Who has not waked to list the busy sounds Of summer's morning, in the sultry smoke Of noisy London?
On the pavement hot The sooty chimney-boy, with dingy face And tatter'd covering, shrilly bawls his trade,
Rousing the sleepy housemaid.
At the
The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell Proclaims the dustman's office; while the
Is lost in clouds impervious.
Now begins The din of hackney-coaches, waggons, carts;
While tinmen's shops, and noisy trunk-makers,
Knife-grinders, coopers, squeaking cork-cutters,
Fruit barrows, and the hunger-giving cries Of vegetable venders, fill the air.
Now every shop displays its varied trade,
And the fresh-sprinkled pavement cools the feet Of early walkers.
At the private door The ruddy housemaid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the smart 'prentice, or neat girl,
Tripping with band-box lightly.
Now the sun Darts burning splendour on the glittering pane,
Save where the canvas awning throws a shade On the day merchandize.
Now, spruce and trim,
In shops (where beauty smiles with industry),
Sits the smart damsel; while the passenger Peeps through the window, watching every charm.
Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute Of humming insects, while the limy snare Waits to enthral them.
Now the lamp-lighter Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous,
To trim the half-fill'd lamp; while at his
The pot-boy yells discordant!
All along The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man
In tone monotonous, the side-long views The area for his traffic: now the bag Is slily open'd, and the half-worn suit (Sometimes the pilfer'd treasure of the base Domestic spoiler), for one half its worth,
Sinks in the green abyss.
The porter now Bears his huge load along the burning way;
And the poor poet wakes from busy dreams,
To paint the summer morning.
