Now stir the fire, and close the fhutters faft,
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 fqueez'd
And bor'd with elbow-points through both his
Out-fcolds the ranting a&tor 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 tranquility and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n 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 grafps them. At his
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dext'rous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence, in foft
Meanders lubricate the courfe they take;
The modeft fpeaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'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 praife;
The dearth of information and good fenfe
That it foretells us, always comes to pafs..
Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleasantry amufe us there,
With merry descants on a nation's woes..
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion; roses for the cheeks.
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothlefs, ringlets for the bald,
Heav'n, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Æthereal journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes 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 safe distance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur’dear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates 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 sound of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice 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 flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all,
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return a rich repast for me
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmast, 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 ftill at home.
Oh Winter! ruler of th' inverted year,
Thy scatter'd hair with fleet like ashes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other fnows
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy throne
A fliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by storms along its flipp'ry way ;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'st,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold't the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning East,
Short'ning 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 inftru&tive ease,
And gathering at short notice, in one group,
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought,
Not lefs difpers'd by day-light 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 undifturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
No ratt'ling wheels ftop fhort before thefe gates;
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm, affaults thefe doors
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the
The filent circle fan themselves, and quake:
But here the needle plies its bufy task,
The pattern grows, the well depicted flow'r,
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom; buds, and leaves, and fprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow With moft fuccefs when all befides decay.
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