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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. (.
PLEASURES OF A WINTER EVENING.
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,
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
Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?
fart r. 3b. THE GUILT OF MAKING MAN PROPERTY.
Canst thou, and honor'd with the Christian name,
Written in Ike autumn of 1793.
The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Thy spirits have a fainter flow.
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For though thou gladly wouUlst fulfil
Bet well thou play'dst the housewife's part;
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,
Thy indistinct expressions seein
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN,
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
Of famous London town.
“Though wedded we have been
No holiday have seen.
And we will then repair
All in a chaise and pair.
Myself and children three,
On horseback after we."
Of womankind but one,
Therefore it shall be done.
As all the world doth know,
Will lend his horse to go."
And for that wine is dear,
Which is both bright and clear."
O'erjoy'd was he to find
She had a frugal mind.
But yet was not allow'd
Should say that she was proud