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, when 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 hasteWhat matter! he's caught—and his time runs to wasteThe 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 had 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!

W. Wordsworth.

ROBIN HOOD.

No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and grey,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging how no more;

Silent is the ivory shrill

Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where long Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June You may go, with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can, Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the 'grené shawe;' All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufted grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze : He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,

Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!

Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to Maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood clan!

Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.

J. Keats.

HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day,

All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green :
Now we come to chant our lay,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk;

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

Sir W. Scott.