Page:Poems, in two volumes (IA poemsintwovolume00word).pdf/104

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O blest are the Hearers and proud be the HandOf the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band;I am glad for him, blind as he is!—all the whileIf 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.
There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a TowerThat long bas lean'd forward, leans hour after hour!—A 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, or what ye pursue!
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