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must not pass it by ;
The Show-man chooses well his place, 't is 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
Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause ? Shall thy
Implement have blame,
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, Doth she betray us when they're seen ? or 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
wrong? Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have
had And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be
Or must we be constrained to think that these Spec
tators rude, Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore
prostrate lie? No, no, this cannot be; men thirst for power and
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 show of pride, admits no out
ward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and
Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry
pore Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than
before : One after One they take their turn, nor have I one
espied That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
Which only Poets know ;—'t was rightly said ;
And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
A JEWISH FAMILY. (IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST, GOAR, UPON THE RAINE.) GENIUS of Raphael ! if thy wings
Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things
To pencil dear and pen,
And all his majesty-
O'er this poor family.
The Mother-her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came
Or found on earth a name;
Thy inspirations give-
Predestined here to live.
Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,
With that of summer skies !
Uncounted months are gone,
That exquisite Saint John.
I see the dark-brown curls, the brow,
The smooth transparent skin, Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within ;
The grace of parting Infancy
By blushes yet untamed;
Nor of her arms ashamed.
Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side ;
The Christian of his pride:
Upon them not forlorn,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn.
Of poverty and wrong,
From Hebrew fountains sprung;
Around the dell a gleam Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem!
IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR,
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined