At Bologna, In Remembrance of the Late Insurrections

— by William Wordsworth

As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation Is, to the Being of a mighty nation, Locked in our world’s embrace through weal and woe; Thought that should teach the zealot to forego Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, And seek through noiseless pains and moderation The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas! with most, who weigh futurity Against time present, passion holds the scales: Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, And nations sink; or, struggling to be free, Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea.