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 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. "Tis pleasant, through the loopholes 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' uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced 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 sigh, 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 sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slipp'ry way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st 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 west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd 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, heedless of the sound, The silent 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 disposed, 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 out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, 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 proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion phrensy, 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 past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent, eternal love.
"Oh, ev'nings worthy of the gods!" exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh, ev'nings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, and with nobler truths,
That I, and mine, and those we love enjoy.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, Moved many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. Yet feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revoked, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and must'ring all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love;
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant.
We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounced
His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent That converse, which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother, too, That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed The playful humour; he could now endure (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth, Till time has stolen away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.
The night was winter in his roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r, Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. VOL. II.-H
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