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Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame,Part from thee without pity dyed in shame:I could not while from Venice we withdrew,Led on till an Alpine strait confined our viewWithin its depths, and to the shore we cameOf Lago Morto, dreary sight and name,Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw,Italia! on the surface of … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXV. – After Leaving Italy, By: William Wordsworth

See, where his difficult way that Old Man winsBent by a load of Mulberry leaves! most hardAppears 'his' lot, to the small Worm's compared,For whom his toil with early day begins.Acknowledging no task-master, at will(As if her labour and her ease were twins)'She' seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.So fare they, the Man serving … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXIV. – In Lombardy, By: William Wordsworth

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwineAltars that piety neglects;Whose infant arms enclasp the shrineWhich no devotion now respects;If not a straggler from the herdHere ruminate, nor shrouded bird,Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take prideIn aught that ye would grace or hideHow sadly is your love misplaced,Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXIII. – Among The Ruins Of A Convent In The Apennines, By: William Wordsworth

Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee;Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and fleeTo thy protection for a safe abode.The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,The meek, benign, and lacerated face,To a sincere repentance promise grace,To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,My … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXII. – At Florence – From M. Angelo, By: William Wordsworth

Rapt above earth by power of one fair face,Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,I mingle with the blest on those pure heightsWhere Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.With Him who made the Work that Work accordsSo well, that by its help and through his graceI raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.Thus, if from two fair … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XXI. – At Florence – From Michael Angelo, By: William Wordsworth