BUNYAN.

[Note:  John Bunyan (1628-1688), the Puritan tinker, author of the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’]

* * * * *

       THE WINTER EVENING.

       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, strapped waist, and frozen locks! 
       News from all nations lumb’ring at his back. 
       True to his charge, the close-pack’d load behind. 
       Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
       Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
       And, having dropp’d th’ 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 indiff’rent 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 am’rous sighs of absent swains,
       Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
       His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
       But oh the important budget; usher’d in
       With such heart-shaking music, who can say
       What are its tidings? have our troops awak’d? 
       Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,
       Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave? 
       Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
       And jewell’d turban with a smile of peace,
       Or do we grind her still?  The grand debate,
       The popular harangue, the tart reply,
       The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
       And the loud laugh—­I long to know them all;
       I burn to set the imprison’d wranglers free,
       And give them voice and utt’rance once again.

       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, squeez’d
       And bor’d 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 folio of four pages, happy work! 
       Which not