He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dextrous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is afham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs 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 fenfe
That it foretells us always comes to pass.
Cat'racts of declamation thunder here;
There forefts of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehenfion wanders, loft;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confufion; 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 effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat To peep at fuch a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar the fends through all her gates
At a fafe diftance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft 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 figh, but never tremble at the found.
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 ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And fpreads the honey of his deep refearch
At his return-a rich repaft for me.
'He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and fhare in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.
Oh Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with fleet like afhes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd with a beard made white with other fnows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy throne A fliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by forms along its flipp'ry way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'ft,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'ft the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning eaft,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rofy weft; but kindly ftill
Compenfating his lofs with added hours.
Of focial converfe and inftructive ease,
And gath'ring, at fhort notice, in one group
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought,
Not lefs difpers'd by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born 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 founding an alarm, affaults these doors
Till the street rings; no ftationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedlefs of the found,
The filent 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 fnowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom; buds, and leaves, and fprigs
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow
With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page, by one
Made vocal for th' amufement of the reft;
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes
And the clear voice fymphonious, yet diftinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant ftill;
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
On female industry: the threaded steel
Flies fwiftly, and, unfelt, the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites
Of the laft meal commence.
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!
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor fuch as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or profcribes the found of mirth:
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