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Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-bissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not incbriate, wait on cach, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with thining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his

fides, Out-scolds the ranting a&or 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 criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of Glence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its Au&tuations, and its vast concerns ? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, The seals of office glitter in his eyes;


He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his

heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dext'rous 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 alham'd and griev'd Tengross 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. Cataracts 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, With merry 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, Nectarcous essences, Olympian dews,


Sermons and city feasts, and fav’rite airs,
Æthereal journies, submarine 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 she sends through all her gates, At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur’dear. Thus sitting, 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 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 sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land ;



The manners, customs, policy of all,
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 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 fleet like ashes filld,
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 sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by storms along its flipp'ry way ;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art: Thou hold'ft the sun
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 rosy Weft; but kindly still


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Compensating his loss 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 undifturb'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

The filent circle fan themselves, and quake :
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well depi&ed Aow'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 Aow'rs that blow
With most success wben all besides decay.


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