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1770–1850

XXVII

William Wordsworth

Deep is the lamentation! Not alone From Sages justly honoured by mankind; But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan

Issues for that dominion overthrown: Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, blind As his own worshippers: and Nile, reclined Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan

Renews.Through every forest, cave, and den, Where frauds were hatched of old, hath sorrow past — Hangs o'er the Arabian Prophet's native Waste, Where once his airy helpersschemed and planned

‘ Mid spectrallakes bemocking thirsty men, And stalking pillars built of fiery sand.

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XXVII · William Wordsworth · Poetry Cove