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William Wordsworth - Feelings Of A Noble Biscayan At One Of Those Funerals
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YET, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else `twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows.
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now enclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!                 
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant`s bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.
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