The Showers of the Spring

Rouze the Birds and they sing;

If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,

Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,
Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!

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 Poll, or Mast of little Boat,

Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.

The Show-man chuses 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 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 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 cheared, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.