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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.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still.

The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride
And avarice that make man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee

From flower to flower, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all




Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in every clime,

And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repast for me.


He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year,



Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled,
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way;

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun
A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rosy west: but kindly still
Compensating his loss with added hours.
Of social converse and instructive ease,
And gathering, at short notice, in one group
The family dispersed, and fixing thought,
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.
I crown thee King of intimate delights,
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours
Of long, uninterrupted evening know.

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powdered 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 disposed,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;



A wreath that cannot fade, or 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 escaped, the broken snare, 185
The disappointed foe, deliverance found

Unlooked for, life preserved, and peace restored,
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.

"O evenings worthy of the gods!" exclaimed
The Sabine bard. O evenings, I reply,

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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 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 controlled them all)
Relaxed into a universal grin,




Sees not a countenance there, that speaks of joy 205 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, 220
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mace

Well does the work of his destructive scythe.


Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, most pleased when idle most,
Whose only happy are their idle hours.

Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore
The backstring 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, 235 Which seen, delights him not; then coming home,

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