HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearifome but needful length
Beftrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;-
He comes, the herald of a noify world,
With fpattered boots, ftrapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumbering at his back.
True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And having dropped the expected bag, pafs on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful; meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to fome;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses 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 charged with amorous fighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect
His horfe and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh the important budget! ushered in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?
Or do they ftill, as if with opium drugged,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does the wear her plumed
And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, 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 the imprisoned wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now ftir the fire, and close the shutters faft, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not fuch his evening, who with fhining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his fides,
Out-fcolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient ftands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e'vn 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, Close at his heels, a demagogue afcends,
And with a dexterous jerk foon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in foft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modeft speaker is afhained and grieved
To engrofs a moment's notice, and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bafhfulness! it claims at least this praife;
The dearth of information and good sense,
That it foretells us always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forefts of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehenfion wanders loft;
While fields of pleasantry 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 toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets,
Nectareous effences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feafts, and favourite airs,
Æthereal journies, fubmarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at fuch a world; to see the stir
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 the uninjured ear.
Thus fitting, and furveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I feem advanced
To fome fecure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns fubmitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am ftill. The found of war
Has loft its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice, 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.
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