Poem by William Wordsworth

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

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