That idleness has ever yet contriv'd

To fill the void of an unfurnifh'd brain,
To palliate dulnefs, and give time a fhove.
Time, as he paffes 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, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd
With motley plumes; and, where the peacock fhows
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red
With fpots quadrangular of di'mond form,
Enfanguin'd 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 deftructive scythe.

Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fafhion blinds
To his true worth, moft pleas'd when idle moft;
Whofe only happy are their wafted hours.

Ev'n miffes, at whofe age their mothers wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the dress

Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school

Of card-devoted time, and, night by night,
Plac'd at fome vacant corner of the board,
Learn ev'ry trick, and foon play all the game.
But truce with cenfure. Roving as I rove,
Where fhall 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 excurfive flights.

Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace; Return, fweet Ev'ning, and continue long! Methinks I fee thee in the ftreaky west,

With matron-step flow-moving, while the night

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Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employ'd

In letting fall the curtain of repofe

On bird and beaft, the other charg'd for man

With fweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid,
Like homely featur'd night, of cluft'ring gems;
A ftar or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave 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,

· Refplendent lefs, but of an ampler round.

Come then, and thou fhalt find thy vot'ry calm,
Or make me fo. Compofure is thy gift:

And, whether I devote thy gentle hours

To books, to mufic, 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.

Juft 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: fuch a gloom
Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,

The mind contemplative, with fome new theme
Pregnant, or indifpos'd alike to all.

Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs,
That never feel a ftupor, 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 vifages, exprefs'd

In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gaz'd, myself creating what I faw.
Nor less 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, fome 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 task'd to his full ftrength, absorb'd and loft,
Thus oft, reclin'd at eafe, I lose an hour

At ev'ning, till at length the freezing blaft,
That sweeps the bolted fhutter, fummons home
The recollected pow'rs; and, fnapping short
The glaffy threads, with which the fancy weaves