Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/221

BOOK VII.] Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear,

Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not,

As the mind answers to them, or the heart

Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then,

To times, when half the city shall break out

Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear?

To executions, to a street on fire,

Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sights

Take one,—that ancient festival, the Fair,

Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,

And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see

A work completed to our hands, that lays,

If any spectacle on earth can do,

The whole creative powers of man asleep!—

For once, the Muse's help will we implore,

And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings,

Above the press and danger of the crowd,

Upon some showman's platform. What a shock

For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din,

Barbarian and infernal,—a phantasma,

Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound!

Below, the open space, through every nook

Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive

With heads; the midway region, and above,

Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,