William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

TWO voices are there,—one is of the sea,

One of the mountains,—each a mighty voice;

In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven;

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;

For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be

That mountain floods should thunder as before,

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful voice be heard by thee!