Слике страница

Just 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 stooping, towering crest and all,
My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps
The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile
With faint illumination that uplifts
The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits
Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.
Not undelightful 16 is an hour to me


So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom
Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,
The mind contemplative, with some new theme
Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial
That never feel a stupor, know no pause
Nor need one. I am conscious, and confess
Fearless, a soul that does not always think.
Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild
Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, towers,
Trees, churches, and strange visages express'd
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gazed, myself creating what I saw.

Nor less amused have I quiescent watch'd
The sooty films that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view
Of superstition prophesying still






Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach.

16 Not undelightful is the ceaseless hum

To him who muses through the woods at noon.

Summer, 280.

'Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought,

And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face"7 Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask

Of deep deliberation, as the man

Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost.
Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour

At evening, till at length the freezing blast
That sweeps the bolted shutter 18, summons home
The recollected powers, and snapping short
The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves
Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.
How calm is my recess! and how the frost
Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear
The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within 19!
I saw the woods and fields at close of day
A variegated show; the meadows green
Though faded, and the lands where lately waved
The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,
Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share.

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile

17 What's the bent brow, or neck in thought reclined? The body's wisdom to conceal the mind.


Thus pedlers with some hero's head make bold,
Illustrious mark !-where pins are to be sold.

Young. Satire ii.

That no rough blast may sweep

His garlands from the boughs.

Book ii. 441.

19 Suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis, E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem.






Lucret. ii. 1.

With verdure not unprofitable, grazed

By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each
His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves
That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue,
Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.
To-morrow brings a change, a total change!
Which even now, though silently perform'd
And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face
Of universal nature undergoes.

Fast falls a fleecy shower 20. The downy flakes

Descending and with never-ceasing lapse

Softly alighting upon all below,

Assimilate all objects. Earth receives

Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green
And tender blade that fear'd the chilling blast,
Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

In such a world, so thorny, and where none
Finds happiness unblighted", or if found,





Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends
At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields

Put on their winter robe of purest white:

'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods

Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west emits his evening ray
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man.

21 In the centre of a world whose soil

Winter, 229.

Is rank with all unkindness, compassed round

Without some thistly sorrow at its side,
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin
Against the law of love, to measure lots
With less distinguish'd than ourselves, that thus
We may with patience bear our moderate ills,
And sympathize with others, suffering more.
Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team.
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore
By congregated loads adhering close

To the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace
Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.
The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,
While every breath by respiration strong
Forced downward, is consolidated soon
Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear
The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,
With half-shut eyes and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth
Presented bare against the storm, plods on.

One hand secures his hat, save when with both
He brandishes his pliant length of whip,
Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.
Oh happy! and in my account, denied
That sensibility of pain with which
Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou.
Thy frame robust and hardy, feels indeed

With such memorials, I have sometimes felt
That 'twas no momentary happiness

To have one enclosure where the voice that speaks
In envy or detraction is not heard.

S. C.-9.

Excursion, p. 279.








The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd.
The learned finger never need explore

Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful East,




That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone
Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.
Thy days roll on exempt from household care;
Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts
That drag the dull companion to and fro,
Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.
Ah treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st
Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great
With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place,
Humane as they would seem, not always show.
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,
Such claim compassion in a night like this,
And have a friend in every feeling heart.
Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long
They brave the season, and yet find at eve
Ill clad and fed, but sparely time to cool.
The frugal housewife trembles when she lights
Her scanty stock of brush-wood, blazing clear
But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.
The few small embers left she nurses well,
And while her infant race with outspread hands
And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, 385
Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd.
The man feels least, as more inured than she
To winter, and the current in his veins
More briskly moved by his severer toil;
Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.
The taper soon extinguished, which I saw



« ПретходнаНастави »