THE SAILOR'S HOME.
MUCH would it please you, sometimes to explore
The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor;
To view a sailor just return'd from sea,
His wife beside; a child on either knee,
And others crowding near, that none may lose
The smallest portion of the welcome news;
What dangers past, "when seas ran mountains high,
When tempests raved, and horrors veil'd the sky;
When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismay'd,
When the strong fainted, and the wicked pray'd,——
Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove,
And gazed upon the billowy mount above ;
Till up that mountain, swinging with the gale,
We view'd the horrors of the watery vale."
The trembling children look with steadfast
And panting, sob involuntary sighs;
Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays,
And all is joy and piety and praise.
THE EVENING NEWSPAPER.
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, squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,
Outscolds 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!
Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence; which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the summit see
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,
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft
Meanders, lubricate the course they take ;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretells us, always come to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there,
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs,
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
SEE, where the victim stands !-not crown'd with flowers, But compass'd round by fiends;—his haggard cheek, His beamless eye,—what tell they?—Of lost hours, With mute, but dreadful eloquence they speak!
Of fame, and fortune blighted-hopes betray'd-
And all the fearful wreck ONE cherish'd vice has made.
Hark! to yon hollow laugh of desperate mirth,
That while it fires the brain, and lights the eye,
Sounds the last knell of peace-owing its birth
To the fierce pangs of mental agony ;—
'Tis the convulsive joy of wild despair,
Wrung from the tortur'd heart; a joy that demons
Oh! love of play!—so call'd in fashion's phrase,
Blighter of social hearths and peaceful hours;
Cankerer of manhood's fair and opening days,
That, but for thee, had else been strewn with flow'rs; Thou direst passion of the human heart,
Would that my feeble hand could paint thee as thou art.
Oh! vice of all most hurtful to the soul,
Climax of ev'ry other vice!-the mind
That ONCE acknowledges thy fell control,
Spreads desolation round it ;-like the wind
That sweeps the desert in its poison'd wrath,
Shedding where'er it breathes, destruction in his path!
Oh! vice of all most deadly! on THY shrine,
Nature's soft links,-Love's sweet and holy ties,
Fall early victims;-all the bonds that twine
Around man's heart, light up a sacrifice
More cruel than on Bramah's blood-stain'd pyre,
Where Hindoo mothers joy to see their babes expire!
Fame, honour, fortune-all are swept away;
All swell the general wreck ;—Why stands he HERE, A ruin'd, hopeless wretch ?-as breaks the day, He quits the scene of plunder;-in his ear Ring the still rattling dice; his throbbing brain, Is crowded now with thoughts that ne'er shall rest again! Rushing with horror, through the silent streets, And shrinking from himself, he seeks his HOME! (Once 'twas a happy one ;) his pale wife greets
His wish'd return with smiles.
From woman's fond endearments, to partake
Those scenes that of his soul a leafless desert makes?
Ah! SHE has listen'd with a beating heart,
To ev'ry passing footstep;—SHE has told
Each lingering hour's dull chime, with frequent start, And tears, that none might chide and none behold! And she has kiss'd her infant in its sleep,
Praying that Heav'n from HIM such fatal vice may keep!
But now she meets the lost one with a smile,
That would seem cheerful;- -save that her pale brow And faded cheek tell other tale the while,
Of suff'rings which her lips will ne'er avow;—
Fondly she clasps the wanderer to her breast,
Alas!-not even there can his wreck'd heart find rest!
She leads him to the couch, where calmly sleeps
His beggar'd child;-Then e'en the GAMESTER'S Soul
Owns all a FATHER's feelings!-see, he weeps,
(But they are tears that madden as they roll,)
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