No powder'd pert, proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page by one
Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound 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 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
O evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, 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 unsavoury 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 sidelong glance at a full house) The slope of faces, from the floor to the roof (As if one master-spring controll'd them all) Relax'd into an universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of joy Half so refined or so sincere as ours.
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks, That idleness has ever yet contrived
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, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's Time is Time in masquerade! Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows Ilis azure eyes, is tinctured black and red With spots quadrangular of diamond form, Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be, and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard-mace
Well does the work of his destructive sithe,
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school Of card-devoted Time, and night by night Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Learn every trick, and soon 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 aside, To view some rugged rock or mouldering tower, Which seen 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 palette spread, With colours mix'd for a far different use, Paint cards, and dolls, and every idle thing, That Fancy finds in her excursive flights.
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
With matron step slow 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 charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorn'd, not needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, Or make me so. 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 silken threads round ivory reels, When they command whom man was born to please, 1 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, Goliah, 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, summous 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 sympathise with others suffering more.
« 이전계속 » |