Or charged with amorous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconfcious of them all.
But O the important budget! ufher'd in
With fuch heart-shaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? Have our troops awaked?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does the wear her plumed
And jewel'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet the imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now ftir the fire, and close the fhutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hiffing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not fuch his evening, who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and fqueezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his
fides,
Outfcolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e'en critics criticife; that holds
Inquifitive attention, while I read,
Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts Ambition. On the fummit fee
The feals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dexterous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Mæanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;
The dearth of information and good fenfe,
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
confufion; rofes for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feafts, and favourite airs,
Ethereal journeys, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at fuch a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar fhe fends through all her gates
At a fafe distance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am ftill.
The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that make man a wolf to man;
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repaft for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scatter'd hair with fleet like ashes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other fnows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds,
A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy throne
A fliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its flippery way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the fun
A prisoner in the yet undawning East,
Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rofy Weft; but kindly still
Compenfating his lofs with added hours
Of focial converse and instructive ease,
And gathering, at short notice, in one group
The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee King of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of sounding an alarm affaults these doors
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedlefs of the
found,
The filent circle fan themselves, and quake:
But here the needle plies its bufy task,
The pattern grows, the well depicted flower,
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page by one
Made vocal for the amufement of the reft;
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice, fymphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant still,
Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge
On female industry: the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume closed, 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!
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or profcribes the found of mirth:
Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
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