Then heav'n, eclips'd so long, and this dull earth, Shall seem to start into a second birth; Nature, assuming a more lovely face,
Borr'wing a beauty from the works of grace, Shall be despis'd and overlook'd no more, Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, Impart to things inanimate a voice,
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; The sound shall run along the winding vales, And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails.
VANITY OF HUMAN PURSUITS.
I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one, who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray Each in his own delusions; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream, that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay, As if created only like the fly,
That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known; and call the rant A history describe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note, And paint his person, character, and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb.
They disentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and shrewd design, That ran through all his purposes, and charge His mind with meanings that he never had, Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it, and reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation: travel nature up
To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars; why some are fix'd, And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playing tricks with nature, giving laws o distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling, and loud hissing urn Throws up a steaming column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor 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 tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not even critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break į What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concern?
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! 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 asham'd and griev'd, T'ingross 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 fortells us, always comes to pass. Cat'racts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; 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 lillies 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 journies, submarine exploits, And Katerfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
"T is 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 the uninjur'd ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at case 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 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.
THE DOMESTIC WINTER EVENING.
O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd 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 urg'd 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 dispers'd, and fixing thought, Not less dispers'd 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 dispos'd, 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 clos'd, 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 prescribes the sound 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 Mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snar The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserv'd, and peace restor❜d, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
O ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. O ev'nings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
EVENING FIRESIDE REVERIE, WHILE IT SNOWS OUT OF
Just 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 stooping, towering crest and all, My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps
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