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 paft to our exact review,

The dangers we have 'fcap'd, the broken fnare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found

Unlook'd for, life preferv'd and peace restor❜d-
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd
The fabine bard. Oh ev'nings, I reply,
More to be priz'd and coveted than your's,
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 fmoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unfav'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 felf complacent actor, when he views
(Stealing a fide-long glance at a full house)
The flope of faces, from the floor to th' roof,
(As if one mafter-spring controul'd them all)
Relax'd into an univerfal grin,

Sees not a count'nance there that fpeaks of joy
Half fo refin'd or fo fincere as our's.

Cards were fuperfluous here, with all the tricks
That idleness has ever yet contriv'd

To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,
To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.
Time, as he paffes us, has a dove's wing,
Unfoil'd, and fwift, and of a filken found;
But the world's time is time in mafquerade!
Their's, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd
With motley plumes; and, where the peacock fhows
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red
With spots quadrangular of di'mond form,
Enfanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of ftrife,
And fpades, the emblem of untimely graves.
What should be and what was an hour-glafs once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast

Well does the work of his destructive scythe.

Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds

To his true worth, moft pleas'd when idle moft;
Whofe only happy are their wafted hours.
Ev'n miffes, at whose age their mothers wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school
Of card-devoted time, and, night by night,
Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board,
Learn ev'ry trick, and foon play all the game.
But truce with cenfure. Roving as I rove,
Where fhall I find an end, or how proceed?
As he that travels far oft turns afide

To view fome rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r,
Which, feen, 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 pallet spread,
With colours mix'd for a far diff'rent ufe,
Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing
That fancy finds in her excurfive flights.

Come, Ev'ning, once again, feason of peace; Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long! Methinks I fee thee in the ftreaky west,

With matron-step flow-moving, while the night

Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employ'd
In letting fall the curtain of repofe

On bird and beaft, the other charg'd for man
With fweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid,
Like homely featur'd night, of cluft'ring gems;
A ftar or two, juft twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No lefs than her's, not worn indeed on high
With oftentatious pageantry, but set
With modeft grandeur in thy purple zone,
Refplendent lefs, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm,
Or make me fo. Compofure is thy gift:
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours
To books, to mufic, or the poet's toil;
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;
Or twining filken threads round iv'ry reels,
When they command whom man was born to please;
I flight thee not, but make thee welcome ftill.

Juft when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,

Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk

Whole, without ftooping, tow'ring creft and all,
My pleasures, too, begin. But me, perhaps,
The glowing hearth may fatisfy awhile
With faint illumination, that uplifts
The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits
Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame.
Not undelightful is an hour to me

So spent in parlour twilight: fuch a gloom
Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,
The mind contemplative, with fome new theme
Pregnant, or indifpos'd alike to all.

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs,
That never feel a ftupor, know no pause,
Nor need one; I am confcious, and confefs,
Fearless, a foul that does not always think.
Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild,
Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs,
Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gaz'd, myself creating what I faw.
Nor less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd
The footy films that play upon the bars,
Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view