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For oft when on my couch I lie
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 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; —
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, 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!
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.