Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely featured night, of clustering gems; A star or two just twinkling on thy brow Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, Or make me so. Composure 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 silken threads round ivory reels,
When they command whom man was born to please; I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. Not undelightful is an hour to me
So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers, That never feel a stupor, know no pause, Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess, Fearless, a soul that does not always think. Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild,
Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, Trees, churches, and strange visages express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gazed, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amused have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view Of superstition, prophesying still,
Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And sleeps and is refresh'd. Meanwhile the face Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask
Of deep deliberation, as the man
Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd and lost. Thus oft, reclined at ease, I lose an hour At evening, till at length the freezing blast, That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected powers, and snapping short The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves Her brittle toils, restores me to myself. How calm is my recess, and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear The silence and the warmth enjoy'd within! I saw the woods and fields at close of day A variegated show; the meadows green, Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved The golden harvest of a mellow brown, Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share; I saw far off the weedy fallows smile With verdure not unprofitable, grazed By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves, That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue, Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. To-morrow brings a change, a total change! Which even now, though silently perform'd And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes.
Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes Descending, and, with never ceasing lapse, Softly alighting upon all below,
Assimilate all objects. Earth receives Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green And tender blade that fear'd the chilling blast, Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.
In such a world, so thorny, and where none Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, Without some thistly sorrow at his side, It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin Against the law of love, to measure lots With less distinguish'd than ourselves, that thus We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathise with others, suffering more. Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads adhering close
To the clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes and pucker'd cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. Oh happy! and in my account, denied The sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou. Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. The learned finger never need explore Thy vigorous pulse; and the unhealthful east, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. Thy days roll on exempt from household care; Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah, treat then kindly! rude as thou appear'st, Yet shew that thou hast mercy, which the great With needless hurry whirl'd from place to place, Humane as they would seem, not always shew.
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warm'd while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well, And while her infant race, with outspread hands, And crowded knees, sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by severer toil; Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs.
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