Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or prescribes 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 Memory's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, 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 unsavoury 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 controlled them all) Relaxed into a universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours.
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks That idleness has ever yet contrived To fill the void of an unfurnished brain, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoiled and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined 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 decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, most pleased 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 Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every 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 who travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, 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 mixed for a far different use, Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing, That Fancy finds in her excursive flights. Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, 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 employed In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorned, not needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering 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 votary 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 ivory reels. When they command whom man was born to please I slight thee not, but make thee welcome stili. 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, towering 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 quivering flame. Not undelighted 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 indisposed alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers, 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
Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, Trees, churches, and strange visages, expressed In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gazed, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amused have I quiescent watched The sooty films, that play upon the bars Pendulous, and foreboding in the view Of superstition, prophesying still,
Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach, "Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps, and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour
At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected powers; 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 enjoyed within? I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Upturned so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks, fast feeding; and selecting each His favourite herb; while all the eafless groves That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently performed, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face
Of universal nature undergoes.
Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes Descending, and, with never ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below,
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green And tender blade that feared 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 distinguished than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathize with others suffering more. Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads adhering close
To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy; and in my account denied That sensibility of pain, with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. The learned finger never need explore
« السابقةمتابعة » |