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No word to any man he utters,
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
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
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
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
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,
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,
What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught-and his time runs to wasteThe 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;
He stands, backed by the Wall;—he abates not his din;
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
O blest are the Hearers, and proud be the Hand
That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
Mark that Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream;
WHAT crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
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?
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
Doth she betray us when they're seen? or are they but a name?