Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS

IN SERIES, 1821-22.

XXXII

          COLDLY we spake. The Saxons, overpowered
          By wrong triumphant through its own excess,
          From fields laid waste, from house and home devoured
          By flames, look up to heaven and crave redress
          From God's eternal justice. Pitiless
          Though men be, there are angels that can feel
          For wounds that death alone has power to heal,
          For penitent guilt, and innocent distress.
          And has a Champion risen in arms to try
          His Country's virtue, fought, and breathes no more;         10
          Him in their hearts the people canonize;
          And far above the mine's most precious ore
          The least small pittance of bare mould they prize
          Scooped from the sacred earth where his dear relics lie.


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