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WHAT 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

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


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 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

divine !

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.


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 ?
When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains,
How oft the malice of one luckless word
Pursues the Enthusiast to the social board,
Haunts him belated on the silent plains !
Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear,
At last, of hindrance and obscurity,
Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn;
Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear
The moment it has left the virgin's eye,
Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.

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WHEN haughty expectations prostrate lie,

And grandeur crouches like a guilty thing,
Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring
Mature release, in fair society
Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try;
Like these frail snow-drops that together cling,
And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing
Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by.
Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great
May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand
The Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate;
And so the bright immortal Theban band,
Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command,
Might overwhelm, but could not separate.


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

Thy inspirations give-
Of playfulness, and love, and joy,

Predestined here to live.

Downcast, or shooting glances far,

How beautiful his eyes,
That blend the nature of the star

With that of summer skies !
I speak as if of sense beguiled ;

Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,

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 ;

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The grace of parting Infancy

By blushes yet untamed;
Age faithful to the mother's knee,

Nor of her arms ashamed.

Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet

As flowers, stand side by side ;
Their soul-subduing looks might cheat

The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured

Upon them not forlorn,
Though of a lineage once abhorred,

Nor yet redeemed from scorn.
Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite

Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,

From Hebrew fountains sprung;
That gives this ragged group to cast

Around the dell a gleam Of Palestine, of glory past,

And proud Jerusalem!




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


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