Sidor som bilder

Pay contribution to the store he gleans ;
He sucks 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,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his efcapes ;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

Oh Winter ! ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with Neet like ashes fillid, Thy breath congeald upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring’d with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age ; thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A Niding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its Nipp'ry way ; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,

And dreaded as thou art.

Thou hold'st the sun

A pris’ner in the yet undawning East, Shore’ning his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy West; but kindly still Compensating his lofs with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering at short notice, in one group, The family dispers’d, and fixing thought, Not less dispers’d by day-light and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fire-side 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 ratt’ling wheels stop short before these gates ; No powder'd pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the found,



The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos’d, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest; 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 strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry ; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the talk proceeds. The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal; VOL. II.



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 found 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 preferv'd and pea restor'd,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.


Oh evenings worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I 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,

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 side-long glance at a full house)
The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof,
(As if one master-spring contrould them all)
Relax'd into an universal grin,
Sees not a count'nance there that speaks a joy
Half fo refin'd or so sincere as ours.
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks



« FöregåendeFortsätt »