Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee :
A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company :

I gazed and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought :

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

* This line, and the one preceding, which Mr. Wordsworth called the best lines in the poem, were written by Mrs. Wordsworth. See Life, I., 182-188.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.*

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

* This poem, says Mr. Wordsworth, "was written in 1801 or 1802. It arose out of my observation of the affecting music of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morning."

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 them 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 cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the
night,

So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed 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 waste;

The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret ; And the half-breathless Lamplighter-he's in the net!

* Written in London, 1806.

S

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore ;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ;-
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!

He stands, backed 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.

;

O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!-all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a

tower

That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!—
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream: They are deaf to your murmurs-they care not for you, Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

STAR-GAZERS.*

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 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, 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 yon resplendent vault?

* Written in London, 1806.

teach is ready with the fee.-Edit. 1815.