Which not e'en criticks criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of busy life,

Its fluctuations, 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 60 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'engross 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 thnnder 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 lilies for the brows of faded age,

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,

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Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets,

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,

Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.

"Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,

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To

peep at such a world; to see the stir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;

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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'd ear.
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 liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

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The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrours ere it reaches me;

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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

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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;.

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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

O 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
Fring'd with a beard made white with other shows
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,

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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,

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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.

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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,

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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;

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A wreath, that cannot fade, or 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:

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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 domestick 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 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,

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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,

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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 priz'd and coveted than yours,
As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths,
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?
Needs he the tragick fur, the smoke of lamps,
The pent-up breath of an unsav'ry throng,
To thaw him into feeling, or the smart
And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?
The self-complacent actor, when he views
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)
The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof

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(As if one master spring controll'd them all,)

Relax'd into a universal grin,

Sees not a count'nance there, that speaks of joy 205 Half so refin'd or so sincere as ours.

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Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks
That idleness has ever yet contriv'd
To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,
To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.
Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound;
But the world's Time is Time in masquerade!
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd,
With motley plumes; and where the peacock shows
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,
Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.

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What should be, and what was an hourglass once, 220 Becomes a dicebox, and a billiard mace

Well does the work of his destructive sithe.

Thus deck'd, he charms a World whom Fashion blinds

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To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most:
Whose only happy, are their idle hours.
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore
The backstring and the bib, assume the dress
Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school
Of card devoted Time, and, night by night,
Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board,
Learn ev'ry trick, and soon play all the game.
But truce with censure. Roving as I rove,
Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?
As he that travels far oft turns aside,

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To view some rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r, 235
Which seen, delights him not; then coming home
Describes and prints it, that the world may know
How far he went for what was nothing worth:
So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,
With colours mix'd for a far diff'rent use,

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