Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
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
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.

1804.

XIII.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

[THIS arose out of my observation of the affecting music of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morning.]

Ar 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.

'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!

XIV.

POWER OF MUSIC.

[TAKEN from life.]

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 mourner 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 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;
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.

O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

• That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!-
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : They are deaf to your murmurs-they care not for you, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

VOL. II.

I

XV.

STAR-GAZERS.

[OBSERVED by me in Leicester-square, as here described.]

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 yon resplendent