Behold the mighty moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her:-oh better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
The silent heavens have goings-on;

The stars have tasks-but these have none!

BEGGARS.

SHE had a tall man's height, or more;
No bonnet screened her from the heat;
A long drab-coloured cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:

What other dress she had I could not know;
Only she wore a cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town,
Such figure had I never seen:
Her face was of Egyptian brown:

Fit person was she for a queen,

To head those ancient Amazonian files:

Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles.

Before me begging did she stand,
Pouring out sorrows like a sea;
Grief after grief:-on English land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see; 66

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 they both followed up and down,

Each whooping with a merry shout:

Two brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and 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."

"Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many aday."
"Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;
It was your mother, as I say-"
And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado,
Off to some other play they both together flew.

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 he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair; Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each is 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,
Do they betray us when they're seen? and 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 turns, nor have I one espied
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.