COMPOSED UPON WESTMIN-
STER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802
[Publ. 1807]

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,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, 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 splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
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!

COMPOSED BY THE SEASIDE, NEAR CALAIS, August 1802

[Publ. 1807]

FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country!- on the horizon's brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to

sink

On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,

Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,

Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest

In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.

Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! — I, with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here.

"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE" [Publ. 1807]

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the
Sea:

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with
me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not.

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

[Publ. 1807]

ONCE 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 de-
cay;

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.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE

[Publ. 1807]

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men! Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough

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:

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.

IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802

[Publ. 1807]

This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and parade of our own country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the revolution had produced in France.

O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman,
cook,

Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household
laws.

LONDON, 1802 [Publ. 1807]

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

bower,

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.

"IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF "

[Publ. 1807]

It 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
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the
tongue

That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold

Which Milton held. In everything we are