

i By the French, in 1798.

2 A negro, born a slave in San Domingo. He acquired an education, took part in the disturbances beginning with an insurrection of blacks in 1791, and ten years later had made himself master of the island-at the time a titular French possession. Napoleon determined to assert French supremacy Fierce warfare ensued. In the end L'Ouverture was treacherously seized and conveyed to France, where he died in a prison on April 27, 1803 Wordsworth's sonnet was written in August, 1802.

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



is not to be thought of that the Flood

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armory of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

William Wordsworth


NOTHER year!—another deadly blow!

Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.

1 Dated November, 1806. Occasioned by Napoleon's victory at Jena and the consequent downfall of Prussia. French troops entered Berlin on October 26.

'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honor which they do not understand.

William Wordsworth



GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain

And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
Of that Man's mind—what can it be? what food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

William Wordsworth

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