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 flow’d, –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 Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.–In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
- England, 1802 (V)
- Epistle - To Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From The South-West Coast Or Cumberland - 1811
- Epitaph - In The Chapel - Yard Of Langdale, Westmoreland
- Epitaphs 1810. Translated From Chiabrera I. Weep Not, Beloved Friends! Nor Let The Air
- Epitaphs II. Perhaps Some Needful Service Of The State
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