It is important to note that these are not stanzas of a single
poem, rather they are three independant
sonnets (each titled
October 1803)written around the same time, a few months after war broke out in May between
England and
Napoleon's French troops. This event must have weighed heavily in
Wordsworth's mind as he wrote these lines.
One might believe that
natural miseries
Had blasted France, and made of it
a land
Unfit for men; and that in one great band
Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.
But 'tis a
chosen soil, where sun and breeze
Shed gentle favours: rural works are there,
And
ordinary business without care;
Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
How piteous then that there should be such
dearth
Of knowledge; that whole
myriads should unite
To work against themselves such fell despite:
Should come in
phrensy and in
drunken mirth,
Impatient to put out the only light
Of
Liberty that yet remains on earth!
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay:
Even
rich men, brave by nature, taint the air
With words of
apprehension and
despair:
While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,
Men unto whom sufficient for the day
And minds not stinted or untilled are given,
Sound, healthy,
children of the God of
heaven,
Are cheerful as the
rising sun in May.
What do we gather hence but firmer
faith
That every
gift of noble origin
Is breathed upon by
Hope's perpetual breath;
That
virtue and the faculties within
Are vital,--and that riches are akin
To fear, to change, to
cowardice, and death?
When, looking on
the present face of things,
I see
one Man,
of men the meanest too!
Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo,
With
mighty Nations for his underlings,
The great events with which old story rings
Seem vain and hollow;
I find nothing great:
Nothing is left which I can venerate;
So that a doubt almost within me springs
Of
Providence, such emptiness at length
Seems
at the heart of all things. But,
great God!
I measure back the steps which I have trod:
And tremble, seeing
whence proceeds the strength
Of such poor Instruments, with
thoughts sublime
I tremble at
the sorrow of the time.