William Wordsworth - Power of Music

Lyrics

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!