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 hiftorian's page by one
Made vocal for the amusement of the reft;
The sprightly lyre, whofe treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice fymphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming ftrife triumphant ftill;
Beguile the night, and fet a keener edge
On female induftry: the threaded steel
Flies fwiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The volume closed, the cuftomary rites
Of the laft meal commence.
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humhle doors,
And under an old oak's domestic shade,
Enjoyed, fpare feast! a radish 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 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 'scaped, the broken snare, The difappointed foe deliverance found
Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,
More to be prized and coveted than your's
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 fmoke of lamps,
The pent-up breath of an unfavoury throng,
To thaw him into feeling; or the smart
And snappifh dialogue, that flippant wits
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?
The felf-complacent actor, when he views
(Stealing a fide-long glance at a full house)
The flope of faces, from the floor to the roof,
(As if one mafter-fpring controuled them all)
Relaxed into an univerfal grin,
Sees not a countenance there, that fpeaks of joy
Half fo refined or fo fincere as our's.
Cards were fuperfluous here, with all the tricks,
That idleness has ever yet contrived
To fill the void of an unfurnished brain,
To palliate dulnefs, and give time a fhove.
Time, as he paffes us, has a dove's wing,
Unfoiled, and fwift, and of a filken found;
But the world's time is time in masquerade!
Their's, fhould I paint him, has his pinions fledged
With motley plumes; and,where the peacock fhows
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red
With spots quadrangular of diamond form,
Enfanguined hearts, clubs typical of ftrife,
And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.
What should be, and what was an hour-glafs once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maft
Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus decked,he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most;
Whofe only happy are their wafted hours.
E'en miffes, at whose age their mothers wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school
Of card-devoted time, and night by night
Placed at fome vacant corner of the board,
Learn every 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 mouldering tower,
Which feen delights him not; then coming home
Describes 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 mixed for a far different use,
Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing,
That fancy finds in her excurfive flights.
Come Evening, once again, season of peace; Return fweet Evening, 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 employed
In letting fall the curtain of repofe
On bird and beaft, the other charged for man
With fweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not fumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,
Like homely-featured night, of cluftering gems;
A ftar or two, juft twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No lefs than her's, not worn indeed on high
With oftentatious pageanty, but set
With modeft grandeur in thy purple zone,
Refplendent lefs, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou fhalt find thy votary calm,
Or make me fo. Compofure is thy gift:
And, whether I devote thy gentle hours
To books, to music, or the poet's toil;
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;
Or twining filken threads round ivory 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 multiplied
many a mirror, in which he of Gath,
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