Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/301

BOOK X.] Now was I from that pleasant station torn

And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced,

Yea, afterwards—truth most painful to record!—

Exulted, in the triumph of my soul,

When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown,

Left without glory on the field, or driven,

Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief,—

Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that,—

A conflict of sensations without name,

Of which he only, who may love the sight

Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge,

When, in the congregation bending all

To their great Father, prayers were offered up,

Or praises for our country's victories;

And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance

I only, like an uninvited guest

Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall I add,

Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come.

Oh! much have they to account for, who could tear,

By violence, at one decisive rent,

From the best youth in England their dear pride,

Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time

In which worst losses easily might wean

The best of names, when patriotic love