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Who ponders National events shall findAn awful balancing of loss and gain,Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined,And proud deliverance issuing out of painAnd direful throes; as if the All-ruling Mind,With whose perfection it consists to ordainVolcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane,Dealt in like sort with feeble human kindBy laws immutable. But woe for himWho thus … [Read more...] about Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 – V – Continued, By: William Wordsworth

Portentous change when History can appearAs the cool Advocate of foul device;Reckless audacity extol, and jeerAt consciences perplexed with scruples nice!They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneerBorn of Conceit, Power's blind Idolater;Or haply sprung from vaunting CowardiceBetrayed by mockery of holy fear.Hath it not long been said the wrath of ManWorks not the righteousness … [Read more...] about Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 – IV – In Allusion To Various Recent Histories And Notices Of The French Revolution, By: William Wordsworth

Feel for the wrongs to universal kenDaily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies;And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den,Whether conducted to the spot by sighsAnd moanings, or he dwells (as if the wrenTaught him concealment) hidden from all eyesIn silence and the awful modestiesOf sorrow; feel for all, as brother Men!Rest not in hope want's icy chain to thawBy casual boons and … [Read more...] about Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 – III – Feel For The Wrongs To Universal Ken, By: William Wordsworth

The most alluring clouds that mount the skyOwe to a troubled element their forms,Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eyeWe watch their splendour, shall we covet storms,And wish the Lord of day his slow declineWould hasten, that such pomp may float on high?Behold, already they forget to shine,Dissolve and leave, to him who gazed, a sigh.Not loth to thank each moment for its … [Read more...] about Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 – II – The Most Alluring Clouds That Mount The Sky, By: William Wordsworth

'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school,Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staffWhich Art hath lodged within his hand must laughBy precept only, and shed tears by rule.Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff,And let the groveler sip his stagnant pool,In fear that else, when Critics grave and coolHave killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.How does the Meadow-flower … [Read more...] about Miscellaneous Sonnets, 1842 – I – ‘A Poet’! He Hath Put His Heart To School, By: William Wordsworth