The mourner is cheered and the anxious have rest,
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer oppress’d.
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 lamp-lighter he’s in the net.
The porter sits down on the weight which he bore,
And the lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;
If a thief could be here, he might pilfer with ease,
She sees the musician, ’tis all that she sees!