Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount ‘duty’ that Heaven lays,
For its own honour, on man’s suffering heart.
Never may from our souls one truth depart,
That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor touched with due abhorrence of ‘their’ guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity,
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog