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And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, And sound integrity, not more than famed
That tempts ambition. On the summit see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. That with its wearisome but needful length
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Meanders lubricate the course they take; Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved He comes, the herald of a noisy world, [locks; To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, News from all nations lumbering at his back. However trivial all that he conceives. True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
The dearth of information and good sense, Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
That it foretells us, always comes to pass. And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here; He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
There forests of no-meaning spread the page, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
In which all comprehension wanders lost; Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
With merry descants on a nation's woes. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
The rest appears a wilderness of strange Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks And lilies for the brows of faded age, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, But oh the important budget! ushered in
Æthereal journies, submarine exploits, With such heart-shaking music, who can say
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
To some secure and more than mortal height, And give them voice and utterance once again. That liberates and exempts me from them all.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
And avarice, that make man a wolf to man; Not such his evening, who with shining face Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed By which he speaks the language of his heart, And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. Out-scolds the rantiug actor on the stage:
He travels and expatiates, as the bee Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, From flower to flower, so he from land to land; And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath The manners, customs, policy, of all Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
He sucks intelligence in every clime, This folio of four pages, happy work!
And spreads the honey of his deep research Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds
At his return-a rich repast for me. Inquisitive attention, while I read,
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ;
That made them, an intruder on their joys, While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,
Exciting ost our gratitude and love,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemist,
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun More to be prized and coveted than yours, A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
As more illumined, and with nobler truths, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Is winter hideous in a garb like this? Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, Compensating his loss with added hours
The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng, Of social converse and instructive ease,
To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And gathering, at short notice, in one group And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. The self-complacent actor, when he views I crown thee king of intimate delights,
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, The slope of faces, from the floor to the roof, And all the comforts, that the lowly roof
(As if one master-spring controuled them all) Of uudisturbed retirement, and the hours
Relaxed into an universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks
That idleness has ever yet contrived Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
To fill the void of an unfurnished brain, Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, But here the needle plies its busy task,
Unsoiled, and swift, and of a silken sound; The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, But the world's time is time in masquerade! Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
With spots quadrangular of diamond form, A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, With most success when all besides decay.
And spades, the emblem of antimely graves. The poet's or historian's page by one
What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast
Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds And in the charming strife triumphant still;
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
Whose only happy are their wasted hours. On female industry: the threaded steel
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The back-string and the bib, assume the dress The volume closed, the customary rites
Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school Of the last meal commence.
Of card-devoted time, and night by night Such as the mistress of the world once found
Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,
But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, And under an old oak’s domestic shade,
Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg.
As he that travels far oft turns aside Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,
To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower
, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Which seen delights him not; then coming home Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:
Describes and prints it, that the world may know Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
How far he went for what was nothing worth;
So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,
A Roman meal;
Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing,
Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour That fancy finds in her excursive flights.
At evening, till at length the freezing blast, Come Evening, once again, season of peace; That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home Return sweet Evening, and continue long!
The recollected powers; and snapping short Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves With matron-step slow-moving, while the night Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed How calm is my recess; and how the frost, In letting fall the curtain of repose
Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear On bird and beast, the other charged for man
The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:
I saw the woods and fields at close of day, Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,
A variegated show; the meadows green, Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems; Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine
Upturned so lately by the forceful share. No less than hers, not worn indeed on high
I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With verdure not unprofitable, grazed With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,
That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift,
Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. And, whether I devote thy gentle hours
To-morrow brings a change, a total change! To books, to music, or the poet's toil;
Which even now, though silently performed, To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;
And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,
Of universal nature undergoes. When they command whom man was born to please ;
Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes HET I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse
Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze Softly alighting upon all below, With lights, by clear reflection multiplied
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,
Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green Goliah, might have seen bis giant bulk
And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, Whole without stooping, towering crest and all,
Escapes unhurt beneath so warin a veil. My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps
In such a world, so thorny, and where none The glowing hearth may satisfy a while
Finds happiness unblighted; or, if found, With faint illumination, that uplifts
Without some thistly sorrow at its side; The shadows to the cieling, there by fits
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.
Against the law of love, to measure lots Not undelightful is an hour to me
With less distinguished than ourselves; that thus So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom
We may with patience bear our moderate ills, Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, And sympathize with others, suffering more. The mind contemplative, with some new theme
Il fares the traveller now, and he that stalky Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore That never felt a stupor, know no pause,
By congregated loads adhering close Nor need one; I ain couscious, and confess
To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace Fearless a soul, that does not always think.
Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,
L'pon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear I gazed, myself creating what I saw.
The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, Nor less amused have I quiescent watched
With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth
Presented bare against the storm, plods on. The sooty films, that play upon the bars
One hand secures his hat, save when with both Pendulous, and foreboding in the view
He brandishes his pliant length of whip,
Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.
O happy; and in my account denied proach. "Tis thus the understanding takes repose
That sensibility of pain, with which
Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou ! In indolent vacuity of thought,
Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face
The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
The learned finger never need explore Of deep deliberation, as the man
Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost.
That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may seed. Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.
I mean the man, who, when the distant poor
PRAISE OF THE COUNTRY.
But man, associated and leagued with man
By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond And have a friend in every feeling heart.
For interest-sake, or swarming into clans Warmed, while it lasts, by labour, all day long Beneath one head for purposes of war, They brave the season, and yet find at eve,
Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.
And bundled close to fill some crowded rase, The frugal housewife trembles while she lights Fades rapidly, and by compression marred Her
scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, Contracts defilement not to be endured. But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.
Hence chartered boroughs are such public plaques; The few small embers left she nurses well;
And burghers, men immaculate perhaps
Against the charities of domestic life,
Incorporated seem at once to lose Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.
Their nature; and disclaiming all regard The taper soon extinguished, which I saw
For mercy and the common rights of man, Dangled along at the cold finger's end
Build factories with blood, conducting trade Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf
At the sword's point, and dyeing the white rebe Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of innocent commercial justice red. Of savory cheese, or butter, costlier still;
Hence too the field of glory, as the world Sleep seems their only refuge: for alas,
Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, Where penury is felt the thought is chained, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught Ingenious parsimony takes, but just
On principle, where foppery atones Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool,
For folly, gallantry for every vice. Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. But slighted as it is, and by the great They live, and live without extorted alms
Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, From grudging hands; but other boast have none Infected with the manners and the modes To sooth their honest pride, that scorns to beg,
It knew not once, the country wins me sull.
I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,
But there I laid the scene. There early strayed A dry but independent crust, hard earned,
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice And eaten with a sigh, than to endure
Had found me, or the hope of being free. The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs
My very dreams were rural; rural 100
The first-born efforts of my youthful Muse,
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,
Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. But ost-times deaf to suppliants, who would blush
No bard could please me but whose lyre was tened To wear a tattered garb however coarse,
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Whom fainine cannot reconcile to filth:
Fatigued me; never weary of the pipe These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, Because deserving, silently retire!
The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. But be ye of good courage! Time itself
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;
New to my taste his Paradise surpassed And all your numerous progeny, well-trained
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want
I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first
Engaged my wonder; and admiring still,
Sad witnessess how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at nature, when he can no more.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart-consoling joys
And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode
1 shall not add myself to such a chase,
'Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Just in the niche he was ordained to fill.
He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;
To artists ingenuity and skill;
To me, an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long
THE WINTER MORNING WALK.
'Tis morning; and the sun, with orb Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,
Resemble most some city in a blaze,
Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
I view the muscular proportioned limb
Take step for step; and, as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plastered wall,
The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
Of late unsightly and upseen, now shine
Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds
In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
Their wonted fodder ; not like huugering man,
Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay,
He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;
Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging ost,