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Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houfes in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of abfent fwains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect

His horfe and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?
Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a fmile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic and the wifdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire, and clofe the shutters faft, Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn

Throws up a fteamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not fuch his ev'ning, who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, fqueez'd
And bor'd with elbow-points through both his fides,
Out-fcolds 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 fmiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticife; that holds
Inquifitive attention, while I read,

Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of bufy life,

Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit fee
The feals of office glitter in his eyes ;.

He climbs, he pants, he grafps them! At his heels,
Clofe at his heels, a demagogue afcends,

And with a dextrous jerk foon twifts him down,
And wins them, but to lofe them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence in foft

Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd
T'engrofs 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 fenfe
That it foretells us always comes to pass.
Cat'racts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning fpread the page,
In which all comprehenfion wanders, loft;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of fìrange
But gay confufion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothlefs, ringlets for the bald,
Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,

Sermons, and city feafts, and fav'rite airs,
Æthereal journies, fubmarine exploits,

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.

'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat To peep at fuch a world; to fee the ftir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;

To hear the roar fhe fends through all her gates
At a fafe distance, where the dying found
Falls a foft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at eafe
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanc'd
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still

The found of war

Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride

And av'rice that make man a wolf to man;

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats

By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And figh, but never tremble at the found.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee

From flow'r to flow'r, fo he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy, of all
Pay contribution to the ftore he gleans;
He fucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repaft 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 fhare in his escapes ;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

Oh Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with fleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd with a beard made white with other fnows Than thofe of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy fceptre, and thy throne A fliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urg'd by ftorms along its flipp'ry way,

I love thee, all unlovely as thou feem'ft,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'ft the fun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short'ning 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 converfe and inftructive eafe,
And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group
The family difpers'd, and fixing thought,
Not lefs difpers'd 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

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