"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD." I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, A host of golden daffodils; Continuous as the stars that shine Ten thousand saw I at a glance, The waves beside them danced, but they In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought For oft when on my couch I lie And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. AT 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. P "Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 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 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. 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: His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there! The one-pennied boy has his penny to spare. Oh, 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; you, STAR-GAZERS. 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, '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, And envies him that's 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 this 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. THE HAUNTED TREE. TO THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun His midday warmth abate not, seeming less By soft reflection-grateful to the sky, To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense |