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He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is alhamd 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 praise;
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretells us always comes to pass.
Cat'racts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders, loft;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there

descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion ; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, 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 such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd ; To hear the roar The sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear. Thus fitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd To some secure and more than mortal height, That lib’rates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors 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 sound.

He travels and expatiates, as the bee
Froin flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy, of all
Pay contribution to the fore 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 escapes ;
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 Jeafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its flipp'ry way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'ft, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hald'At the sun

A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short’ning his journey between morn and noort,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rosy weft; but kindly still
Compensating his lofs with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease,
And gath'ring, at Mort notice, in one group
The family dispers’d, and fixing thought,
Not less dispersa 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 undisturb’å retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.

No rattling 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, heedlefs of the found,
The filent 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

And the clear voice symphonious, yet diftina,
And in the charming strife triumphant ftill;
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
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 profcribes the found of mirth:

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