William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

IT is not to be thought of that the flood

Of British freedom, which, to the open sea

Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity

Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters unwithstood,”

Roused though it be full often to a mood

Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous stream in bogs and sands

Should perish, and to evil and to good

Be lost forever. In our halls is hung

Armory of the invincible knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

That Shakespeare spake—the faith and morals hold

Which Hilton held. In every thing we are sprung

Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.