THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOL. 8 (Completed)

XXIII - AT THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES

[The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on theContinent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as areexpressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are toorecent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the beauty withwhich time and nature have invested the remains of our Convents andAbbeys. These verses, it will be observed, take up the beauty longbefore it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be among some ofthe desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.--I.F.]

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine

Altars that piety neglects;

Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine

Which no devotion now respects;

If not a straggler from the herd

Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird,

Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride

In aught that ye would grace or hide--

How sadly is your love misplaced,

Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!

Ye, too,[157] wild Flowers! that no one heeds,

And ye--full often spurned as weeds--

In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness

From fractured arch and mouldering wall--

Do but more touchingly recal

Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness,

Making[158] the precincts ye adorn

Appear to sight still more forlorn.

[157] 1845.

And ye, ...

1842.

[158] 1845.

And make ...

1842.