That idleness has ever yet contriv'd To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unfoil'd, and fwift, and of a filken found; But the world's time is time in masquerade! Their's, should 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 spots quadrangular of di'mond form, Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be and what was an hour-glafs once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maft
Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most;
Whose only happy are their wasted hours.
Ev'n misses, at whose age their mothers wore The back-ftring and the bib, assume the-dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted time, and, night by night, Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board, Learn ev'ry trick, and foon play all the game. But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, Where shall 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, Describes 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 use, Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing That fancy finds in her excursive flights.
Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long!
Methinks I fee thee in the streaky weft,
With matron-step flow-moving, while the night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day : Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely featur'd night, of clust'ring gems; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than her's, not worn indeed on high With oftentatious pageantry, but fet With modeft grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent lefs, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm, Or make me fo. Composure is thy gift : And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, 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.
Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze
With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliath, might have feen his giant bulk Whole, without stooping, tow'ring crest and all, My pleasures, too, begin. But me, perhaps, The glowing hearth may fatisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame. Not undelightful is an hour to me So spent in parlour twilight: such a gloom Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with fome new theme Pregnant, or indispos'd alike to all. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs, That never feel a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am confcious, and confefs, Fearless, a foul that does not always think. Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild,
Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gaz'd, myself creating what I faw. Norless amus'd have I quiefcent watch'd The footy films that play upon the bars, Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view
Of fuperftition, prophefying still,
Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And fleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were tafk'd to his full strength, absorb'd and loft, Thus oft, reclin'd at ease, I lose an hour
At ev'ning, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected pow'rs; and, snapping short The glassy threads, with which the fancy weaves
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