655
  Of nature’s intermediate hours of rest,
  When the great tide of human life stands still;
  The business of the day to come, unborn,
  Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave;
  The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, 660
  Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds
  Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours
  Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains
  Are falling hard, with people yet astir,
  The feeble salutation from the voice 665
  Of some unhappy woman, now and then
  Heard as we pass, when no one looks about,
  Nothing is listened to.  But these, I fear,
  Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not,
  As the mind answers to them, or the heart 670
  Is prompt, or slow, to feel.  What say you, then,
  To times, when half the city shall break out
  Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear? 
  To executions, to a street on fire,
  Mobs, riots, or rejoicings?  From these sights 675
  Take one,—­that ancient festival, the Fair,
  Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,
  And named of St. Bartholomew; [c] there, see
  A work completed to our hands, that lays,
  If any spectacle on earth can do, 680
  The whole creative powers of man asleep!—­
  For once, the Muse’s help will we implore,
  And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings,
  Above the press and danger of the crowd,
  Upon some showman’s platform.  What a shock 685
  For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din,
  Barbarian and infernal,—­a phantasma,
  Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound! 
  Below, the open space, through every nook
  Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 690
  With heads; the midway region, and above,
  Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,
  Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies;
  With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles,
  And children whirling in their roundabouts; 695
  With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes,
  And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd
  Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons
  Grimacing, writhing, screaming,—­him who grinds
  The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, 700
  Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum,
  And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks,
  The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel,
  Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys,
  Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.—­705
  All moveables of wonder, from all parts,
  Are here—­Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs,
  The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig,
  The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire,