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,
He sways then 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 ;
The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;
And the gilt-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 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;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither for 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.

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.