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;
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 bashfulness; 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,
Æthereal 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.

*

O Winter! ruler 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 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.

*

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,)
Relax'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 unfurnish'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 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.
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-devoted time, and, night by night,
Placed at some vacant corner of the board,
Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.

Task, v. 36.

THE GUILT OF MAKING MAN PROPERTY.

Canst thou, and honor'd with the Christian name,
Buy what is woman-born, and feel no shame ?1
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;
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 be dismiss'd?
Impudent blasphemy! So Folly pleads,
And, Avarice being judge, with ease succeeds.2

1 Says the Rev. Albert Baines, in his Inquiry into the Scriptural Views of Slavery, "There is no power our of the church that could sustain slavery an hour, if it were not sustained IN it." Nothing can be more true: and what a sad reflection it is that there can be found professed disciples of Him who came "to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captive, 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. It is enough to make angels weep. Christianity can never fulfil its great and glorious design, unless those who profess it act upon its principles fully and entirely in all their res lations, personal, social, business, civil, and political. What a momentous responsibility therefore. rests upon the members of the Christian church!

2 See the lines from Milton, in the note on page 280.

PREACHING US. PRACTICE.

A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest,
Had once his integrity put to the test;

His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob,
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job.

He was shock'd, 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 could,

But staying behind will do him no good.

"If the matter depended alone upon me,

His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the tree;
But since they will take them, I think I'll 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 join'd in the plan;
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN,

Showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again. 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.

To-morrow 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 furnish'd 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 brought,

But yet was not allow'd

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud