Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Continuous as the stars that shine Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they In such a jocund company : I gazed and gazed-but little thought And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. * This line, and the one preceding, which Mr. Wordsworth called the best lines in the poem, were written by Mrs. Wordsworth. See Life, I., 182-188. 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 '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, * This poem, says Mr. Wordsworth, "was written in 1801 or 1802. It 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." 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, What an eager assembly! what an empire is this! As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the So He, where he stands, is a centre of light; 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! * Written in London, 1806. S The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; He stands, backed by the wall ;-he abates not his din The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. ; O 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 That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!— 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! 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 Show-man 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, Show-man, 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 vault? * Written in London, 1806. teach is ready with the fee.-Edit. 1815. |