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And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom What is it, but a map of busy life,
Our British Themis gloried with just cause,

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, And sound integrity, not more than famed

That tempts ambition. On the summit see
For sanctity of manners undefiled.

The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends
THE WINTER EVENING.

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. That with its wearisome but needful length

Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Meanders lubricate the course they take; Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved He comes, the herald of a noisy world, [locks; To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, News from all nations lumbering at his back. However trivial all that he conceives. True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; Yet careless what he brings, his one concern

The dearth of information and good sense, Is to conduct it to the destined inn;

That it foretells us, always comes to pass. And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on.

Cataracts of declamation thunder here; He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

There forests of no-meaning spread the page, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief

In which all comprehension wanders lost; Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, To him indifferent whether grief or joy.

With merry descants on a nation's woes. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,

The rest appears a wilderness of strange Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet

But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks And lilies for the brows of faded age, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, But oh the important budget! ushered in

Æthereal journies, submarine exploits, With such heart-shaking music, who can say

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,

'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?

To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, At a safe distance, where the dying sound
The popular harangue, the tart reply,

Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all; The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,

To some secure and more than mortal height, And give them voice and utterance once again. That liberates and exempts me from them all.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, It turns submitted to my view, turns round
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

With all its generations; I behold
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,

Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

And avarice, that make man a wolf to man; Not such his evening, who with shining face Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed By which he speaks the language of his heart, And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. Out-scolds the rantiug actor on the stage:

He travels and expatiates, as the bee Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, From flower to flower, so he from land to land; And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath The manners, customs, policy, of all Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,

Pay contribution to the store he gleans; Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

He sucks intelligence in every clime, This folio of four pages, happy work!

And spreads the honey of his deep research Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds

At his return-a rich repast for me. Inquisitive attention, while I read,

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; Discover countries, with a kindred heart

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Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ;

That made them, an intruder on their joys, While fancy, like the finger of a clock,

Start at his awful name, or deem his praise Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,
Oh Winter, ruler of the inverted year,

Exciting ost our gratitude and love,
Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, While we retrace with memory's poioting wand,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks That calls the past to our exact review,
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, The disappointed foe, deliverance found
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored,
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
But urged by storms along its slippery way,

Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemist,

The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun More to be prized and coveted than yours, A prisoner in the yet undawning east,

As more illumined, and with nobler truths, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

Is winter hideous in a garb like this? Down to the rosy west; but kindly still

Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, Compensating his loss with added hours

The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng, Of social converse and instructive ease,

To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And gathering, at short notice, in one group And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits The family dispersed, and fixing thought,

Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. The self-complacent actor, when he views I crown thee king of intimate delights,

(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, The slope of faces, from the floor to the roof, And all the comforts, that the lowly roof

(As if one master-spring controuled them all) Of uudisturbed retirement, and the hours

Relaxed into an universal grin,
Of long uninterrupted evening, know.

Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates ; Half so refined or so sincere as ours.
No powdered pert proficient in the art

Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks
Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors

That idleness has ever yet contrived Till the street rings; no stationary steeds

To fill the void of an unfurnished brain, Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, But here the needle plies its busy task,

Unsoiled, and swift, and of a silken sound; The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, But the world's time is time in masquerade! Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,

Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,

His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red Follow the nimble finger of the fair;

With spots quadrangular of diamond form, A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, With most success when all besides decay.

And spades, the emblem of antimely graves. The poet's or historian's page by one

What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,
Made vocal for the amusement of the rest ;

Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;

Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,

Thus decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds And in the charming strife triumphant still;

To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge

Whose only happy are their wasted hours. On female industry: the threaded steel

E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.

The back-string and the bib, assume the dress The volume closed, the customary rites

Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school Of the last meal commence.

Of card-devoted time, and night by night Such as the mistress of the world once found

Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Delicious, when her patriots of high note,

Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,

But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, And under an old oak’s domestic shade,

Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg.

As he that travels far oft turns aside Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,

To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower

, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play

Which seen delights him not; then coming home Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:

Describes and prints it, that the world may know Nor do we madly, like an impious world,

How far he went for what was nothing worth;
Who deem religion frenzy, and the God,

So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,
With colours mixed for a far different use,

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Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing,

Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour That fancy finds in her excursive flights.

At evening, till at length the freezing blast, Come Evening, once again, season of peace; That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home Return sweet Evening, and continue long!

The recollected powers; and snapping short Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,

The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves With matron-step slow-moving, while the night Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed How calm is my recess; and how the frost, In letting fall the curtain of repose

Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear On bird and beast, the other charged for man

The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:

I saw the woods and fields at close of day, Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,

A variegated show; the meadows green, Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems; Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,

The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine

Upturned so lately by the forceful share. No less than hers, not worn indeed on high

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With ostentatious pageantry, but set

With verdure not unprofitable, grazed With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,

By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.

His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,

That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift,

Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. And, whether I devote thy gentle hours

To-morrow brings a change, a total change! To books, to music, or the poet's toil;

Which even now, though silently performed, To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;

And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,

Of universal nature undergoes. When they command whom man was born to please ;

Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes HET I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse

Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze Softly alighting upon all below, With lights, by clear reflection multiplied

Assimilate all objects. Earth receives From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,

Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green Goliah, might have seen bis giant bulk

And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, Whole without stooping, towering crest and all,

Escapes unhurt beneath so warin a veil. My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps

In such a world, so thorny, and where none The glowing hearth may satisfy a while

Finds happiness unblighted; or, if found, With faint illumination, that uplifts

Without some thistly sorrow at its side; The shadows to the cieling, there by fits

It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.

Against the law of love, to measure lots Not undelightful is an hour to me

With less distinguished than ourselves; that thus So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom

We may with patience bear our moderate ills, Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, And sympathize with others, suffering more. The mind contemplative, with some new theme

Il fares the traveller now, and he that stalky Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.

In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers,

The wain goes heavily, impeded sore That never felt a stupor, know no pause,

By congregated loads adhering close Nor need one; I ain couscious, and confess

To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace Fearless a soul, that does not always think.

Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.
Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild

The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,
Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, While every breath, by respiration strong
Trees, churches, and strange visages, expressed Forced downward, is consolidated soon
In the red cinders, while with poring eye

L'pon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear I gazed, myself creating what I saw.

The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, Nor less amused have I quiescent watched

With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth

Presented bare against the storm, plods on. The sooty films, that play upon the bars

One hand secures his hat, save when with both Pendulous, and foreboding in the view

He brandishes his pliant length of whip,
Of superstition, prophesying still,
Though still deceived, some stranger's near ap-

Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.

O happy; and in my account denied proach. "Tis thus the understanding takes repose

That sensibility of pain, with which

Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou ! In indolent vacuity of thought,

Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face

The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired. Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask

The learned finger never need explore Of deep deliberation, as the man

Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost.

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That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may seed. Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.

I mean the man, who, when the distant poor
Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Need help, denies them nothing but his name.
Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts,
That drag the dull companion to and fro,
Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.

PRAISE OF THE COUNTRY.
Ah treat them kindly; rude as thou appearest, Man in society is like a flower
Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great Blown in its native bed : 'tis there alone
With needless hurry whirled from place to place, His faculties, expanded in full bloom,
Humane as they would seem, not always show. Shine out; there only reach their proper use.
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,

But man, associated and leagued with man
Such claim compassion in a night like this,

By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond And have a friend in every feeling heart.

For interest-sake, or swarming into clans Warmed, while it lasts, by labour, all day long Beneath one head for purposes of war, They brave the season, and yet find at eve,

Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool.

And bundled close to fill some crowded rase, The frugal housewife trembles while she lights Fades rapidly, and by compression marred Her

scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, Contracts defilement not to be endured. But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys.

Hence chartered boroughs are such public plaques; The few small embers left she nurses well;

And burghers, men immaculate perhaps
And, while her infant race, with outspread hands In all their private functions, once combined,
And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, Become a loathsome body, only fit
Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. For dissolution, hurtful to the main.
The man feels least, as more inured than she Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin
To winter, and the current in his veins

Against the charities of domestic life,
More briskly moved by his severer toil;

Incorporated seem at once to lose Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.

Their nature; and disclaiming all regard The taper soon extinguished, which I saw

For mercy and the common rights of man, Dangled along at the cold finger's end

Build factories with blood, conducting trade Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf

At the sword's point, and dyeing the white rebe Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of innocent commercial justice red. Of savory cheese, or butter, costlier still;

Hence too the field of glory, as the world Sleep seems their only refuge: for alas,

Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, Where penury is felt the thought is chained, With all its majesty of thundering pomp, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care, Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is taught Ingenious parsimony takes, but just

On principle, where foppery atones Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool,

For folly, gallantry for every vice. Skillet, and old carved chest, from public sale. But slighted as it is, and by the great They live, and live without extorted alms

Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, From grudging hands; but other boast have none Infected with the manners and the modes To sooth their honest pride, that scorns to beg,

It knew not once, the country wins me sull.
Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.

I never framed a wish, or formed a plan,
I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,
For ye are worthy; choosing rather far

But there I laid the scene. There early strayed A dry but independent crust, hard earned,

My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice And eaten with a sigh, than to endure

Had found me, or the hope of being free. The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs

My very dreams were rural; rural 100
Of knaves in office, partial in the work

The first-born efforts of my youthful Muse,
Of distribution ; liberal of their aid
To clamorous importunity in rags,

Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,

Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. But ost-times deaf to suppliants, who would blush

No bard could please me but whose lyre was tened To wear a tattered garb however coarse,

To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Whom fainine cannot reconcile to filth:

Fatigued me; never weary of the pipe These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, Because deserving, silently retire!

The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. But be ye of good courage! Time itself

Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase;

New to my taste his Paradise surpassed And all your numerous progeny, well-trained

The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,

To speak its excellence. I danced for joy. And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want

I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,

As twice seven years, his beauties had then first

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Engaged my wonder; and admiring still,

Sad witnessess how close-pent man regrets
And still admiring, with regret supposed

The country, with what ardour he contrives
The joy half lost because not sooner found.

A peep at nature, when he can no more.
Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved,

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit

And contemplation, heart-consoling joys
Determined, and possessing it at last

And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode
With transports, such as favoured lovers feel, Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life!
I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, Address himself who will to the pursuit
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaimed Of honours, or emolument, or fame;
By modern lights from an erroneous taste,

1 shall not add myself to such a chase,
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit

'Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools,

Some must be great. Great offices will have
I still revere thee, courtly though retired;

Great talents. And God gives to every man
Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
Not unemployed; and finding rich amends

That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
For a lost world in solitude and verse.

Just in the niche he was ordained to fill.
"Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works To the deliverer of an injured land
Is an ingredient in the compound man,

He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart
Infused at the creation of the kind.

To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout To monarchs dignity; to judges sense ;
Discriminated each from each, by strokes

To artists ingenuity and skill;
And touches of his hand, with so much art

To me, an unambitious mind, content
Diversified, that two were never found

In the low vale of life, that early felt
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,

A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long
That all discern a beauty in his works, (formed Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.
And all can taste them: minds, that have been
And tutored with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.
It is a flame, that dies not even there,

'Tis morning; and the sun, with orb Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life,

That crowd away before the driving wind,
Whatever else they smother of true worth

More ardent as the disk emerges more,
In human bosoms, quench it or abate.

Resemble most some city in a blaze,
The villas, with which London stands begirt, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads,

Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,

And, tinging all with his own rosy hue,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer From every herb and every spiry blade
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!

Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.
Evin in the stilling bosom of the town

Mine, spindling into longitude immense,
A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms, In spite of gravity, and sage remark
That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled, That I myself arn but a fleeting shade,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall

I view the muscular proportioned limb
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair,
That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green As they designed to mock me, at my side
Js still the livery she delights to wear,

Take step for step; and, as I near approach
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.

The cottage, walk along the plastered wall,
What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.
The prouder sashes fronted with a range

The verdure of the plain lies buried deep
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,

Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents,
The Frenchman's darling? Are they not all proofs And coarser grass, opspearing o'er the rest,
That man, immured in cities, still retains

Of late unsightly and upseen, now shine
Ilis inborn inextinguishable thirst

Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss

And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.
By supplemental shifts, the best he may?

The cattle mourn in corners where the fence
The most unfurnished with the means of life,

Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds

In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait

Their wonted fodder ; not like huugering man,
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head

Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,

And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay,
And watered duly. There the pitcher stands

He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;

Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging ost,

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