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 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 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 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,

While we retrace with mem'ry's pointing wand,

That calls the past to our exact review,

The dangers we have 'scap'd, the broken snare,

The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found

Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor'dFruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh ev'nings, I reply,
More to be priz'd and coveted than your's,
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 tragic 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 side-long glance at a full house) The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof, (As if one master-spring controul'd them all) Relax'd into an universal grin,

Sees not a count'nance there that speaks of joy Half so refin'd or so sincere as our's.

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!
Their's, 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 di'mond form,
Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, 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, most pleas'd when idle most;
Whose only happy are their wasted hours.
Ev'n misses, at whose age their mothers wore
The back-string and the bib, assume the dress