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! 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!