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As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night
So he where he stands is a center of light;

It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in hasteWhat matter! he's caught-and his time runs to wasteThe 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, back'd 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 smil

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.

There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Towe That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour !— A 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, or what ye pursue!

TO THE DAISY.*

With little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,

Which Love makes for thee!

* The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume.

Oft do I sit by thee at ease,

And weave a web of similies,

Loose types of Things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A Nun demure of lowly port,

Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court,

In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A Queen in crown of rubies drest,

A Starveling in a scanty vest,

Are all, as seem to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next-and instantly

The freak is over,

The shape will vanish, and behold!

A silver Shield with boss of gold,

That spreads itself, some Faery bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar;-
And then thou art a pretty Star,

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;

May peace come never to his nest,

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