COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER

BRIDGE SEPT. 3 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 5 Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; 10 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

(1807)

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my Country! - am I to be blamed? Now when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who
find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;
And I by my affection was beguiled.
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his mind,
Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

(1807)

10

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 5 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;

10

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!

(1807)

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US

The world is too much with us: late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 6
And are up-gathered now like sleeping
flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.- Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

ΤΟ