Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to fome,
To him indiff'rent, whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epiftles wet
With tears that trickl'd down the writers cheeks,
Fast 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! ufher'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 harrangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh--I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now ftir the fire, and clofe the fhutters faft,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn,
Throws up afteamy column, and the cups,
That cheer, but not enebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not fuch his ev'ning, who with fhining face,

Sweats

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd,
And bor'd, with elbow-points, through both his fides,
Out-fcolds the ranting actor on the flage.

Nor his, who patient ftands 'till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath,
Of patriots burfting with heroic rage,

Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of our 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 mountanous 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 dext'rous jerk soon twists him down,

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn,
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Maanders, lubricate the course they take;
The modeft speaker is afham'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.

Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
There forests of no meaning spread the page,..
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleafantry amufe us there,
With merry defcants on a nation's woes.
The reft appears a wilderness of strange,
But gay confufion, rofes 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,
Ætherial journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end,

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

'Tis pleafant, 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 diftance, 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 behod

The tumult, and am still. The found of war,
Has loft its terrors, ere it reaches me,

Grieves,

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes 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 store 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 efcapes,
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is fill at home.

Oh Winter! ruler of th'inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair, with fleet, like afhes, 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 seem'st,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold't the fun.. A pris'ner in the yet undawning Eaft,

Short

Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,...
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rofy Weft. But kindly, ftill
Compenfating his lofs with added hours
Of social converse, and inftructive ease,
And gathering, 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
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No ratt'ling wheels stop short before these gates.
No powder'd pert, proficient in the art

Of founding an alarm, affaults thefe doors,

'Till the ftreet rings. No ftationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while heedlefs of the found
The filent circle fan themfelves, and quake.
But here the needle plies its bufy task,

The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r,
Wrought patiently into the fnowy lawn,
Unfolds its bofom, buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully difpos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair,

A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow,
With moft fuccefs, when all befides decay.
The poet's, or hiftorian's page, by one,
Made vocal for th' amufement of the reft;
The fprightly lyre, whofe treafure of fweet founds,

The