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.