XIV.

POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow

bold,

And take to herself all the wonders of old; — Near the stately Pantheon you 'll meet with the

same In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its

name.

His station is there; and he works on the crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; He fills with his power all their hearts to the

brim,Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this ! The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have

rest; And the guilt-burdened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the

night, So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

Thaterrand-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 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 !

He stands, backed by the wall ; - he abates not

his din ; — 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,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;

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 !

1806.

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 Leices

ter'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 is 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 there

fore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be ; -men thirst for power

and majesty!

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the bliss

ful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed ? a grave and

steady joy, That doth reject all show of pride, admits no out

ward 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.