Poem by William Wordsworth

Monastery of Old Bangor

THE OPPRESSION of the tumult, wrath and scorn,
The tribulation, and the gleaming blades,—
Such is the impetuous spirit that pervades
The song of Taliesin; ours shall mourn
The unarmed host who by their prayers would turn
The sword from Bangor’s walls, and guard the store
Of aboriginal and Roman lore,
And Christian monuments, that now must burn
To senseless ashes. Mark! how all things swerve
From their known course, or vanish like a dream;
Another language spreads from coast to coast;
Only perchance some melancholy stream
And some indignant hills old names preserve,
When laws and creeds and people all are lost!

1. Calais
2. On Approaching Home after a Tour in Scotland
3. Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend in the Vale of Grasmere
4. To ———
5. Methought I Saw the Footsteps of a Throne

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