Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,

Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs,
Æthereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat3
To peep at such a world. To see the stir
Of the great Babel and not feel the crowd.

To hear the roar1 she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round

3 The world is a comedy, and I know no securer box from which to behold it than a safe solitude, and it is easier to feel than to express the pleasure which may be taken in standing aloof and contemplating the reelings of the multitude, the eccentric motions of great men, and how fate recreates itself in their ruin."-Sir G. Mackenzie's Moral Essays, 139.

4 There from the ways of men laid safe ashore, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar.

Young. Sutire v.

While he, from all the stormy passions free
That restless men involve, hears, and but hears,
At distance safe, the human tempest roar,
Wrapt safe in conscious peace. The fall of kings,
The rage of nations, and the crush of states,
Move not the man, who, from the world escaped,
In still retreats, and flowery solitudes,
To nature's voice attends.

Autumn, 1303.

With all its generations; I behold

The tumult and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me,

Grieves but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that make man a wolf to man3,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats 6

100

By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee

105

From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all

Pay contribution to the store he gleans;

110

He sucks intelligence in every clime,

And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repast for me.

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,

Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with kindred heart
Suffer his woes and share in his escapes,
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

115

Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd,

6 The brazen throat of war had ceased to roar.

Par. Lost, xi. 713.

7 Sometimes in distant climes I stray,
By guides experienced taught the way;
The wonders of each region view
From frozen Lapland to Peru,

Bound o'er rough seas and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.

Soame Jenyns.

120

Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way;

125

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem❜st,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun
A prisoner in the yet undawning East,

130

Shortening 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 gathering at short notice in one group
The family dispersed, and fixing thought
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee King of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.

135

140

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates.
No powder'd pert proficient in the art

145

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 flower
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn
Unfolds its bosom, buds and leaves and sprigs

150

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,

Follow the nimble finger of the fair,

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow
With most success when all besides decay.
The poet's or historian's page, by one

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;

155

165

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds 160
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 closed, 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,

Enjoyed, 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,

8 First of your kind! society divine!

Still visit thus my nights, for you reserved,
And mount my soaring soul to thoughts like yours.
Silence, thou lovely power! the door be thine,
See on the hallow'd hour that none intrude,
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refined,
Learning digested well, exalted faith,

Unstudied wit, and humour ever gay. Winter, 540.

170

175

Who deem religion frenzy, and the God
That made them an intruder on their joys,
Start at his aweful name, or deem his praise
A jarring note: themes of a graver tone
Exciting oft our gratitude and love,

While we retrace with memory's pointing wand
That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,
The disappointed foe, deliverance found
Unlook'd for, life preserved and peace restored,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Oh evenings worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,
More to be prized and coveted than yours,
As more illumined 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 unsavoury 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 sidelong glance at a full house,)
The slope of faces from the floor to the roof,
(As if one master-spring control'd them all,)
Relax'd into an universal grin,

Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy

Thus in some deep retirement would I pass
The winter glooms, with friends of pliant soul,
Or blithe, or solemn, as the theme inspired.

Winter, 571.

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