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.