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10.

COMPOSER IN THE

VALLEY, near DOVER,
On the Day of landing.

Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.

The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound

Of Bells, those Boys that in yon meadow-ground

In white sleev'd shirts are playing by the score,

And even this little River's gentle roar,

All, all are English. Oft have I look'd round

With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found

Myself so satisfied in heart before.

Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,

Thought for another moment. Thou art free

My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride

For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass

Of England once again, and hear and see,

With such a dear companion at my side.

n.

September, 180*.

Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood,

And saw, 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

Only the Nations shall be great and free.

12.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON
OF 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-soul'd 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!

13.

WRITTEN IN LONDON,

September, 1802.

0 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 shew ; mean handywork 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, expence.

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.

14.

LONDON,

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 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 chearful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

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