* * * *

  This folio of four pages, happy work! 
  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?

* * * *

    ’Tis pleasant through the loop-holes 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 injured 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. 
    Oh winter! ruler of the inverted year,
  Thy scatter’d hair with sleet like ashes fill’d,
  Thy breath congeal’d upon thy lips, thy cheeks
  Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
  Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
  A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
  A sliding car indebted to no wheels,
  And urged by storms along its slippery way;
  I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,
  And dreaded as thou art.  Thou hold’st 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 by daylight and its cares. 
  I crown thee king of intimate delights,
  Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
  And all the comforts that the lowly roof
  Of undisturb’d retirement, and the hours
  Of long uninterrupted evening know.