Henry VI, the ‘royal Saint’ in Wordsworth’s poem, wasn’t a great success as a king. He lost almost all his lands in France, his English kingdom fell apart under his rule, and he ended up deposed, imprisoned, and, most likely, murdered on the orders of his successor.
The English countryside was once a refuge for writers and artists of slender means. The life was peaceful, the air was fresh, and the rents were cheap. But like exotic plants transplanted to alien soil, they brought their own peculiarities to their new habitat. And they could arouse suspicion and sometimes loathing in the natives.