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Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime

I tremble at the sorrow of the time.

The reference is to Napoleon.--ED.

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Vanguard of Liberty, ye men of Kent,

Ye children of a Soil that doth advance
Her haughty brow against the coast of France,
Now is the time to prove your hardiment!
To France be words of invitation sent!

They from their fields can see the countenance
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance,
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.
Left single, in bold parley, ye, of yore,
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;
Confirmed the charters that were yours before ;-
No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;
We all are with you now from shore to shore :—
Ye men of Kent, 'tis victory or death!

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Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Tried men, at Killicranky were arrayed
Against an equal host that wore the plaid,
Shepherds and herdsmen.-Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry, thundering down his mountain-road,
Was stopped, and could not breathe beneath the load
Of the dead bodies.-'Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry

Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.

O for a single hour of that Dundee

Who on that day the word of onset gave!

Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her foes find a like inglorious grave.

The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, A.D. 1803':—“Thursday, September 8th. Before breakfast we walked to the Pass of Killicrankie. Α very fine scene; the river Garry forcing its way down a deep chasm between rocks, at the foot of high rugged hills covered with wood, to a great height. The pass did not, however, impress us with awe, or a sensation of difficulty or danger, according to our expectations; but, the road being at a considerable height on the side of the hill, we at first only looked into the dell or chasm. It is much grander seen from below, near the river's bed. Everybody knows that this Pass is famous in military history. When we were travelling in Scotland, an invasion was hourly looked for, and one could not but think with some regret of the times when, from the now depopulated Highlands forty or fifty thousand men might have been poured down for the defence of the country, under such leaders as the Marquis of Montrose or the brave man who had so distinguished himself upon the ground where we were standing. I will transcribe a sonnet suggested to William by this place, and written in Oct. 1803."-ED.

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Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!

On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,

And left them lying in the silent sun,

Never to rise again!—the work is done.

Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show

And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow!

Make merry, wives! ye little children, stun

Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise ! 1
Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be

1

1807.

with transports of your own.

That triumph, when the very worst, the pain.
And even the prospect of our brethren slain,
Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:—
In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.

This sonnet, as the title indicates, does not refer to an actual victory; because, since the Norman conquest, no "invaders" have ever set foot "on British ground." It was written-like the two preceding sonnets, and the one that follows it-"in anticipation" of Napoleon's project for the invasion of England being actually carried out. But it was never realised. The assembling of the immense French army destined for this purpose-one of the finest brought together since the days of the Roman legions-between the mouths of the Seine and the Texel, roused the spirit of English patriotism as it had never been roused before. Three hundred thousand volunteers were enlisted by the 10th of August 1803; "all the male population of the kingdom from seventeen years of age to fifty-five were divided into classes to be successively armed and exercised" (Dyer). The story of the failure of Napoleon's scheme for the conquest of England is too well known to be repeated in this note. Wordsworth seems to have written his sonnet in anticipation of what he believed to be the inevitable issue of events, had the French army actually landed on British soil.-ED.

LINES ON THE EXPECTED INVASION, 1803.

Comp. 1803.

Pub. 1845.

Come ye-who, if (which Heaven avert !) the Land
Were with herself at strife, would take your stand,

Like gallant Falkland, by the Monarch's side,
And, like Montrose, make Loyalty your pride-
Come ye—who, not less zealous, might display
Banners at enmity with regal sway,

And, like the Pyms and Miltons of that day,
Think that a State would live in sounder health
If Kingship bowed its head to Commonwealth—
Ye too-whom no discreditable fear

Would keep, perhaps with many a fruitless tear,
Uncertain what to choose and how to steer—

And ye-who might mistake for sober sense
And wise reserve the plea of indolence-
Come ye-whate'er your creed-O waken all,
Whate'er your temper, at your Country's call;
Resolving (this a free-born Nation can)
To have one Soul, and perish to a man,
Or save this honoured Land from every Lord
But British reason and the British sword.

THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE.

Comp. 1803.

Pub. 1815.

[The character of this man was described to me, and the incident upon which the verses turn was told me, by Mr Poole of Nether Stowey, with whom I became acquainted through our common friend, S. T. Coleridge. During my residence at Alfoxden, I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the course of his daily life, especially his conduct to his labourers and poor neighbours; their virtues he carefully encouraged, and weighed their faults in the scales of charity. If I seem in these verses to have treated the weaknesses of the farmer and his transgressions too tenderly, it may in part be ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. After his death was found in his escritoir, a lock of grey hair carefully preserved, with a notice that it had been cut from the head of his faithful shepherd, who had served him for a length of years. I need scarcely add that he felt for all men as his brothers. He was much beloved by distinguished persons-Mr Coleridge, Mr Southey, Sir H. Davy, and many others; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to the "Reverie of Poor Susan."]

'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind,
And the small critic wielding his delicate pen,
That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men.

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He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town;
His staff is a sceptre-his grey hairs a crown:
And his bright eyes look brighter-set off by the streak
Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek.1

'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn,-'mid the joy
Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy;
That countenance there fashioned,2 which, spite of a stain
That his life hath received, to the last will remain.

A Farmer he was; and his house far and near
Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer:
How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale

Of the silver-rimmed horn whence he dealt his mild ale :3

Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin,

His fields seemed to know what their Master was doing;

And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea,

All caught the infection—as generous as he.

Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl,-
The fields better suited the ease of his soul:

He strayed through the fields like an indolent wight,
The quiet of nature was Adam's delight.

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Erect as a sunflower he stands, and the streak
Of the unfaded rose is expressed on his cheek.
Of the unfaded rose still enlivens his cheek.

There fashioned that countenance,

1815.

1815.

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