WHAT STAR-GAZERS. crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by; A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky; Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat, Some little pleasure-skiff that doth on Thames's waters float. 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 it be! Yet, Showman, 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 yon 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, 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 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 constrained to think that these Spectators 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 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 show of pride, admits no outward sign, Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine! Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry and 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. 1806. SONNET. THERE is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only Poets know ;-'t was rightly said; Whom could the Muses else allure to tread Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; SONNET. WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie, Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; And so the bright immortal Theban band, Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command, Might overwhelm, but could not separate. A JEWISH FAMILY. (IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE st. goar, upon the RHINE.) ENIUS of Raphael! if thy wings GENI Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things To pencil dear and pen, Thou would'st forego the neighboring Rhine, And all his majesty A studious forehead to incline O'er this poor family. The Mother-her thou must have seen, In spirit, ere she came To dwell these rifted rocks between, Or found on earth a name; An image, too, of that sweet Boy Of playfulness, and love, and joy, Downcast, or shooting glances far, That blend the nature of the star I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, The holiness within; The grace of parting Infancy Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet Such beauty hath the Eternal poured Upon them not forlorn, Though of a lineage once abhorred, Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Doth here preserve a living light, Of Palestine, of glory past, ΤΟ SONNET IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR. SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favoring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, |