William Wordsworth

“ A stir of mind too natural to deceive;
Giving the memory help when she could weave
A crown for Hope!—I dread the boasted
lights
That all too often are but fiery blights,
Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. ”

“ And some unbidden tears that rise
For names once heard, and heard no more;
Tears brightened by the serenade
For infant in the cradle laid.
Hail ancient Manners! sure defence,
Where they survive, of wholesome laws ”