XVIII

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 favors; 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 phrenzy and in drunken mirth,
  Impatient to put out the only light
  Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth!

• About William Wordsworth