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...