OTHER INFLUENCES

By William Wordsworth

Ah, when the Body,round which in love we clung,

Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail?

Is tender pity then of no avail?

Are intercessions of the fervent tongue

A waste of hope?— From this sad source have sprung

Rites that console the Spirit, under grief

Which ill can brook more rational relief:

Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung

For Soulswhose doom is fixed! The way is smooth

For Power that travels with the human heart:

Confession ministers the pang to soothe

In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start.

Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care,

Of your own mighty instruments beware!