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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, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;
And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is the Crowd; each is ready with the fee,
And envies him that's looking-what an insight must it be !
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
Or must we be constrained to think that these Spec
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the mul
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 shew of pride, admits no outward sign,
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than
One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
THOSE silver clouds collected round the sun
By soft reflection-grateful to the sky,
To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense
More ample than that time-dismantled Oak
Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose,
Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,
The noon-tide hour:
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid
This venerable Tree; for, when the wind Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound (Above the general roar of woods and crags) a doleful note ! Distinctly heard from far As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed) The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost
Haunts this old Trunk; lamenting deeds of which The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;
Not even a zephyr stirs ; the obnoxious Tree
though truly some there are
On thy reclining form with more delight
Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale
That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!