Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor fuch as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or profcribes the found 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 'fcap'd, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preferv'd and peace restor❜d, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, That I and mine, and thofe we love, enjoy.
Is winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unfav'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 fide-long glance at a full house)
The flope of faces, from the floor to th' roof (As if one master-fpring controul'd them all) Relax'd into an univerfal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy Half fo refin'd or fo fincere as ours.
Cards were fuperfluous 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 paffes us, has a dove's wing, Unfoil'd and swift, and of a filken found But the world's time, is time in masquerade. Theirs, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd With motley plumes, and where the peacock fhows
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red With spots quadrangular of diʼmond form, Enfanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife, And fpades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, moft pleas'd when idle moft, Whose only happy are their wafted hours. Ev'n miffes, at whose age their mothers wore The back-string and the bib, assume the dress
Of womanhood, fit 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 foon play all the game. But truce with cenfure, Roving as I rove, Where fhall I find an end, or how proceed? As he that travels far, oft turns afide
To view fome rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r, Which feen, delights him not; then coming
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, Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing That fancy finds in her excursive flights.
Come, Evening, once again, feafon of peace, Return, fweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I fee thee in the ftreaky weft,
With matron-step flow-moving, while the night Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beaft, the other charg'd for man With fweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not fumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely featur'd night, of cluft'ring gems; A ftar or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With oftentatious pageantry, but fet With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Refplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou fhalt find thy vot'ry calm. Or make me fo. Compofure is thy gift: And whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to mufic, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; Or twining filken threads round iv'ry reels, When they command whom man was born to please ;
I flight thee not, but make thee welcome ftill. Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirrour, in which he of Gath, Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk Whole, without ftooping, tow'ring creft and all, My pleasures too begin. But me, perhaps, The glowing hearth may fatisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadow to the cieling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame. Not undelightful is an hour to me
So spent in parlour twilight; fuch a gloom Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant or indifpos'd alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs That never feel a ftupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am confcious, and confefs, Fearless, a foul that does not always think. Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild, Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages, exprefs'd In the red cinders while with poring eye I gaz'd, myself creating what I faw. Nor lefs amus'd have I quiefcent watch'd The footy films that play upon the bars Pendulous and foreboding, in the view Of fuperftition, prophefying still,
Though ftill deceiv'd, fome stranger's near approach.
'Tis thus the understanding takes repose In indolent vacuity of thought,
And fleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were task'd to his full ftrength, abforb'd and loft. Thus oft, reclin'd at eafe, I lose an hour At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted fhutter, fummons home The recollected powers, and fnapping short The glaffy threads, with which the fancy weaves Her brittle toys, reftores me to myself. How calm is my recefs, and how the frost,
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