Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee, And was the safeguard of the West; the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest child of liberty. She was a maiden City, bright and free; 5 No guile seduced, no force could violate; And when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea. And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,-- 10 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great has passed away. _William Wordsworth._ CCX _COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802._ Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West, Star of my country!--on the horizon’s brink Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest, Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 5 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink, Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies. 10 Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, One life, one glory! I with many a fear For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, Among men who do not love her, linger here. _William Wordsworth._ CCXI _NOVEMBER, 1806._ Another year!--another deadly blow! Another mighty empire overthrown! And we are left, or shall be left, alone; The last that dare to struggle with the foe. ’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5 That in ourselves our safety must be sought; That by our own right hands it must be wrought; That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low. O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10 Be men who hold its many blessings dear, Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band, Who are to judge of danger which they fear, And honour which they do not understand. _William Wordsworth._ CCXII _THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE._ Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, 5 The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast. Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; 10 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.