A Proem

When in my walks I meet some ruddy lad—
Or swarthy man—with tray-beladen head,
Whose smile entreats me, or his visage sad,
To buy the images he moulds for bread,

I think that,—though his poor Greek Slave in chains,
His Venus and her Boy with plaster dart,
Be, like the Organ-Grinder’s quavering strains,
But farthings in the currency of art,—

Such coins a kingly effigy still wear,
Let metals base or precious in them mix:
The painted vellum hallows not the Prayer,
Nor ivory nor gold the Crucifix.