letra de william wordsworth - power of music - ghizela rowe
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!
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