Ungrateful Country, if thou e’er forget
The sons who for thy civil rights have bled!
How, like a Roman, Sidney bowed his head,
And Russel’s milder blood the scaffold wet;
But these had fallen for profitless regret
Had not thy holy Church her champions bred,
And claims from other worlds inspirited
The star of Liberty to rise. Nor yet
(Grave this within thy heart!) if spiritual things
Be lost, through apathy, or scorn, or fear,
Shalt thou thy humbler franchises support,
However hardly won or justly dear:
What came from heaven to heaven by nature clings,
And, if dissevered thence, its course is short.
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
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