Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/391

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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.