On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal; Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps, by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them, an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with Mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scap'd, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserv'd, and peace restor'd, Fruits of omnipotent, eternal love. "O, ev'nings worthy of the gods!" exclaim'd The Sabine bard. "O, ev'nings," 1 reply, "More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy."
Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsav'ry throng, To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor, when he views (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces from the floor to th' roof
(As if one master-spring controll'd them all) Relax'd into a universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refin'd or so sincere as ours.
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks, That idleness has ever yet contriv'd To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dullness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of silken sound; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd With motley plumes; and where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box and a billiard-mace
Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted Time, and night by night Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board, Learn ev'ry trick, and soon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? As he that travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r, Which seen delights him not; then coming home Describes and prints it, that the world may know How far he went for what was nothing worth; So I, with brush in hand, and palette spread, With colours mix'd for a far diff'rent use,
Paint cards, and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing, That fancy finds in her excursive flights.
Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clust'ring gems; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round iv'ry reels, When they command whom man was born to please, I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.
Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk Whole without stooping, tow'ring crest and all, My pleasures too begin. But me, perhaps, The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame. Not undelightful is an hour to me
So spent in parlour-twilight: such a gloom
Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant, or indispos'd alike to all. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs, That never felt a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess Fearless, a soul that does not always think. Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films, that play upon the bars Pendulous, and foreboding in the view Of superstition, prophesying still, Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near approach, 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps, and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. Thus oft, reclin'd at ease, I loose an hour At ev'ning, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected pow'rs; and snapping short The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. How calm is my recess; and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within! I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately wav'd The golden harvest of a mellow brown, Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile
With verdure not unprofitable, graz'd By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting ecting each His fav'rite herb; while all the leafless groves That skirt th' horizon, wore a sable hue. Scarce notic'd in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently perform'd, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy show'r: the downy flakes Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below, Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thick'ning mantle: and the green And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.
In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at its side, It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguish'd than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our mod'rate ills, And sympathise with others suff'ring more. Ill fares the trav'ller now, and he that stalks In pond'rous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads adhering close To the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While ev'ry breath, by respiration strong Forc'd downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both
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