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 this resplendent Vault? Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here? Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear? The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame, Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name? Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong, And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had, And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be Men thirst for power and majesty ! Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy, That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied. 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 night It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack, That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste→→ What 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; 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. 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 While I am gazing. game, 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. |