Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
No rattling wheels ftop fhort before these gates;.
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm affaults thefe 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 snowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom; 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 moft fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page, by one
Made vocal for th' amusement of the reft;
The fprightly lyre, whofe treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice fymphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant still;
Beguile the night, and fet 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 laft meal commence.
Such as the miftrefs 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-fpare 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 :
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 fnare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preferv'd and peace reftor'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 fmoke 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 felf-complacent actor, when he views
(Stealing a fide-long glance at a full houfe)
The flope 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 fo refin'd or fo fincere as our's.
Cards were fuperfl'ous here, with all the tricks
That idleness has ever yet contriv'd
To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,
To palliate dullness, 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!
Their's, fhould 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 fpots quadrangular of di'mond form,
Enfanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of ftrife,
And fpades, the emblem of untimely graves.
What should be and what was an hour-glafs 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 whofe age their mothers wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school
Of card-devoted time, and, night by night,
Plac'd at fome 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 home,
Defcribes 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 ufe,
Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing
That fancy finds in her excurfive flights.
Come, Ev'ning, once again, feason of peace; Return, fweet Ey'ning, 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 repofe
On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man
With sweet 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, juft-twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No less than her's, not worn indeed on high
With oftentatious pageantry, but set
With modeft grandeur in thy purple zone,
Refplendent lefs, 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 mutic, 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 still.
Juft when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,
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