Are at his heart; and such fidelity It is his darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love:-- ’Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye, Or left unthought-of in obscurity,-- Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won: Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is He That every Man in arms should wish to be. _William Wordsworth._ XXXVIII AFTER WATERLOO Who to the murmurs of an earthly string Of Britain’s acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tell Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell: Of One that, ’mid the failing, never failed-- Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity; Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, All martial duties to fulfill; Firm as a rock in stationary fight; In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam; Fierce as a flood-gate bursting in the night To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream-- Woe, woe to all that face her in the field! Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield. _William Wordsworth._ XXXIX MERRY ENGLAND They called Thee MERRY ENGLAND in old time, A happy people won for thee that name With envy heard in many a distant clime, And, spite of change, for me thou keep’st the same Endearing title, a responsive chime To the heart’s fond belief: though some there are Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare For inattentive Fancy, like the lime Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, This face of rural beauty be a mask For discontent, and poverty, and crime; These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? Forbid it, Heaven!--and MERRY ENGLAND still Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme! _William Wordsworth._ XL HOPE