The Reverie of poor Susan. Ar the corner of Wood-street, when daylight appears, years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard, 'Tis a note of enchantment-what ails her? She sees Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 95 Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or Fixed on a star his upward eye; Then from the tenant of the sky He turned, and watched with kindred look A glow-worm, in a dusky nook, Apparent at his feet. The murmur of a neighbouring stream Induced a soft and slumbrous dream, [seat, A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds He recognised the earth-born star, And that which glittered from afar; And, strange to witness! from the frame Of the ethereal orb there came Intelligible sounds. Much did it taunt the humbler light, That now, when day was fled, and night Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes, A very reptile could presume To shew her taper in the gloom, As if in rivalship with one Who sat a ruler on his throne, Erected in the skies. "Exalted star," the worm replied, While neither mist, nor thickest cloud That shapes in heaven its murky shroud, Hath power to injure mine. But not for this do I aspire To match the spark of local fire, That at my will burns on the dewy lawn, Yet, thus upbraided, I may shew When this in modest guise was said, And reeled with visionary stir In the blue depth, like Lucifer Cast headlong to the pit! Fire raged; and when the spangled floor Of ancient ether was no more, New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought And all the happy souls that rode Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, Shone meekly 'mid their native dust, The glow-worms of the earth! [forth; This knowledge, from an angel's voice Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree. To a Butterfly. I'VE watched you now a full half-hour, I know not if you sleep or feed. What joy awaits you, when the breeze This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary, Here lodge as in a sanctuary. Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough; We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days when we were young; |