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.
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