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Though pinched with cold, asks never.-Kate is Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. crazed.
Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, I see a column of slow-rising smoke
And thus the rangers of the western world, O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild.
Where it advances far into the deep, A vagabond and useless tribe there eat
Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung
So lately found, although the constant sun Between two poles upon a stick transverse,
Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog,
Can boast but little virtue; and inert
Through plenty, lose ip morals what they gain
These therefore I can pity, placed remote Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un From all that science traces, art invents, quenched
Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide In boundless oceans never to be passed Their Muttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, By navigators uninformed as they, The vellum of the pedigree they claim.
Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again :
Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,
Forth from thy native bowers, to shew thee here
With what superior skill we can abuse His nature; and, though capable of arts,
The gifts of Providence, and squander life. By which the world might profit, and himself, The dream is past; and thou hast found again Self-banished from society, prefer
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, (found Such squalid sloth to honourable toil!
And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou
Their former charms? And having seen our state,
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights, And music of the bladder and the bag,
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Lost nothing by comparison with ours? Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy
Rude as thou art, (for we returned thee rude The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;
And ignorant, except of outward show) And, breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart Need other physic uone to heal the effects
And spiritless, as never to regret
Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.
And asking of the surge, that bathes thy foot,
If ever it has washed our distant shore.
I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,
A patriot's for his country: thou art sad
At thought of her forlorn and abject state, Of temperate wishes and industrious hands.
From which no power of thine can raise her up: Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;
Thus fancy paints thee, and though apt to err, Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,
Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. And terrible to sight, as when she springs
She tells me too that duly every moru (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote
Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,
Exploring far and wide the watery waste And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,
For sight of ship from England. Every speck
Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale
With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, War followed for revenge, or to supplant
And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared The envied tenants of some happier spot:
To dream all night of what the day denied. The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!
Alas! expect it not. We found no bait His hard condition with severe constraint
To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth
Disinterested good, is not our trade. Of wisdom, proves a school, in which he learns
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought;
And must be bribed to compass earth again
But though true worth and virtue in the mild That, through profane and infidel contempt
Of holy writ, she has presumed to aonul
The total ordinance and will of God;
Advancing fashion to the post of truth,
And centering all authority in modes
And customs of her own, till sabbath rites
Have dwindled into unrespected forms,
God made the country, and man made the town.
What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts,
That can alone make sweet the bitter draught,
In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,
Birds warbling all the music. We can spare Gives more than female beauty to a stone,
The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
There is a public mischief in your mirth ;
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done,
Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
VANITY OF IIUMAN PURSUITS.
Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars,
With gentle force soliciting the darts,
She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, Since then, with few associates, in remote
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few associates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much as I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray
Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed
And never won. Dream after dream ensues;
And still are disappointed. Rings the world The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,
And add two thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
'Twere well, could you permit the world to live Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As the world pleases. What's the world to you? its Er As if created only like the fly,
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,
Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson stream meandering there, A history: describe the man, of whom
And catechise it well; apply thy glass, His own coevals took but little note,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood And paint his person, character, and views,
Congenial with thine own: and, if it be, As they had known him from his mother's womb. What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose They disentangle from the puzzled skein,
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thouart, In which obscurity has wrapped them up,
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which
One common Maker bound me to the kind!
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swist
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;
I cannot analyze the air, nor catch That he who made it, and revealed its date
The parallax of yonder luminous point, To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
That seems half quenched in the immense abyss : Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Such powers I boast not-neither can I rest Contrive creation, travel nature up
A silent witness of the headlong rage, To the sharp peak of her sublimest height,
Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixed, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. And planetary some; what gave them first
God never meant that man should scale the heavens Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. By strides of human wisdom. In his works Great contest follows, and much learned dust Though wondrous, he commands us in his word Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The mind indeed, enlightened from above, The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp
Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums
But never yet did philosophic tube, Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight That brings the planets home unto the eye Of oracles like these ? Great pity too,
Of observation, and discovers, else That having wielded the elements, and built Not visible, his family of worlds, A thousand systems, each in his own way,
Discover him, that rules them; such a veil They should go out in fume, and be forgot?
Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,
Of nature, overlooks her author more;
Through all the heart's dark chambers, and revealed
Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized So hollow and so false-I feel my heart
In the pure fountain of eternal love, Dissolve in pity, and account the learned,
Has eyes indeed; and viewing all she sees If this be learning, most of all deceived.
As meant to indicate a God to man, Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps,
Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own. While thoughtful man is plausibly amused.
Learning has borne such fruit in other days Defend me therefore common sense, say I,
On all her branches: piety has found From reveries so airy, from the toil
Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Of dropping buckets into empty wells,
Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. And growing old in drawing nothing up!
Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! ”Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound,
Sagacious reader of the works of God, Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,
And in his word sagacious. Such too thine, And overbuilt with most impending brows,
Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,
And fed on manna! And such thine, in whom What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns ? Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, And sound integrity, not more than famed
That tempts ambition. On the summit see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o’er yonder bridge, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. That with its wearisome but needful length
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Meanders lubricate the course they take; Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved He comes, the herald of a noisy world, [locks; To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, News from all nations lumbering at his back. However trivial all that he conceives. True to his charge, the close-packed load behind, Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
The dearth of information and good sense, Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
That it foretells us, always comes to pass. And, having dropped the expected bag, pass on.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here; He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
There forests of no-meaning spread the page, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
In which all comprehension wanders lost; Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
With merry descants on a nation's woes. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
The rest appears a wilderness of strange Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks And lilies for the brows of faded age, Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plundered of their sweets, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, But oh the important budget! ushered in
Æthereal journies, submarine exploits, With such heart-shaking music, who can say
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
To some secure and more than mortal height, And give them voice and utterance once again. That liberates and exempts me from them all.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
And avarice, that make man a wolf to man; Not such his evening, who with shining face Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed By which he speaks the language of his heart, And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. Out-scolds the rantiug actor on the stage:
He travels and expatiates, as the bee Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, From flower to flower, so he from land to land; And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath The manners, customs, policy, of all Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Pay contribution to the store he gleans; Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
He sucks intelligence in every clime, This folio of four pages, happy work!
And spreads the honey of his deep research Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds
At his return-a rich repast for me. Inquisitive attention, while I read,
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes ;
That made them, an intruder on their joys, While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,
Exciting ost our gratitude and love,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemist,
The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun More to be prized and coveted than yours, A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
As more illumined, and with nobler truths, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Is winter hideous in a garb like this? Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, Compensating his loss with added hours
The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng, Of social converse and instructive ease,
To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And gathering, at short notice, in one group And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. The self-complacent actor, when he views I crown thee king of intimate delights,
(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, The slope of faces, from the floor to the roof, And all the comforts, that the lowly roof
(As if one master-spring controuled them all) Of uudisturbed retirement, and the hours
Relaxed into an universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy
Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks
That idleness has ever yet contrived Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
To fill the void of an unfurnished brain, Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, But here the needle plies its busy task,
Unsoiled, and swift, and of a silken sound; The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, But the world's time is time in masquerade! Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, With motley plumes; and, where the peacock shows And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,
His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
With spots quadrangular of diamond form, A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife, With most success when all besides decay.
And spades, the emblem of antimely graves. The poet's or historian's page by one
What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast
Well does the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus decked, he charms a world whom fashion blinds And in the charming strife triumphant still;
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
Whose only happy are their wasted hours. On female industry: the threaded steel
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.
The back-string and the bib, assume the dress The volume closed, the customary rites
Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school Of the last meal commence.
Of card-devoted time, and night by night Such as the mistress of the world once found
Placed at some vacant corner of the board, Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game. Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,
But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, And under an old oak’s domestic shade,
Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? Enjoyed, spare feast! a radish and an egg.
As he that travels far oft turns aside Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,
To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower
, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Which seen delights him not; then coming home Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:
Describes and prints it, that the world may know Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
How far he went for what was nothing worth;
So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread,
A Roman meal;