That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste,— What matter! he's caught, - and his time runs to waste; The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret; And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter, — he 's in the net! The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore; The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease; She sees the Musician, 't is all that she sees ! His hat gives him vigor, with boons dropping in, From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there! The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band! I am glad for him, blind as he is! all the while, If they speak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height, Can he keep himself still, if he would? O not he! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour! That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs, they care not for you, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue! XV. 1806. STAR-GAZERS. WHAT crowd is this? what have we here? we must not pass it by; A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky: Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat, Some little pleasure skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float. The Showman chooses well his place, 't is Leicester's busy Square, And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair; Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with the fee, And envies him that 's looking; ;- what an insight must it be! Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have blame, A boaster, that, when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault? Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault? Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame, Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name? Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the mul titude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be; men thirst for power and majesty ! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry and pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: One after one they take their turn, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. XVI. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; There's joy in the mountains; Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! anon: |