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 silken threads round ivory reels, When they command whom man was born to please; I slight 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 seen his giant bulk Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, My pleasures, too, begin. But me perhaps The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quivering 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 some new theme Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
Laugh, ye who boast your more mercurial powers, That never felt a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess, Fearless, a soul that does not always think. Me oft has Fancy ludicrous and wild
Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gazed, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amused have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films, that play upon the bars Pendulous, and foreboding in the view Of superstition, prophesying still,
Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps 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 strength, absorb'd and lost. Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home
The recollected powers, and, snapping short The glassy threads, with which the Fancy weaves Her brittle toils, restores me to myself.
How calm is my recess ! and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within! I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves, That skirt the' horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently perform'd And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face of universal nature undergoes.
Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes, Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below,
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle; and the green And tender blade, that fear'd the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.
In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at its side; It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguish'd than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathize with others suffering more. Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregating loads adhering close To the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong
Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests.
The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,
With half-shut eyes, and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy! and in my account, denied That sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. The learned finger never need explore Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'st, Yet show that thou hast mercy! which the great, With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, Humane as they would seem, not always show. Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour all day long, They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end
Just when the day declined; and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half eaten without sauce Of savoury cheese, or butter, costlier still; Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas! Where penury is felt, the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious parsimony takes, but just
Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands; but other boast have none, To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in the work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags,
But oft-times deaf to suppliants, who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse,
Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth:
These ask with painful shyness, and, refused
Because deserving, silently retire!
But be ye of good courage! Time itself
Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase; And all your numerous progeny, well-train'd, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man who, when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys, And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame; I shall not add myself to such a chase,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to every man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life, and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill. To the deliverer of an injured land
He gives a tongue to' enlarge upon, a heart To feel, and courage to redress, her wrongs; To monarchs dignity; to judges sense; To artists ingenuity and skill;
To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt
A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.
THE WINTER NOSEGAY.
WHAT Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,
And Winter is deck'd with a smile.
See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flowers have the charms of the Spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
"T is a bower of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime;
A fortress to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived
The frowns of a sky so severe :- Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose Seem graced with a livelier hue ; And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.
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