That idleness has ever yet contriv'd
To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain,
To palliate dullness, and give time a shove.
Time, as he paffes us, has a dove's wing,
Unfoil'd and swift, and of a filken found;
But the world's time, is time in masquerade.
Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd
With motley plumes, and where the peacock shows
His azure eyes, is tinctur'd black and red
With spots quadrangular of di'mond form,
Enfanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife,
And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.
What should be, and what was an hour-glafs once,
Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard maft
Well does the work of his deftructive scythe.
Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds
To his true worth, moft pleas'd when idle most,
Whose only happy are their wafted hours.
Ev'n miffes, at whofe age their mother's wore
The back-ftring and the bib, affume the dress
Of womanhood, fit pupils in the school
Of card-devoted time, and, night by night,
Plac'd at fome vacant corner of the board,
Learn ev'ry trick, and foon play all the game.
But truce with cenfure. Roving as I rove,
Where fhall I find an end, or how proceed?
As he that travels far, oft turns afide
To view fome rugged rock or mould'ring tow'r,
Which feen, 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 mix'd for a far diff'rent use,
Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing
That fancy finds in her excurfive flights.
Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, Return, fweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I fee thee in the streaky west,
With matron-step flow-moving, while the night
Treads on thy fweeping train; one hand employ'd.
In letting fall the curtain of repofe
On bird and beaft, the other charg'd for man
With fweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not fumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid,
Like homely featur'd night, of cluft'ring gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; fave that the moon is thine
No less than hers, not worn indeed on high
With oftentatious pageantry, but fet
With modeft grandeur in thy purple zone,
Refplendent lefs, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou fhalt find thy vot'ry calm,
Or make me fo. Compofure 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 filken threads round iv'ry reels,
When they command whom man was born to please;
I flight thee not, but make thee welcome still.
Juft when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze
With lights, by clear reflection multiplied
From many a mirrour, in which he of Gath,
Goliah, might have feen his giant bulk
Whole, without stooping, tow'ring crest and all,
My pleasures too begin. But me, perhaps,
The glowing hearth may fatisfy awhile
With faint illumination, that uplifts
The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits
Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring flame.
Not undelightful is an hour to me
So spent in parlour twilight; fuch a gloom
Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,'
The mind contemplative, with some new theme
Pregnant, or indifpos'd alike to all.
Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial pow'rs,
That never feel a ftupor, know no pause,
Nor need one; I am confcious, and confefs,
Fearless, a foul that does not always think.
Me oft has fancy, ludicrous and wild,
Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'rs,
Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd
In the red cinders, while with poring eye
I gaz'd, myself creating what I faw.
Nor less amus'd have I quiefcent watch'd
The footy films that play upon the bars
Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view
Of fuperftition, prophefying still,
Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose
In indolent vacuity of thought,
And fleeps 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, reclin'd at eafe, I lose an hour
At evening, till at length the freezing blast,
That sweeps the bolted shutter, fummons home
powers, and snapping short
The glaffy threads, with which the fancy weaves
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