He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, cuftoms, policy, of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks 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,
Afcend his topmaft, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is ftill at home.
Oh Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with fleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other fnows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy thronc A fliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by ftorms along its flippery way,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemeft,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou holdeft the fun
A prifoner in the yet undawning east,
Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rofy weft; but kindly still
Compensating his lofs with added hours
Of focial converse and inftructive ease,
And gathering, at short notice, in one group
The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
Not less dispersed by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-fide enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts, that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening, know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powdered pert proficient in the art
Of founding an alarm affaults these doors
Till the street rings; no ftationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the found,
The filent circle fan themselves, and quake:
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpofed,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath, that cannot fade, or flowers, that blow With most fuccefs when all befides decay.
The poet's or hiftorian's page by one
Made vocal for the 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 set a keener edge
On female induftry: the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume closed, the cuftomary rites
Of the laft meal commence.
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humhle doors,
And under an old oak's domestic shade,
Enjoyed, fpare feast! a radish and an egg.
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor such 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 memory's pointing wand,
That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'fcaped, the broken fnare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found
Unlooked for, life preferved and peace restored,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,
More to be prized and coveted than your's
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 unfavoury 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 fide-long glance at a full house)
The flope of faces, from the floor to the roof,
(As if one mafter-spring controuled them all)
Relaxed into an universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy
Half fo refined or fo fincere as our's.
Cards were fuperfluous here, with all the tricks,
That idleness has ever yet contrived
To fill the void of an unfurnished brain,
To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.
Time, as he paffes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoiled, 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 fledged
With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red
With fpots quadrangular of diamond form,
Enfanguined hearts, clubs typical of ftrife,
And spades, 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 decked,he charms a world whom fashion blinds
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