Who has not waked to list the busy sounds Of summer's morming, 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 door The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell Proclaims the dustman's office; while the street 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 twinks the busy mas Annoying the smart prentice or neat Tripping with band-box lightly Now the Darts burning splendour on the glittering page Save where the canvas awning throws a spade On the day merchandize Now spruce and trire In shops (where beauty smiles with industry) Sits the smart damsel, while the passenger Peeps through the window, watching every chars
Now pastry dainties catch the eye minute Of humming insects, while the limy snare Waits to enthral then. Now the lamp-lighter Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly venturous, To trim the half-filld lamp: while at his feet The pot-bay yells discordant! All along The sultry pavement, the old-clothes man cries 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 piifer'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.