William Wordsworth

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

Where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die, Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!

To the solid ground Of Nature trusts the mind that builds for aye.

As if the man had fixed his face, In many a solitary place, Against the wind and open sky!

That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.