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No word to any man he utters,
A-bed or up, to young or old;
But ever to himself he mutters,
“ Poor Harry Gill is very cold.”
A-bed or up, by night or day;
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
I WANDERED lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden Daffodils ;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed and gazed — but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three
years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small Cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only Dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her Heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes.
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-burthened 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.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught — and his time runs to waste The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret, And the half-breathless Lamplighter- 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, 'tis all that she sees !
He stands, backed by the Wall;—he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and
The one-pennied Boy has his penny 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 'tis 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? oh, 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!
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
The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis 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, Impatient till his moment comes- - what an insight must
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