William Wordsworth: Power of Music

W i l l i a m   W o r d s w o r t h

(1770-1850)

 

P o w e r   o f   M u s i c

 

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.

 

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,

So he where he stands is a center of light;

It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced 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 News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,

And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter 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, back’d 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.

 

There’s a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower

That long has lean’d forward, leans hour after hour!–

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!

 

William Wordsworth poetry

kempis poetry magazine

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