William Wordsworth

October 1803

ONE might believe that natural miseries
         Had blasted France, and made of it a land
         Unfit for men; and that in one great band
         Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.
         But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze
         Shed gentle favours: rural works are there,
         And ordinary business without care;
         Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
         How piteous then that there should be such dearth
         Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite        
         To work against themselves such fell despite:
         Should come in phrensy and in drunken mirth,
         Impatient to put out the only light
         Of Liberty that yet remains on earth!
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