Of the laft meal commence. A Roman meal;
Such as the miftrets 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 domeftic shade,
Enjoyed, spare feaft! a radish and an egg.
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor fuch as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or profcribes 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 memory's pointing wand,
That calls the paft to our exact review,

The dangers we have 'fcaped, the broken fnare,
The difappointed foe, deliverance found
Unlocked for, life preferved and peace reftored,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,
More to be prized and coveted than your's,
As more illumined, and with nobler truths,
That I, and mine, and thofe 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 unfavoury throng,
To thaw him into feeling; or the smart
And fnappish 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 the roof,
(As if one mafter-fpring controuled them all)
Relaxed into an univerfal grin,

Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy
Half fo refined or fo fincere as our's.

Cards were fuperfluous here, with all the tricks,
That idleness has ever yet contrived

To fill the void of an unfurnished brain,
To palliate dulnefs, and give time a fhove.
Time, as he paffes us, has a dove's wing,
Unfoiled, and fwift, and of a filken found;
But the world's time is time in masquerade!
Their's, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledged
With motley plumes; and, where the peacock fhows
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red
With fpots quadrangular of diamond form,
Enfanguined 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 maft

Well does the work of his deftructive scythe.

Thus decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds

To his true worth, moft pleased when idle moft;
Whofe only happy are their wafted hours.
E'en miffes, at whose age their mothers wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the drefs
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school
Of card-devoted time, and night by night
Placed at fome vacant corner of the board,
Learn every 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 mouldering tower,
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 mixed for a far different use,
Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing,
That fancy finds in her excurfive flights.

Come Evening, once again, season of peace; Return fweet Evening, and continue long!

Methinks I fee thee in the ftreaky weft,

With matron-step slow-moving, while the night
Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employed
In letting fall the curtain of repose

On bird and beaft, the other charged for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,
Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems;
A ftar or two, juft twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No less 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 votary 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 ivory 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,

Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk

Whole without ftooping, towering creft and all,
My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile
With faint illumination, that uplifts
The fhadows to the ceiling, there by fits
Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.
Not undelight'ul is an hour to me

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

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,
That never feel a ftupor, know no paufe,
Nor need one; I am confcious, and confefs
Fearless a foul, that does not always think.
Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild

Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,
Trees, churches, and ftrange visages, expreffed
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gazed, myself creating what I faw.
Nor lefs amufed have I quiescent watched
The footy films, that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view
Of fuperftition, prophefying ftill,

Though ftill deceived, fome ftranger's near approach.