Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/227

167 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,

Hopeless of honour and of gain,

Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;

Think not of me with grief and pain:

I now can see with better eyes;

And worldly grandeur I despise,

And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of Heaven have wings,

And blasts of Heaven will aid their flight;

They mount, how short a voyage brings

The Wanderers back to their delight!

Chains tie us down by land and sea;

And wishes, vain as mine, may be

All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,

Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;

Or thou upon a Desart thrown

Inheritest the Lion's Den;

Or hast been summoned to the Deep,

Thou, Thou and all thy mates, to keep

An incommunicable sleep.