At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still.
The sound of war Has lost 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 sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flower to flower, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; He sucks intelligence in every clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research At his return, a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred heart Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes; While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
O Winter! ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,
And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west: but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours. Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours Of long, uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powdered 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, or 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. 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, Enjoyed, 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 escaped, the broken snare, 185 The disappointed foe, deliverance found
Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
"O evenings worthy of the gods!" exclaimed 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 unsavory 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 controlled them all) Relaxed into a universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy 205 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 unfurnished brain, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoiled, 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 His 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, 220 Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace
Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, Whose only happy are their idle hours.
Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore The backstring and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, sit 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, 235 Which seen, delights him not; then coming home,
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