Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/306

284 Such ghastly visions had I of despair

And tyranny, and implements of death;

And innocent victims sinking under fear,

And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer,

Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds

For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth

And levity in dungeons, where the dust

Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene

Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me

In long orations, which I strove to plead

Before unjust tribunals,—with a voice

Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,

Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt

In the last place of refuge—my own soul.

When I began in youth's delightful prime

To yield myself to Nature, when that strong

And holy passion overcame me first,

Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free

From its oppression. But, O Power Supreme!

Without Whose call this world would cease to breathe,

Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill

The veins that branch through every frame of life,

Making man what he is, creature divine,

In single or in social eminence,