Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/144

84 'Till, Hope-deserted, long in vain his breath

Implores the dreadful untried sleep of Death.

—Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine

Between interminable tracts of pine,

A Temple stands; which holds an awful shrine,

By an uncertain light revealed, that falls

On the mute Image and the troubled walls:

Pale, dreadful faces round the Shrine appear,

Abortive Joy, and Hope that works in fear;

While strives a secret Power to hush the crowd,

Pain's wild rebellious burst proclaims her rights aloud.

Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain

That views undimmed Ensiedlen's wretched fane.

Mid muttering prayers all sounds of torment meet,

Dire clap of hands, distracted chafe of feet;

While loud and dull ascends the weeping cry,

Surely in other thoughts contempt may die.

If the sad grave of human ignorance bear

One flower of hope—Oh, pass and leave it there.