THE martial courage of a day is vain,
An empty noise of death the battle's roar,
If vital hope be wanting to restore,
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
A weight of hostile corses; drenched with gore
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain.
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast)
Austria a daughter of her Throne hath sold!
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold,
To think that such assurance can stand fast!
More verses by William Wordsworth
- The Morning Of The Day Appointed For A General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816
- The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria della Grazia—Milan
- Translation Of Part Of The First Book Of The Aeneid
- The Waggoner - Canto Second
- To Lady Eleanor Butler And The Honourable Miss Ponsonby,