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1770–1850

XLII

William Wordsworth

Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree To plague her beating heart; and there is one ( Nor idlest that! ) which holds communion With things that were not, yet were meant to be.

Aghast within its gloomy cavity That eye ( which sees as if fulfilled and done Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun ) Beholds the horrible catastrophe

Of an assembled Senate unredeemed From subterraneous Treason's darkling power: Merciless act of sorrow infinite! Worse than the product of that dismal night,

When gushing, copious as a thunder-shower, The blood of Huguenots through Paris streamed.

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XLII · William Wordsworth · Poetry Cove