MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
    William Wordsworth wrote two different poems identified only by this name (and differentiated, I suppose, by the first words / lines.) You get to guess when and where they were composed.
O friend! I know not which way I must look
  For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
  To think that now our life is only drest
For show — mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook
  In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
  The wealthiest man among us is the best.
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore —
Plain living and high thinking are no more.
  The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
  And pure religion breathing household laws.

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