Poem by William Wordsworth

To the Memory of Raisley Calvert

CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem--
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,             
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;--
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.

1. To B. R. Haydon
2. The Horn of Egremont Castle
3. Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture Painted by Sir G. H. Beaumont, Bart
4. Stanzas Written in My Pocket Copy of Thomson’s “Castle of Indolence”
5. Alice Fell, or Poverty

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