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Hark! "tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood; in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright:— He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks, News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-pnck'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

ra,i, lv. (.


Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio1 of four pages, happy work I Which not even critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns 1 Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of olfice glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them I At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

I The Newspaper.

And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down,

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft

Meanders lubricate the course they take j

The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved

To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,

However trivial all that he conceives.

Sweet bashful ness; it claims at least this praise:

The dearth of information and good sense

That it foretells us always comes to pass.

Cataracts of declamation thunder here;

There forests of no meaning spread the page,

In which all comprehension wanders lost:

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there,

With merry descants on a nation's woes.

The rest appears a wilderness of strange

But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks

And lilies for the brows of faded age,

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,

Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,

Sermons, and city feasts, and favorite airs,

Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,

And Katterfelto, with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.

Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
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

• ••••»

0 Winter! rider of the inverted year, 1 crown thee King of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long, uninterrupted evening, know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates: No powder'd 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 disposedi 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.
• '•••«

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 controll'd them all,)
Rclax'd into a universal grin,
Sees not a countenance there that speaks of 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 unfuraish'd brain.
To palliate dulness, and give time a shove.
Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,
Unsoil'd, 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 mace
Well docs the work of his destructive scythe.
Thus deck'd, ho charms » world whom Fashion blinds
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most:
Whose only happy, are their idle hours.
E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore
The backstring and the bib, assume the dress
Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school
Of card-ilcvoted time, and, night by night,
Placed at some vacant corner of the board,
Learn every trick, and soon play ull the game.


Canst thou, and honor'd with the Christian name,
Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame 11
Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead
Expedience as a warrant for the deed?
So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold
To quit the forest and invade the fold j
So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide,
Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside;
Not he, but his emergence forced the door,
He found it inconvenient to be poor.
Has God then given its sweetness to the cane—
Unless His laws be trampled on—in vain?
Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist,
Unless His right to rule it bo dismiss'd?
Impudent blasphemy 1 So Folly pleads,
And, Avarice being judge, with ease succeeds.1


Written in Ike autumn of 1793.

The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow.
I see thee daily weaker grow j
Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouUlst fulfil
The same kind office for mc still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

Bet well thou play'dst the housewife's part;
And all thy threads, with magic art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

1 Says the Rev. Albert Bai Dei, In his /»juir i into far Scriptural lleiet of Slavtry, u There la no power Ovt or the church that could sustain slavery an hour, If It were not sustained l* !L" Nothing can be more true: and what a sad reflccUon It is that there can be found professed dtsclplea of Him who Cauic "to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the capUvc, and good-will toward men,** guilty of, or apologizing for, any practices or any systems of wrong-doing that degrade and brutalize their fellow-men. Ills enough to make angels weep. Christianity can never fulfll Its great nnd glorious design, unless those who profess It act upon Its principles fully and entirely In all their relation,., personal, social, business, civil, and political. What a momentous responsibility therefore, rests upon the members of the Christian church I

I See the lines fryin Milton, in the note on p^ge 2*0.

'If the matter depended alone upon me,
His apples might hang till they droppid from the treo;
But since they will take them, I think Ill go too;
He will lose none by me, though I get a few."
His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease,
And went with his comrades the apples to seize :
He blamed and protested, but joind in the plan;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

Thy indistinct expressions seein
Like language utter'd in a dreanı;
Yet me they charm, whatc'er the theme,

My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still move lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,

My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now, at every step thou movest,
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How of the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo,

My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!
A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;
His comrades had ploited an orchard to rob,
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.
He was shockid, sir, like you, and answer'd-"Oh, no
What! rob our good neighbor? I pray you don't go
Besides, the man's poor, his orchard's his bread,
Then think of his children, for they must be fed.
* You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
But apples we want, and apples we'll have;
If you will go with us, you shall have a share,
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear."
They spoke, and Tom ponder'd_" I see they will go
Poor man! what a pity to injure him so!
Poor man! I would save him his fruit if I coule,
But staying behind will do him no good.

Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came saje lonu aga

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,
A train-band Captain eke was he

Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear-

“Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we

No holiday have seen.
Tomorrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child,

Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride

On horseback after we."
He soon replied _ I do admire

Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.
I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know,
And my good friend the Calender

Will lend his horse to go."
Quoth Mrs. Gilpin- That's well said;

And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnishid with our own

Which is both bright and clear."
John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife;

O'erjoy'd was he to find
That, though on pleasure she was bent,

She had a frugal mind.
The morning came, the chaise was loronglit,

But yet was not allow'd
To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud

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