William Wordsworth


OF mortal parents is the Hero born By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led? Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead Returned to animate an age forlorn? He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn When dreary darkness is discomfited, Yet mark his modest state! upon his head, That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn. O Liberty! they stagger at the shock From van to rear--and with one mind would flee, But half their host is buried:--rock on rock Descends:--beneath this godlike Warrior, see! Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.

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