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And having dropp'd th' expected bag-pass on.
cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writers' cheeks, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent fwains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horfe and him, unconscious of them all. But oh th' important budget ! usher'd in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings ? have our troops awak'd ? Or do they still, as if with opium drugg’d, Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave ? Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd And jewell'd turban with a smile of
peace, Or do we grind her still ? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
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 steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides, Out-scolds 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!
Sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise ;
confusion; 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 essences, Olympian dews, Sermons and city feasts, and fav’rite airs, Æthereal 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 peep at such a world ; to see the lir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,