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, 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; 10 The mourner is cheared, 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 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 haste— What matter! he's caught—and his time runs to waste— The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret, And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net! 20

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; 30 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.

There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!— Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound, While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 40

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

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!

Oft do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of similies, 10 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; 20 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, 30 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, Who shall reprove thee! 40

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature! That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!