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Book X
1. Wordsworth's fear and bitterness at the site of September Massacre
Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, The spacious city, and in progress passed The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, Associate with his children and his wife In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed With roar of cannon by a furious host. I crossed the square (an empty area then!) Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed On this and other spots, as doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, Being written in a tongue he cannot read, So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, And half upbraids their silence. But that night I felt most deeply in what world I was, What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. High was my room and lonely, near the roof Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge That would have pleased me in more quiet times; Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. With unextinguished taper I kept watch, Reading at intervals; the fear gone by Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. I thought of those September massacres,
Divided from me by one little month. Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up From tragic fictions or true history, Remembrances and dim admonishments. The horse is taught his manage, and no star Of wildest course but treads back his own steps; For the spent hurricane the air provides As fierce a successor; the tide retreats But to return out of its hiding-place In the great deep; all things have second birth; The earthquake is not satisfied at once; And in this way I wrought upon myself, Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, To the whole city, ‘Sleep no more’. The trance Fled with the voice to which it had given birth; But vainly comments of a calmer mind Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. The place, all hushed and silent as it was, Appeared unfit for the repose of night, Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.
(48-93)
2. Wordsworth's wish for "one paramount mind"
Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time But that the virtue of one paramount mind Would have abashed those impious crests-have quelled Outrage and bloody power, and, in despite Of what the People long had been and were Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder proof Of immaturity, and in the teeth Of desperate opposition from without- Have cleared a passage for just government, And left a solid birthright to the State, Redeemed, according to example given By ancient lawgivers.
(209-221)
3. Wordsworth's frustration at the news of French victory over Britain
No shock Given to my moral nature had I known Down, to that very moment; neither lapse Nor turn of sentiment that might be named A revolution, save at this one time; All else was progress on the self-same path On which, with a diversity of pace, I had been travelling: this a stride at once Into another region. As a light And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze On some grey rock-its birth-place-so had I
Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower Of my beloved country, wishing not A happier fortune than to wither there: Now was I from that pleasant station torn And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced, Yea, afterwards-truth most painful to record!- Exulted, in the triumph of my soul, When Englishmen by thousands were o’erthrown, Left without glory on the field, or driven, Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief,-
Grief call it not, ’twas anything but that,- A conflict of sensations without name, Of which he only, who may love the sight Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge, When, in the congregation bending all To their great Father, prayers were offered up, Or praises for our country’s victories; And, ’mid the simple worshippers, perchance I only, like an uninvited guest Whom no one owned, sate silent, shall I add
Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come?
(268-299)
 
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