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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.

XV.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood-street, when day-light

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 Cheap-

side.

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.

XVI.

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 moutner 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 haste – What matter! he's caught — and his time runs to

waste The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the

fret, And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter 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 !

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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.

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