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 curly tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair;A wreath that cannot fade, of 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 scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed 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 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 unsavoury 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 an universal grin, Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy 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, 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 To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, Whose only happy are their wasted hours.
Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore The back-string 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, Which seen 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 excursive flights.
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, 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 employed 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 adorned, 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 to 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 a while With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadow 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 expressed In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gazed, myself creating what I saw.
