"One sultry Sunday, when no cooling breeze Was borne on Zephyr's wing to fan the trees; One sultry Sunday, when the torrid ray O'er nature beam'd intolerable day; When raging Sirius warn'd us not to roam, And Galen's sons prescrib'd--cool draughts at home; One sultry Sunday, near those fields of fame Where weavers dwell, and Spital is their name, A sober wight, of reputation high For tints that emulate the Tyrian dye, Wishing to take his afternoon's repose In easy-chair, had just began to doze, When, in a voice that sleep's soft slumbers broke, His oily helpmate thus her wishes spoke: "'Why, spouse, for shame!--my stars! what's this about? You's ever sleeping!--come, we'll all go out;-- At that there garden,--pr'ythee, do not stare!-- We'll take a mouthful of the country air; In the yew bower an hour or two we'll kill; There you may smoke, and drink what punch you will. Sophy and Billy each shall walk with me, And you must carry little Emily. Veny is sick, and pants, and loathes her food; The grass will do the pretty creature good. Hot rolls are ready as the clock strikes five-- And now 'tis after four, as I'm alive!' "The mandate issued, see the tour begun, And all the flock set out for Islington. Now the broad sun, refulgent lamp of day, To rest with Thetis, slopes his western way, O'er every tree embrowning dust is spread, And tipt with gold is Hampstead's lofty head. The passive husband, in his nature mild, To wife consigns his hat, and takes the child; But she,--a day like this hath never felt-- 'Oh! that this too, too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!'-- Such monstrous heat--dear me!--she never knew. 'Adown her innocent and beauteous face, The big, round pearly drops each other chase;' Thence trickling to those hills, erst white as snow, That now like Ætna's mighty mountains glow, They hang like dew-drops on the full-blown rose, And to the ambient air their sweets disclose. Fever'd with pleasure, thus she drags along; Nor dares her antler'd husband say 'tis wrong; The blooming offspring of this blissful pair, In all their parents' attic pleasures share. Sophy the soft, the mother's earliest joy, Demands her froward brother's tinsell'd toy; But he, enrag'd, denies the glittering prize, And rends the air with loud and piteous cries. Thus far we see the party on their way; What dire disasters mark'd the close of day, 'Twere tedious, tiresome, endless to obtrude: Imagination must the scene conclude."--E. [Illustration: EVENING.]