And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page by one
Made vocal for th' 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. 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 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 phrensy, 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 Mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent, eternal love.
"Oh, ev'nings worthy of the gods!" exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh, ev'nings, 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.
There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, Moved many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. Yet feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revoked, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and must'ring all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love;
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounced
His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent That converse, which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother, too, That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed The playful humour; he could now endure (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears), And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth, Till time has stolen away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.
The night was winter in his roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r, Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread
The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. VOL. II.-H
The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That twinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence.
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN.
JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holyday have seen.
"To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.
"My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.'
He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done.
'I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the calendrer Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; O'erjoy'd was he to find,
That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.
So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.
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