William Wordsworth (Уильям Вордсворт)

To B. R. Haydon

HIGH is our calling, Friend!--Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned--to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,           
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness--
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

1. Ruth
2. The Cottager to Her Infant
3. Who Fancied What a Pretty Sight
4. A Fragment
5. To the Same Flower

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