Page:The Excursion, Wordsworth, 1814.djvu/269

243 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale,

Whether their course be turbulent or smooth,

Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost

Within the bosom of yon chrystal Lake,

And end their journey in the same repose!

And blest are they who sleep; and we that know,

While in a spot like this we breathe and walk,

That All beneath us by the wings are covered

Of motherly Humanity, outspread

And gathering all within their tender shade,

Though loth and slow to come! A battle-field,

In stillness left when slaughter is no more,

With this compared, is a strange spectacle!

A rueful sight the wild shore strewn with wrecks

And trod by people in afflicted quest

Of friends and kindred, whom the angry Sea

Restores not to their prayer! Ah! who would think

That all the scattered subjects which compose

Earth's melancholy vision through the space

Of all her climes; these wretched—these depraved,

To virtue lost, insensible of peace,

From the delights of charity cut off,