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Poem by William Wordsworth
SACRED Religion! “mother of form and fear,” Dread arbitress of mutable respect, New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked, Or cease to please the fickle worshipper; Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here,) Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect Truth’s holy lamp, pure source of bright effect, Gifted to purge the vapory atmosphere That seeks to stifle it;—as in those days When this low pile a gospel teacher knew, Whose good works formed an endless retinue; A pastor such as Chaucer’s verse portrays, Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew, And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
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