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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!

XIII.

STAR-GAZERS.

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.

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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 come ;-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 multitude,
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, 'tis 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.

1806.

XIV.

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

The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon:

There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

1801.

XV.

BEGGARS.

BEFORE my eyes a Wanderer stood.
Her face from summer's noon-day heat
No bonnet shaded, nor the hood

Of the blue cloak which to her feet
Depended with a graceful flow;

Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen

Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered-fit person for a Queen,
To lead those ancient Amazonian files;

Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

She begged an alms; no scruple checked

The current of her ready plea,

Words that could challenge no respect

But from a blind credulity;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see-a weed of glorious feature!

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy

A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown

With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And, while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,

In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit

For finest tasks of earth or air:

Wings let them have, and they might flit

Precursors to Aurora's car,

Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween, To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

They dart across my path-but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago

Your Mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answered-" she is dead :"

I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head.

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