 | The poetical works of William Wordsworth |  |
I.
“Rest, rest, perturbèd Earth!O rest, thou doleful Mother of Mankind!”
A Spirit sang in tones more plaintive than the wind:
“From regions where no evil thing has birth
I come—thy stains to wash away,
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And open thy sad eyes upon a milder day.
The Heavens are thronged with martyrs that have risen
From out thy noisome prison;
The penal caverns groan
With tens of thousands rent from off the tree
Of hopeful life,—by battle's whirlwind blown
Into the deserts of Eternity.
Unpitied havoc! Victims unlamented!
But not on high, where madness is resented,
And murder causes some sad tears to flow,
Though, from the widely-sweeping blow,
The choirs of Angels spread, triumphantly augmented.
| The poetical works of William Wordsworth | |