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And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be,
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 pass'd 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 tripp'd 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 pass'd away from her eyes! (1797.
THE TWO THIEVES:
OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.S O, now that the genius of Bewick were mine, And the skill which he learn’d on the banks of the Tyne! Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. What feats would I work with my magical hand! Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land: And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls, Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care!
The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale is a charming counterpart to Poor Susan, with the addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so fine in “the Old Thief and the Boy by his side,” which always brings water into my eyes.CHARLES LAMB. 5 This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a boy at Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than myself when he was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No book could have so early taught me to think of the changes to which human life is subject; and while looking at him I could not but say to myself, “We may, one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, live to become still more the object of pity than this old man, this half-doating pil ferer."- The Author's Notes.
For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves,
[1800. POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpheus! an Orpheus! Yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old; Near the stately Panthéon you'll meet with the same, In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd 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 cheer'd, and the anxious bave rest; And the guilt-burthen'd 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-brow'd 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 stopp'd, 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, 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 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 ? Ö, 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 lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
ADMONITION. WELL mayst thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye! The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky. But covet not th’Abode: forbear to sigh, As many do, repining while they look; Intruders, who would tear from Nature's book This precious leaf, with harsh impiety. Think what the Home must be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants! Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch’d, would melt away.
“ BELOVED VALE!” I said, “when I shall con Those many records of my childish years,
6 Fell is a provincial term for a barren or a stony hill.
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
, which “ did divide
THERE is a little unpretending Rill
— It quivers down the hill,
And flies their memory fast almost as they; ? Alluding to Mount Parnassus, which throws up, two peaks to a conspicuous height, and hence is often described by the poets as double-headed. It was one of the chief seats of Apollo and the Muses. 8 Castalia, a celebrated fountain on Mount Parnassus, sacred to Apollo and the