Those old credulities, to nature dear,
Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock
Of History, stript naked as a rock
‘Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear?
The glory of Infant Rome must disappear,
Her morning splendours vanish, and their place
Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face
With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer
Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow;
One solace yet remains for us who came
Into this world in days when story lacked
Severe research, that in our hearts we know
How, for exciting youth’s heroic flame,
Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth