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The touch from many a trembling chord fhakes out ;
And the clear voice, fymphonious, yet diftinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant fill,
Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge,

On female induftry; the threaded fteel,

Flies fwiftly, and unfelt, the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites,
Of the laft meal commence.

A Roman meal,

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 domeftic fhade
Enjoy'd, fpare feaft! a radifh, and an egg.
Difcourfe enfues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor fuch as with a frown, forbids the play
Of fancy, or profcribes the found 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 praife.
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,
Exciting oft, our gratitude and love,

While we retrace, with mem'ry's pointing wand,
That calls the past to our exact review,

The dangers we have 'fcap'd, the broken fnare,
The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found,
Unlook'd for, life preferv'd, and peace reftor'd,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

Ch evenings, worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd,
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,

More

More to be priz'd, and coveted than yours,
As more illumin'd, 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 fmoke of lamps,
The pent-up breath of an unfav'ry throng,
To thaw him into feeling, or the smart,
And fnappish dialogue, that flippant wits,
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?
The felf-complacent actor, when he views,
(Stealing a fidelong glance at a full house)
The flope of faces, from the floor to th' roof,
(As if one mafter-fpring controul'd them all)
Relax'd into an univerfal grin,

Sees not a count'nance there that speaks a joy,
Half fo refin'd, or fo fincere as ours.
Cards were fuperfluous here, with all the tricks,
That idleness has ever yet contriv'd,

To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,
To palliate dulnefs, and give time a shove.
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.
Theirs, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd,
With motely plumes, and where the peacock shows
His auzure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red,
With spots quadrangular, of di'mond form,
* Enfanguin'd hearts, clubs, typical of strife,
And fpades, the emblem of untimely graves.

What

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What fhould be, and what was, an hour-glafs once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mat,

Well does, the work of his deftructive feythe.
Thus deck'd, he charms a world, whom fashion 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, assume the dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the fchool
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,
Defcribes, 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 mixt, for a far diff'rent ufe,
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-ftep, flow moving, while the night Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repofe,

On

On bird and beaft, the other charg'd for man,
With fweet oblivion of the cares of day;
Not fumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid,
Like homely featur'd night, of cluft'ring gems,
A ftar or two, juft twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave, that the moon is thine,
No less than hers, 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 shalt 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 poets 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 multiply'd,
From many a mirrour, in which he of Gath,
Goliah, might have feen his giant bulk,
Whole, without ftooping, tow'ring creft and all,
My pleasures too begin. But me, perhaps,
The glowing hearth, may fatisfy awhile,
With faint illumination, that uplifts
The fhadow 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 paufe,

Nor need one. I am conscious, 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 visages express'd,
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gaz'd, myfelf creating what I faw.
Nor lefs amus'd, have I quiefcent watch'd
The footy films that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding in the view:
Of fuperftition, prophefying ftill,

Though ftill deceiv'd, fome ftranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repofe,

In indolent vacuity of thought,

And fleeps, and is refresh'd.

Mean while the face

Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask

Of deep deliberation, as the man,

Were tafk'd to his full ftrength, abforb'd, and loft..
Thus, oft reclin'd at eafe, I lose an hour

At ev'ning, till, at length the freezing blast,
That fweeps the bolted fhutter, fummons home
The recollected powers, and fuapping fhort,
The glaffy threads, with which the fancy weaves,
Her brittle. toys, reftores me to myself..

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