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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3698-0.txt b/3698-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a068625 --- /dev/null +++ b/3698-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6366 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Task, by William Cowper, Edited by Henry +Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Task + and Other Poems + + +Author: William Cowper + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: March 29, 2015 [eBook #3698] +[This file was first posted on July 24, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK*** + + +This eBook was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset. + + [Picture: Book cover] + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY. + + * * * * * + + + + + + THE TASK + AND OTHER POEMS + + + BY + WILLIAM COWPER. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited: + _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. + 1899. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +AFTER the publication of his “Table Talk” and other poems in March, 1782, +William Cowper, in his quiet retirement at Olney, under Mrs. Unwin’s +care, found a new friend in Lady Austen. She was a baronet’s widow who +had a sister married to a clergyman near Olney, with whom Cowper was +slightly acquainted. In the summer of 1781, when his first volume was +being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the street at +Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. Their coming was +the beginning of a cordial friendship. Lady Austen, without being less +earnest, had a liveliness that satisfied Cowper’s sense of fun to an +extent that stirred at last some jealousy in Mrs. Unwin. “She had lived +much in France,” Cowper said, “was very sensible, and had infinite +vivacity.” + +The Vicar of Olney was in difficulties, with his affairs in the hands of +trustees. The duties of his office were entirely discharged by a curate, +and the vicarage was to let. Lady Austen, in 1782, rented it, to be near +her new friends. There was only a wall between the garden of the house +occupied by Cowper and Mrs. Unwin and the vicarage garden. A door was +made in the wall, and there was a close companionship of three. When +Lady Austen did not spend her evenings with Mrs. Unwin and Cowper, Mrs. +Unwin and Cowper spent their evenings with Lady Austen. They read, +talked, Lady Austen played and sang, and they all called one another by +their Christian names, William, Mary (Mrs. Unwin), and Anna (Lady +Austen). In a poetical epistle to Lady Austen, written in December, +1781, Cowper closes a reference to the strength of their friendship with +the evidence it gave,— + + “That Solomon has wisely spoken,— + ‘A threefold cord is not soon broken.’” + +One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was low-spirited, Lady +Austen told him in lively fashion the story upon which he founded the +ballad of “John Gilpin.” Its original hero is said to have been a Mr. +Bayer, who had a draper’s shop in London, at the corner of Cheapside. +Cowper was so much tickled by it, that he lay awake part of the night +rhyming and laughing, and by the next evening the ballad was complete. +It was sent to Mrs. Unwin’s son, who sent it to the Public Advertiser, +where for the next two or three years it lay buried in the “Poets’ +Corner,” and attracted no particular attention. + +In the summer of 1783, when one of the three friends had been reading +blank verse aloud to the other two, Lady Austen, from her seat upon the +sofa, urged upon Cowper, as she had urged before, that blank verse was to +be preferred to the rhymed couplets in which his first book had been +written, and that he should write a poem in blank verse. “I will,” he +said, “if you will give me a subject.” “Oh,” she answered, “you can +write upon anything. Write on this sofa.” He playfully accepted that as +“the task” set him, and began his poem called “The Task,” which was +finished in the summer of the next year, 1784. But before “The Task” was +finished, Mrs. Unwin’s jealousy obliged Cowper to give up his new +friend—whom he had made a point of calling upon every morning at +eleven—and prevent her return to summer quarters in the vicarage. + +Two miles from Olney was Weston Underwood with a park, to which its owner +gave Cowper the use of a key. In 1782 a younger brother, John +Throckmorton, came with his wife to live at Weston, and continued +Cowper’s privilege. The Throckmortons were Roman Catholics, but in May, +1784, Mr. Unwin was tempted by an invitation to see a balloon ascent from +their park. Their kindness as hosts won upon Cowper; they sought and had +his more intimate friendship, till in his correspondence he playfully +abused the first syllable of their name and called them Mr. and Mrs. +Frog. + +Cowper’s “Task” went to its publisher and printing was begun, when +suddenly “John Gilpin,” after a long sleep in the Public Advertiser, rode +triumphant through the town. A favourite actor of the day was giving +recitations at Freemason’s Hall. A man of letters, Richard Sharp, who +had read and liked “John Gilpin,” pointed out to the actor how well it +would suit his purpose. The actor was John Henderson, whose Hamlet, +Shylock, Richard III., and Falstaff were the most popular of his day. He +died suddenly in 1785, at the age of thirty-eight, and it was thus in the +last year of his life that his power of recitation drew “John Gilpin” +from obscurity and made it the nine days’ wonder of the town. Pictures +of John Gilpin abounded in all forms. He figured on +pocket-handkerchiefs. When the publisher asked for a few more pages to +his volume of “The Task,” Cowper gave him as makeweights an “Epistle to +Joseph Hill,” his “Tirocinium,” and, a little doubtfully, “John Gilpin.” +So the book was published in June, 1785; was sought by many because it +was by the author of “John Gilpin,” and at once won recognition. The +preceding volume had not made Cowper famous. “The Task” at once gave him +his place among the poets. + +Cowper’s “Task” is to this day, except Wordsworth’s “Excursion,” the best +purely didactic poem in the English language. The “Sofa” stands only as +a point of departure:—it suits a gouty limb; but as the poet is not +gouty, he is up and off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin in the +country about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural sounds, +taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy winter +weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage, and draws from it +comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk to +the park at Weston Underwood, the prospect from the hilltop, touches upon +his privilege in having a key of the gate, describes the avenues of +trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher’s flail +then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is after toil. +He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness of Nature free to all, +that brings health to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. Spleen +vexes votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the innocent. So +thought flows on, and touches in its course the vital questions of a +troubled time. “The Task” appeared four years before the outbreak of the +French Revolution, and is in many passages not less significant of rising +storms than the “Excursion” is significant of what came with the breaking +of the clouds. + + H. M. + + + + +THE TASK. + + +BOOK I. +THE SOFA. + + +[“The history of the following production is briefly this:—A lady, fond +of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave +him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, +connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to +which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at length, +instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair—a +volume.”] + + I SING the Sofa. I, who lately sang + Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe + The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, + Escaped with pain from that advent’rous flight, + Now seek repose upon a humbler theme: + The theme though humble, yet august and proud + The occasion—for the Fair commands the song. + + Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, + Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. + As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, + Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: + The hardy chief upon the rugged rock + Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank + Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, + Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. + Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next + The birthday of invention; weak at first, + Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. + Joint-stools were then created; on three legs + Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm + A massy slab, in fashion square or round. + On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, + And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms; + And such in ancient halls and mansions drear + May still be seen, but perforated sore + And drilled in holes the solid oak is found, + By worms voracious eating through and through. + + At length a generation more refined + Improved the simple plan, made three legs four, + Gave them a twisted form vermicular, + And o’er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed, + Induced a splendid cover green and blue, + Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought + And woven close, or needlework sublime. + There might ye see the peony spread wide, + The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, + Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, + And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. + + Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright + With Nature’s varnish; severed into stripes + That interlaced each other, these supplied, + Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced + The new machine, and it became a chair. + But restless was the chair; the back erect + Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease; + The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part + That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down, + Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. + These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed + In modest mediocrity, content + With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides + Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, + With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, + Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed: + If cushion might be called, what harder seemed + Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed. + No want of timber then was felt or feared + In Albion’s happy isle. The lumber stood + Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight. + But elbows still were wanting; these, some say, + An alderman of Cripplegate contrived, + And some ascribe the invention to a priest + Burly and big, and studious of his ease. + But rude at first, and not with easy slope + Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs, + And bruised the side, and elevated high + Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. + Long time elapsed or e’er our rugged sires + Complained, though incommodiously pent in, + And ill at ease behind. The ladies first + Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. + Ingenious fancy, never better pleased + Than when employed to accommodate the fair, + Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised + The soft settee; one elbow at each end, + And in the midst an elbow, it received, + United yet divided, twain at once. + So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; + And so two citizens who take the air, + Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one. + But relaxation of the languid frame + By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs, + Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow + The growth of what is excellent, so hard + To attain perfection in this nether world. + Thus first necessity invented stools, + Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, + And luxury the accomplished Sofa last. + + The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, + Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he + Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour + To sleep within the carriage more secure, + His legs depending at the open door. + Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, + The tedious rector drawling o’er his head, + And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep + Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, + Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour + To slumber in the carriage more secure, + Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, + Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet, + Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. + + Oh, may I live exempted (while I live + Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) + From pangs arthritic that infest the toe + Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits + The gouty limb, ’tis true; but gouty limb, + Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: + For I have loved the rural walk through lanes + Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep, + And skirted thick with intertexture firm + Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk + O’er hills, through valleys, and by river’s brink, + E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds + To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. + And still remember, nor without regret + Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared, + How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, + Still hungering penniless and far from home, + I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, + Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss + The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. + Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite + Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved + By culinary arts unsavoury deems. + No Sofa then awaited my return, + No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs + His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil + Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, + As life declines, speed rapidly away, + And not a year but pilfers as he goes + Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, + A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees + Their length and colour from the locks they spare; + The elastic spring of an unwearied foot + That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, + That play of lungs inhaling and again + Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes + Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, + Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired + My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire— + Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. + Thou know’st my praise of Nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + How oft upon yon eminence, our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene! + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow-moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms + That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut; + While far beyond and overthwart the stream + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds + Exhilarate the spirit, and restore + The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, + That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood + Of ancient growth, make music not unlike + The dash of ocean on his winding shore, + And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, + Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, + And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. + Nor less composure waits upon the roar + Of distant floods, or on the softer voice + Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip + Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall + Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length + In matted grass, that with a livelier green + Betrays the secret of their silent course. + Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, + But animated Nature sweeter still + To soothe and satisfy the human ear. + Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one + The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes + Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, + But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime + In still repeated circles, screaming loud, + The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl + That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. + Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, + Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, + And only there, please highly for their sake. + + Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought + Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! + Fearless of humid air and gathering rains + Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself! + More delicate his timorous mate retires. + When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, + Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, + Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, + The task of new discoveries falls on me. + At such a season and with such a charge + Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown, + A cottage, whither oft we since repair: + ’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close + Environed with a ring of branching elms + That overhang the thatch, itself unseen + Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset + With foliage of such dark redundant growth, + I called the low-roofed lodge the _peasant’s nest_. + And hidden as it is, and far remote + From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear + In village or in town, the bay of curs + Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, + And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained, + Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. + Here, I have said, at least I should possess + The poet’s treasure, silence, and indulge + The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. + Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat + Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. + Its elevated site forbids the wretch + To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; + He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, + And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, + Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits + Dependent on the baker’s punctual call, + To hear his creaking panniers at the door, + Angry and sad and his last crust consumed. + So farewell envy of the _peasant’s nest_. + If solitude make scant the means of life, + Society for me! Thou seeming sweet, + Be still a pleasing object in my view, + My visit still, but never mine abode. + + Not distant far, a length of colonnade + Invites us; monument of ancient taste, + Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate. + Our fathers knew the value of a screen + From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks + And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon + The gloom and coolness of declining day. + We bear our shades about us; self-deprived + Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, + And range an Indian waste without a tree. + Thanks to Benevolus—he spares me yet + These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, + And, though himself so polished, still reprieves + The obsolete prolixity of shade. + + Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) + A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge + We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip + Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. + Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme + We mount again, and feel at every step + Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, + Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. + He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, + Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark + Toils much to earn a monumental pile, + That may record the mischiefs he has done. + + The summit gained, behold the proud alcove + That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures + The grand retreat from injuries impressed + By rural carvers, who with knives deface + The panels, leaving an obscure rude name + In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. + So strong the zeal to immortalise himself + Beats in the breast of man, that even a few + Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred + Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, + And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, + And posted on this speculative height + Exults in its command. The sheepfold here + Pours out its fleecy tenants o’er the glebe. + At first, progressive as a stream, they seek + The middle field; but scattered by degrees, + Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. + There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps + The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, + The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, + The boorish driver leaning o’er his team, + Vociferous, and impatient of delay. + Nor less attractive is the woodland scene + Diversified with trees of every growth, + Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks + Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, + Within the twilight of their distant shades; + There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood + Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs. + No tree in all the grove but has its charms, + Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, + And of a wannish gray; the willow such, + And poplar that with silver lines his leaf, + And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; + Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, + Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. + Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, + The maple, and the beech of oily nuts + Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve + Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass + The sycamore, capricious in attire, + Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet + Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. + O’er these, but far beyond (a spacious map + Of hill and valley interposed between), + The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, + Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, + As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. + + Hence the declivity is sharp and short, + And such the re-ascent; between them weeps + A little Naiad her impoverished urn, + All summer long, which winter fills again. + The folded gates would bar my progress now, + But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, + Communicative of the good he owns, + Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye + Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. + Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? + By short transition we have lost his glare, + And stepped at once into a cooler clime. + Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn + Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice + That yet a remnant of your race survives. + How airy and how light the graceful arch, + Yet awful as the consecrated roof + Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath, + The chequered earth seems restless as a flood + Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light + Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, + Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, + And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves + Play wanton, every moment, every spot. + + And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, + We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, + With curvature of slow and easy sweep— + Deception innocent—give ample space + To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; + Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms + We may discern the thresher at his task. + Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, + That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls + Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff, + The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist + Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. + Come hither, ye that press your beds of down + And sleep not: see him sweating o’er his bread + Before he eats it.—’Tis the primal curse, + But softened into mercy; made the pledge + Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. + + By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. + Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel + That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, + Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads + An instant’s pause, and lives but while she moves. + Its own revolvency upholds the world. + Winds from all quarters agitate the air, + And fit the limpid element for use, + Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams + All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed + By restless undulation: even the oak + Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: + He seems indeed indignant, and to feel + The impression of the blast with proud disdain, + Frowning as if in his unconscious arm + He held the thunder. But the monarch owes + His firm stability to what he scorns, + More fixed below, the more disturbed above. + The law, by which all creatures else are bound, + Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives + No mean advantage from a kindred cause, + From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. + The sedentary stretch their lazy length + When custom bids, but no refreshment find, + For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek + Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, + And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, + Reproach their owner with that love of rest + To which he forfeits even the rest he loves. + Not such the alert and active. Measure life + By its true worth, the comforts it affords, + And theirs alone seems worthy of the name + Good health, and, its associate in the most, + Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, + And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; + The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; + Even age itself seems privileged in them + With clear exemption from its own defects. + A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front + The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard + With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave + Sprightly, and old almost without decay. + + Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, + Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrine + Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. + The love of Nature and the scene she draws + Is Nature’s dictate. Strange, there should be found + Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, + Renounce the odours of the open field + For the unscented fictions of the loom; + Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, + Prefer to the performance of a God + The inferior wonders of an artist’s hand. + Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, + But Nature’s works far lovelier. I admire, + None more admires, the painter’s magic skill, + Who shows me that which I shall never see, + Conveys a distant country into mine, + And throws Italian light on English walls. + But imitative strokes can do no more + Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense. + The air salubrious of her lofty hills, + The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, + And music of her woods—no works of man + May rival these; these all bespeak a power + Peculiar, and exclusively her own. + Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; + ’Tis free to all—’tis ev’ry day renewed, + Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. + He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long + In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey + To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank + And clammy of his dark abode have bred + Escapes at last to liberty and light; + His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, + His eye relumines its extinguished fires, + He walks, he leaps, he runs—is winged with joy, + And riots in the sweets of every breeze. + He does not scorn it, who has long endured + A fever’s agonies, and fed on drugs. + Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed + With acrid salts; his very heart athirst + To gaze at Nature in her green array. + Upon the ship’s tall side he stands, possessed + With visions prompted by intense desire; + Fair fields appear below, such as he left + Far distant, such as he would die to find— + He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. + + The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; + The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, + And sullen sadness that o’ershade, distort, + And mar the face of beauty, when no cause + For such immeasurable woe appears, + These Flora banishes, and gives the fair + Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. + It is the constant revolution, stale + And tasteless, of the same repeated joys + That palls and satiates, and makes languid life + A pedlar’s pack that bows the bearer down. + Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart + Recoils from its own choice—at the full feast + Is famished—finds no music in the song, + No smartness in the jest, and wonders why. + Yet thousands still desire to journey on, + Though halt and weary of the path they tread. + The paralytic, who can hold her cards + But cannot play them, borrows a friend’s hand + To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort + Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits + Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad + And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. + Others are dragged into the crowded room + Between supporters; and once seated, sit + Through downright inability to rise, + Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. + These speak a loud memento. Yet even these + Themselves love life, and cling to it as he, + That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. + They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, + Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. + Then wherefore not renounce them? No—the dread, + The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds + Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, + And their inveterate habits, all forbid. + + Whom call we gay? That honour has been long + The boast of mere pretenders to the name. + The innocent are gay—the lark is gay, + That dries his feathers saturate with dew + Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams + Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. + The peasant too, a witness of his song, + Himself a songster, is as gay as he. + But save me from the gaiety of those + Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; + And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes + Flash desperation, and betray their pangs + For property stripped off by cruel chance; + From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, + The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. + + The earth was made so various, that the mind + Of desultory man, studious of change, + And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. + Prospects however lovely may be seen + Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, + Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off + Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. + Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale, + Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, + Delight us, happy to renounce a while, + Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, + That such short absence may endear it more. + Then forests, or the savage rock may please, + That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts + Above the reach of man: his hoary head + Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, + Bound homeward, and in hope already there, + Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist + A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows, + And at his feet the baffled billows die. + The common overgrown with fern, and rough + With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed + And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, + And decks itself with ornaments of gold, + Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf + Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs + And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense + With luxury of unexpected sweets. + + There often wanders one, whom better days + Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed + With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound. + A serving-maid was she, and fell in love + With one who left her, went to sea and died. + Her fancy followed him through foaming waves + To distant shores, and she would sit and weep + At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, + Delusive most where warmest wishes are, + Would oft anticipate his glad return, + And dream of transports she was not to know. + She heard the doleful tidings of his death, + And never smiled again. And now she roams + The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, + And there, unless when charity forbids, + The livelong night. A tattered apron hides, + Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown + More tattered still; and both but ill conceal + A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. + She begs an idle pin of all she meets, + And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, + Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, + Though pinched with cold, asks never.—Kate is crazed! + + I see a column of slow-rising smoke + O’ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. + A vagabond and useless tribe there eat + Their miserable meal. A kettle slung + Between two poles upon a stick transverse, + Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, + Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined + From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! + They pick their fuel out of every hedge, + Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched + The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide + Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, + The vellum of the pedigree they claim. + Great skill have they in palmistry, and more + To conjure clean away the gold they touch, + Conveying worthless dross into its place; + Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. + Strange! that a creature rational, and cast + In human mould, should brutalise by choice + His nature, and, though capable of arts + By which the world might profit and himself, + Self-banished from society, prefer + Such squalid sloth to honourable toil. + Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft + They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, + And vex their flesh with artificial sores, + Can change their whine into a mirthful note + When safe occasion offers, and with dance, + And music of the bladder and the bag, + Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. + Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy + The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; + And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, + Need other physic none to heal the effects + Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. + + Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd + By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure + Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside + His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn + The manners and the arts of civil life. + His wants, indeed, are many; but supply + Is obvious; placed within the easy reach + Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. + Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; + Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, + And terrible to sight, as when she springs + (If e’er she spring spontaneous) in remote + And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, + And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, + By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed, + And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. + War and the chase engross the savage whole; + War followed for revenge, or to supplant + The envied tenants of some happier spot; + The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! + His hard condition with severe constraint + Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth + Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns + Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, + Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. + Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, + And thus the rangers of the western world, + Where it advances far into the deep, + Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles + So lately found, although the constant sun + Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, + Can boast but little virtue; and inert + Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain + In manners, victims of luxurious ease. + These therefore I can pity, placed remote + From all that science traces, art invents, + Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed + In boundless oceans, never to be passed + By navigators uninformed as they, + Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again. + But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, + Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee + Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, + Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw + Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here + With what superior skill we can abuse + The gifts of Providence, and squander life. + The dream is past. And thou hast found again + Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams, + And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found + Their former charms? And, having seen our state, + Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp + Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, + And heard our music; are thy simple friends, + Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights + As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys + Lost nothing by comparison with ours? + Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude + And ignorant, except of outward show), + I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart + And spiritless, as never to regret + Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. + Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, + And asking of the surge that bathes the foot + If ever it has washed our distant shore. + I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, + A patriot’s for his country. Thou art sad + At thought of her forlorn and abject state, + From which no power of thine can raise her up. + Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, + Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. + She tells me too that duly every morn + Thou climb’st the mountain-top, with eager eye + Exploring far and wide the watery waste, + For sight of ship from England. Every speck + Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale + With conflict of contending hopes and fears. + But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, + And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared + To dream all night of what the day denied. + Alas, expect it not. We found no bait + To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, + Disinterested good, is not our trade. + We travel far, ’tis true, but not for naught; + And must be bribed to compass earth again + By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours. + + But though true worth and virtue, in the mild + And genial soil of cultivated life + Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, + Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay + And gain-devoted cities, thither flow, + As to a common and most noisome sewer, + The dregs and feculence of every land. + In cities, foul example on most minds + Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds + In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust, + And wantonness and gluttonous excess. + In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, + Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught + By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there, + Beyond the achievement of successful flight. + I do confess them nurseries of the arts, + In which they flourish most; where, in the beams + Of warm encouragement, and in the eye + Of public note, they reach their perfect size. + Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed + The fairest capital in all the world, + By riot and incontinence the worst. + There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes + A lucid mirror, in which nature sees + All her reflected features. Bacon there + Gives more than female beauty to a stone, + And Chatham’s eloquence to marble lips. + Nor does the chisel occupy alone + The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; + Each province of her art her equal care. + With nice incision of her guided steel + She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil + So sterile with what charms soe’er she will, + The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. + Where finds philosophy her eagle eye, + With which she gazes at yon burning disk + Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? + In London. Where her implements exact, + With which she calculates, computes, and scans + All distance, motion, magnitude, and now + Measures an atom, and now girds a world? + In London. Where has commerce such a mart, + So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, + As London, opulent, enlarged, and still + Increasing London? Babylon of old + Not more the glory of the earth, than she + A more accomplished world’s chief glory now. + + She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two + That so much beauty would do well to purge; + And show this queen of cities, that so fair + May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. + It is not seemly, nor of good report, + That she is slack in discipline; more prompt + To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: + That she is rigid in denouncing death + On petty robbers, and indulges life + And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, + To peculators of the public gold: + That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts + Into his overgorged and bloated purse + The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. + Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, + That through profane and infidel contempt + Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul + And abrogate, as roundly as she may, + The total ordinance and will of God; + Advancing fashion to the post of truth, + And centring all authority in modes + And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites + Have dwindled into unrespected forms, + And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced. + + God made the country, and man made the town. + What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts + That can alone make sweet the bitter draught + That life holds out to all, should most abound + And least be threatened in the fields and groves? + Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about + In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue + But that of idleness, and taste no scenes + But such as art contrives, possess ye still + Your element; there only ye can shine, + There only minds like yours can do no harm. + Our groves were planted to console at noon + The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve + The moonbeam, sliding softly in between + The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, + Birds warbling all the music. We can spare + The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse + Our softer satellite. Your songs confound + Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs + Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. + There is a public mischief in your mirth; + It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, + Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, + Has made, which enemies could ne’er have done, + Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, + A mutilated structure, soon to fall. + + + +BOOK II. +THE TIMEPIECE. + + + OH for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick with every day’s report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man. The natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + Not coloured like his own, and having power + To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. + Lands intersected by a narrow frith + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations, who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature’s broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart’s + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home—then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o’er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free, + They touch our country and their shackles fall. + That’s noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain’s power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + Sure there is need of social intercourse, + Benevolence and peace and mutual aid, + Between the nations, in a world that seems + To toll the death-bell to its own decease; + And by the voice of all its elements + To preach the general doom. When were the winds + Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? + When did the waves so haughtily o’erleap + Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? + Fires from beneath and meteors from above, + Portentous, unexampled, unexplained, + Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old + And crazy earth has had her shaking fits + More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. + Is it a time to wrangle, when the props + And pillars of our planet seem to fail, + And nature with a dim and sickly eye + To wait the close of all? But grant her end + More distant, and that prophecy demands + A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; + Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak + Displeasure in His breast who smites the earth + Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. + And ’tis but seemly, that, where all deserve + And stand exposed by common peccancy + To what no few have felt, there should be peace, + And brethren in calamity should love. + + Alas for Sicily, rude fragments now + Lie scattered where the shapely column stood. + Her palaces are dust. In all her streets + The voice of singing and the sprightly chord + Are silent. Revelry and dance and show + Suffer a syncope and solemn pause, + While God performs, upon the trembling stage + Of His own works, His dreadful part alone. + How does the earth receive Him?—With what signs + Of gratulation and delight, her King? + Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, + Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, + Disclosing paradise where’er He treads? + She quakes at His approach. Her hollow womb, + Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps + And fiery caverns roars beneath His foot. + The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke, + For He has touched them. From the extremest point + Of elevation down into the abyss, + His wrath is busy and His frown is felt. + The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise, + The rivers die into offensive pools, + And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross + And mortal nuisance into all the air. + What solid was, by transformation strange + Grows fluid, and the fixed and rooted earth + Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, + Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl + Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense + The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs + And agonies of human and of brute + Multitudes, fugitive on every side, + And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene + Migrates uplifted, and, with all its soil + Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out + A new possessor, and survives the change. + Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought + To an enormous and o’erbearing height, + Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice + Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore + Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, + Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, + Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng + That pressed the beach and hasty to depart + Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, + Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, + A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, + And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes + Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume + Life in the unproductive shades of death, + Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, + And, happy in their unforeseen release + From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy + The terrors of the day that sets them free. + Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, + Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, + That even a judgment, making way for thee, + Seems in their eyes a mercy, for thy sake. + + Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame + Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, + And, in the furious inquest that it makes + On God’s behalf, lays waste His fairest works. + The very elements, though each be meant + The minister of man to serve his wants, + Conspire against him. With his breath he draws + A plague into his blood; and cannot use + Life’s necessary means, but he must die. + Storms rise to o’erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds + Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, + And, needing none assistance of the storm, + Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. + The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, + Or make his house his grave; nor so content, + Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, + And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. + What then—were they the wicked above all, + And we the righteous, whose fast-anchored isle + Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff, + The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, + And none than we more guilty. But where all + Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts + Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose His mark, + May punish, if He please, the less, to warn + The more malignant. If He spared not them, + Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, + Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee! + + Happy the man who sees a God employed + In all the good and ill that chequer life! + Resolving all events, with their effects + And manifold results, into the will + And arbitration wise of the Supreme. + Did not His eye rule all things, and intend + The least of our concerns (since from the least + The greatest oft originate), could chance + Find place in His dominion, or dispose + One lawless particle to thwart His plan, + Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen + Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb + The smooth and equal course of His affairs. + This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed + In nature’s tendencies, oft overlooks; + And, having found His instrument, forgets + Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, + Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims + His hot displeasure against foolish men + That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven + In tempests, quits His grasp upon the winds + And gives them all their fury; bids a plague + Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, + And putrefy the breath of blooming health. + He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend + Blows mildew from between his shrivelled lips, + And taints the golden ear. He springs His mines, + And desolates a nation at a blast. + Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells + Of homogeneal and discordant springs + And principles; of causes how they work + By necessary laws their sure effects; + Of action and reaction. He has found + The source of the disease that nature feels, + And bids the world take heart and banish fear. + Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause + Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God + Still wrought by means since first He made the world, + And did He not of old employ His means + To drown it? What is His creation less + Than a capacious reservoir of means + Formed for His use, and ready at His will? + Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of Him, + Or ask of whomsoever He has taught, + And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still— + My country! and while yet a nook is left, + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia’s groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortune, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all essenced o’er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight; when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children. Praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham’s language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe’s great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen + Each in his field of glory; one in arms, + And one in council;—Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country’s shame. + They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still + Consulting England’s happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where’er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet’s force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float + Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck + With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, + That no rude savour maritime invade + The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft, + Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes, + That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds + May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. + True, we have lost an empire—let it pass. + True, we may thank the perfidy of France + That picked the jewel out of England’s crown, + With all the cunning of an envious shrew. + And let that pass—’twas but a trick of state. + A brave man knows no malice, but at once + Forgets in peace the injuries of war, + And gives his direst foe a friend’s embrace. + And shamed as we have been, to the very beard + Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved + Too weak for those decisive blows that once + Insured us mastery there, we yet retain + Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast + At least superior jockeyship, and claim + The honours of the turf as all our own. + Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, + And show the shame ye might conceal at home, + In foreign eyes!—be grooms, and win the plate, + Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!— + ’Tis generous to communicate your skill + To those that need it. Folly is soon learned, + And, under such preceptors, who can fail? + + There is a pleasure in poetic pains + Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, + The expedients and inventions multiform + To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms + Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win— + To arrest the fleeting images that fill + The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, + And force them sit, till he has pencilled off + A faithful likeness of the forms he views; + Then to dispose his copies with such art + That each may find its most propitious light, + And shine by situation, hardly less + Than by the labour and the skill it cost, + Are occupations of the poet’s mind + So pleasing, and that steal away the thought + With such address from themes of sad import, + That, lost in his own musings, happy man! + He feels the anxieties of life, denied + Their wonted entertainment, all retire. + Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, + Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. + Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps + Aware of nothing arduous in a task + They never undertook, they little note + His dangers or escapes, and haply find + There least amusement where he found the most. + But is amusement all? studious of song + And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, + I would not trifle merely, though the world + Be loudest in their praise who do no more. + Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? + It may correct a foible, may chastise + The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, + Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; + But where are its sublimer trophies found? + What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed + By rigour, or whom laughed into reform? + Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed. + Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, + Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, + That fear no discipline of human hands. + + The pulpit therefore—and I name it, filled + With solemn awe, that bids me well beware + With what intent I touch that holy thing— + The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, + Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, + Spent all his force, and made no proselyte— + I say the pulpit, in the sober use + Of its legitimate peculiar powers, + Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, + The most important and effectual guard, + Support, and ornament of virtue’s cause. + There stands the messenger of truth; there stands + The legate of the skies; his theme divine, + His office sacred, his credentials clear. + By him, the violated Law speaks out + Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet + As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. + He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, + Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, + And, armed himself in panoply complete + Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms + Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule + Of holy discipline, to glorious war, + The sacramental host of God’s elect. + Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were! + But hark—the Doctor’s voice—fast wedged between + Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks + Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far + Than all invective is his bold harangue, + While through that public organ of report + He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, + Announces to the world his own and theirs, + He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, + And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, + And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer + The adagio and andante it demands. + He grinds divinity of other days + Down into modern use; transforms old print + To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes + Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.— + Are there who purchase of the Doctor’s ware? + Oh name it not in Gath!—it cannot be, + That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid. + He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, + Assuming thus a rank unknown before, + Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church. + + I venerate the man whose heart is warm, + Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, + Coincident, exhibit lucid proof + That he is honest in the sacred cause. + To such I render more than mere respect, + Whose actions say that they respect themselves. + But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, + In conversation frivolous, in dress + Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, + Frequent in park with lady at his side, + Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes, + But rare at home, and never at his books + Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; + Constant at routs, familiar with a round + Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; + Ambitions of preferment for its gold, + And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, + By infidelity and love o’ the world, + To make God’s work a sinecure; a slave + To his own pleasures and his patron’s pride.— + From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, + Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands + On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. + + Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, + Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, + Paul should himself direct me. I would trace + His master-strokes, and draw from his design. + I would express him simple, grave, sincere; + In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, + And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, + And natural in gesture; much impressed + Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, + And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds + May feel it too; affectionate in look + And tender in address, as well becomes + A messenger of grace to guilty men. + Behold the picture!—Is it like?—Like whom? + The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, + And then skip down again; pronounce a text, + Cry—Hem; and reading what they never wrote, + Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, + And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. + + In man or woman, but far most in man, + And most of all in man that ministers + And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe + All affectation. ’Tis my perfect scorn; + Object of my implacable disgust. + What!—will a man play tricks, will he indulge + A silly fond conceit of his fair form + And just proportion, fashionable mien, + And pretty face, in presence of his God? + Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, + As with the diamond on his lily hand, + And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, + When I am hungry for the Bread of Life? + He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames + His noble office, and, instead of truth, + Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! + Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare + And start theatric, practised at the glass. + I seek divine simplicity in him + Who handles things divine; and all beside, + Though learned with labour, and though much admired + By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, + To me is odious as the nasal twang + Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, + Misled by custom, strain celestial themes + Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. + Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, + That task performed, relapse into themselves, + And having spoken wisely, at the close + Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye— + Whoe’er was edified themselves were not. + Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke + An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; + Then with an air, most gracefully performed, + Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, + And lay it at its ease with gentle care, + With handkerchief in hand, depending low: + The better hand, more busy, gives the nose + Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye + With opera glass to watch the moving scene, + And recognise the slow-retiring fair. + Now this is fulsome, and offends me more + Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect + And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind + May be indifferent to her house of clay, + And slight the hovel as beneath her care. + But how a body so fantastic, trim, + And quaint in its deportment and attire, + Can lodge a heavenly mind—demands a doubt. + + He that negotiates between God and man, + As God’s ambassador, the grand concerns + Of judgment and of mercy, should beware + Of lightness in his speech. ’Tis pitiful + To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; + To break a jest, when pity would inspire + Pathetic exhortation; and to address + The skittish fancy with facetious tales, + When sent with God’s commission to the heart. + So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip + Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, + And I consent you take it for your text, + Your only one, till sides and benches fail. + No: he was serious in a serious cause, + And understood too well the weighty terms + That he had ta’en in charge. He would not stoop + To conquer those by jocular exploits, + Whom truth and soberness assailed in vain. + + Oh, popular applause! what heart of man + Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? + The wisest and the best feel urgent need + Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; + But swelled into a gust—who then, alas! + With all his canvas set, and inexpert, + And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? + Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald + Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean + And craving poverty, and in the bow + Respectful of the smutched artificer, + Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb + The bias of the purpose. How much more, + Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite, + In language soft as adoration breathes? + Ah, spare your idol! think him human still; + Charms he may have, but he has frailties too; + Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. + + All truth is from the sempiternal source + Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome + Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we + Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. + To them it flowed much mingled and defiled + With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams + Illusive of philosophy, so called, + But falsely. Sages after sages strove, + In vain, to filter off a crystal draught + Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced + The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred + Intoxication and delirium wild. + In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth + And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man? + Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is? + Where must he find his Maker? With what rites + Adore Him? Will He hear, accept, and bless? + Or does He sit regardless of His works? + Has man within him an immortal seed? + Or does the tomb take all? If he survive + His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? + Knots worthy of solution, which alone + A Deity could solve. Their answers vague, + And all at random, fabulous and dark, + Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, + Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak + To bind the roving appetite, and lead + Blind nature to a God not yet revealed. + ’Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, + Explains all mysteries, except her own, + And so illuminates the path of life, + That fools discover it, and stray no more. + Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, + My man of morals, nurtured in the shades + Of Academus, is this false or true? + Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? + If Christ, then why resort at every turn + To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short + Of man’s occasions, when in Him reside + Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store? + How oft when Paul has served us with a text, + Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached! + Men that, if now alive, would sit content + And humble learners of a Saviour’s worth, + Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, + Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. + + And thus it is. The pastor, either vain + By nature, or by flattery made so, taught + To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt + Absurdly, not his office, but himself; + Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, + Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, + Perverting often, by the stress of lewd + And loose example, whom he should instruct, + Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace + The noblest function, and discredits much + The brightest truths that man has ever seen. + For ghostly counsel, if it either fall + Below the exigence, or be not backed + With show of love, at least with hopeful proof + Of some sincerity on the giver’s part; + Or be dishonoured in the exterior form + And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks + As move derision, or by foppish airs + And histrionic mummery, that let down + The pulpit to the level of the stage; + Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. + The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, + While prejudice in men of stronger minds + Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see. + A relaxation of religion’s hold + Upon the roving and untutored heart + Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, + The laity run wild.—But do they now? + Note their extravagance, and be convinced. + + As nations, ignorant of God, contrive + A wooden one, so we, no longer taught + By monitors that Mother Church supplies, + Now make our own. Posterity will ask + (If e’er posterity sees verse of mine), + Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, + What was a monitor in George’s days? + My very gentle reader, yet unborn, + Of whom I needs must augur better things, + Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world + Productive only of a race like us, + A monitor is wood—plank shaven thin. + We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced + And neatly fitted, it compresses hard + The prominent and most unsightly bones, + And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use + Sovereign and most effectual to secure + A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, + From rickets and distortion, else, our lot. + But thus admonished we can walk erect, + One proof at least of manhood; while the friend + Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. + Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, + And, by caprice as multiplied as his, + Just please us while the fashion is at full, + But change with every moon. The sycophant, + That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, + Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; + Finds one ill made, another obsolete, + This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; + And, making prize of all that he condemns, + With our expenditure defrays his own. + Variety’s the very spice of life, + That gives it all its flavour. We have run + Through every change that fancy, at the loom + Exhausted, has had genius to supply, + And, studious of mutation still, discard + A real elegance, a little used, + For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. + We sacrifice to dress, till household joys + And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, + And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires, + And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, + Where peace and hospitality might reign. + What man that lives, and that knows how to live, + Would fail to exhibit at the public shows + A form as splendid as the proudest there, + Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? + A man o’ the town dines late, but soon enough, + With reasonable forecast and despatch, + To ensure a side-box station at half-price. + You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, + His daily fare as delicate. Alas! + He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems + With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. + The rout is folly’s circle which she draws + With magic wand. So potent is the spell, + That none decoyed into that fatal ring, + Unless by Heaven’s peculiar grace, escape. + There we grow early gray, but never wise; + There form connections, and acquire no friend; + Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; + Waste youth in occupations only fit + For second childhood, and devote old age + To sports which only childhood could excuse. + There they are happiest who dissemble best + Their weariness; and they the most polite, + Who squander time and treasure with a smile, + Though at their own destruction. She that asks + Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, + And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) + Make just reprisals, and, with cringe and shrug + And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. + All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, + Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, + And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, + To her who, frugal only that her thrift + May feed excesses she can ill afford, + Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste + Alighting, turns the key in her own door, + And, at the watchman’s lantern borrowing light, + Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. + Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, + On Fortune’s velvet altar offering up + Their last poor pittance—Fortune, most severe + Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far + Than all that held their routs in Juno’s heaven.— + So fare we in this prison-house the world. + And ’tis a fearful spectacle to see + So many maniacs dancing in their chains. + They gaze upon the links that hold them fast + With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, + Then shake them in despair, and dance again. + + Now basket up the family of plagues + That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale + Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds + By forgery, by subterfuge of law, + By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen + As the necessities their authors feel; + Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat + At the right door. Profusion is its sire. + Profusion unrestrained, with all that’s base + In character, has littered all the land, + And bred within the memory of no few + A priesthood such as Baal’s was of old, + A people such as never was till now. + It is a hungry vice:—it eats up all + That gives society its beauty, strength, + Convenience, and security, and use; + Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped + And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws + Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot + Of union, and converts the sacred band + That holds mankind together to a scourge. + Profusion, deluging a state with lusts + Of grossest nature and of worst effects, + Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds, + And warps the consciences of public men + Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools + That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face + That would have shocked credulity herself, + Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;— + Since all alike are selfish, why not they? + This does Profusion, and the accursed cause + Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. + + In colleges and halls, in ancient days, + When learning, virtue, piety, and truth + Were precious, and inculcated with care, + There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, + Not yet by time completely silvered o’er, + Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, + But strong for service still, and unimpaired. + His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile + Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard + Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. + The occupation dearest to his heart + Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke + The head of modest and ingenuous worth, + That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth + Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew + Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant; + The mind was well informed, the passions held + Subordinate, and diligence was choice. + If e’er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, + That one among so many overleaped + The limits of control, his gentle eye + Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; + His frown was full of terror, and his voice + Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe + As left him not, till penitence had won + Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. + But Discipline, a faithful servant long, + Declined at length into the vale of years; + A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye + Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung + Grew tremulous, and moved derision more + Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth. + So colleges and halls neglected much + Their good old friend, and Discipline at length, + O’erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died. + Then study languished, emulation slept, + And virtue fled. The schools became a scene + Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, + His cap well lined with logic not his own, + With parrot tongue performed the scholar’s part, + Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. + Then compromise had place, and scrutiny + Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, + And he was competent whose purse was so. + A dissolution of all bonds ensued, + The curbs invented for the mulish mouth + Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts + Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates + Forgot their office, opening with a touch; + Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; + The tasselled cap and the spruce band a jest, + A mockery of the world. What need of these + For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, + Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen + With belted waist, and pointers at their heels, + Than in the bounds of duty? What was learned, + If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot, + And such expense as pinches parents blue + And mortifies the liberal hand of love, + Is squandered in pursuit of idle sports + And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, + That sits a stigma on his father’s house, + And cleaves through life inseparably close + To him that wears it. What can after-games + Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, + The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, + Add to such erudition thus acquired, + Where science and where virtue are professed? + They may confirm his habits, rivet fast + His folly, but to spoil him is a task + That bids defiance to the united powers + Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. + Now, blame we most the nurselings, or the nurse? + The children crooked and twisted and deformed + Through want of care, or her whose winking eye + And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? + The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge, + She needs herself correction; needs to learn + That it is dangerous sporting with the world, + With things so sacred as a nation’s trust; + The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. + + All are not such. I had a brother once— + Peace to the memory of a man of worth, + A man of letters and of manners too— + Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, + When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. + He graced a college in which order yet + Was sacred, and was honoured, loved, and wept, + By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. + Some minds are tempered happily, and mixt + With such ingredients of good sense and taste + Of what is excellent in man, they thirst + With such a zeal to be what they approve, + That no restraints can circumscribe them more + Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom’s sake. + Nor can example hurt them. What they see + Of vice in others but enhancing more + The charms of virtue in their just esteem. + If such escape contagion, and emerge + Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad, + And give the world their talents and themselves, + Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth + Exposed their inexperience to the snare, + And left them to an undirected choice. + + See, then, the quiver broken and decayed, + In which are kept our arrows. Rusting there + In wild disorder and unfit for use, + What wonder if discharged into the world + They shame their shooters with a random flight, + Their points obtuse and feathers drunk with wine. + Well may the Church wage unsuccessful war + With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide + The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, + And stands an impudent and fearless mark. + + Have we not tracked the felon home, and found + His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns— + Mourns, because every plague that can infest + Society, that saps and worms the base + Of the edifice that Policy has raised, + Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, + And suffocates the breath at every turn. + Profusion breeds them. And the cause itself + Of that calamitous mischief has been found, + Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts + Of the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraigned + Stand up unconscious and refute the charge. + So, when the Jewish leader stretched his arm + And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, + Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth + Polluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plains + Were covered with the pest. The streets were filled; + The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook, + Nor palaces nor even chambers ’scaped, + And the land stank, so numerous was the fry. + + + +BOOK III. +THE GARDEN. + + + AS one who, long in thickets and in brakes + Entangled, winds now this way and now that + His devious course uncertain, seeking home; + Or, having long in miry ways been foiled + And sore discomfited, from slough to slough + Plunging, and half despairing of escape, + If chance at length he find a greensward smooth + And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, + He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, + And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; + So I, designing other themes, and called + To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, + To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams, + Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat + Of academic fame, howe’er deserved, + Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. + But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road + I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, + Courageous, and refreshed for future toil, + If toil await me, or if dangers new. + + Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect + Most part an empty ineffectual sound, + What chance that I, to fame so little known, + Nor conversant with men or manners much, + Should speak to purpose, or with better hope + Crack the satiric thong? ’Twere wiser far + For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes, + And charmed with rural beauty, to repose, + Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine + My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; + Or when rough winter rages, on the soft + And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air + Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth; + There, undisturbed by folly, and apprised + How great the danger of disturbing her, + To muse in silence, or at least confine + Remarks that gall so many to the few, + My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed + Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault + Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. + + Domestic happiness, thou only bliss + Of Paradise that has survived the fall! + Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, + Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm + Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets + Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect + Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. + Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms + She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, + Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. + Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, + That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist + And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm + Of Novelty, her fickle frail support; + For thou art meek and constant, hating change, + And finding in the calm of truth-tried love + Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. + Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made + Of honour, dignity, and fair renown, + Till prostitution elbows us aside + In all our crowded streets, and senates seem + Convened for purposes of empire less, + Than to release the adult’ress from her bond. + The adult’ress! what a theme for angry verse, + What provocation to the indignant heart + That feels for injured love! but I disdain + The nauseous task to paint her as she is, + Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame. + No; let her pass, and charioted along + In guilty splendour shake the public ways; + The frequency of crimes has washed them white, + And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch + Whom matrons now of character unsmirched + And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. + Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time + Not to be passed; and she that had renounced + Her sex’s honour, was renounced herself + By all that prized it; not for prudery’s sake, + But dignity’s, resentful of the wrong. + ’Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif + Desirous to return, and not received; + But was a wholesome rigour in the main, + And taught the unblemished to preserve with care + That purity, whose loss was loss of all. + Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, + And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped, + And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained, + Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold + His country, or was slack when she required + His every nerve in action and at stretch, + Paid with the blood that he had basely spared + The price of his default. But now,—yes, now, + We are become so candid and so fair, + So liberal in construction, and so rich + In Christian charity (good-natured age!) + That they are safe, sinners of either sex, + Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred, + Well equipaged, is ticket good enough + To pass us readily through every door. + Hypocrisy, detest her as we may + (And no man’s hatred ever wronged her yet), + May claim this merit still—that she admits + The worth of what she mimics with such care, + And thus gives virtue indirect applause; + But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, + Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts + And specious semblances have lost their use. + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by one who had himself + Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, + And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts + He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still woo’d + And never won. Dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay + As if created only, like the fly + That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, + To sport their season and be seen no more. + The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, + And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. + Some write a narrative of wars, and feats + Of heroes little known, and call the rant + A history; describe the man, of whom + His own coevals took but little note, + And paint his person, character, and views, + As they had known him from his mother’s womb; + They disentangle from the puzzled skein, + In which obscurity has wrapped them up, + The threads of politic and shrewd design + That ran through all his purposes, and charge + His mind with meanings that he never had, + Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore + The solid earth, and from the strata there + Extract a register, by which we learn + That He who made it and revealed its date + To Moses, was mistaken in its age. + Some, more acute and more industrious still, + Contrive creation; travel nature up + To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, + And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt, + And planetary some; what gave them first + Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. + Great contest follows, and much learned dust + Involves the combatants, each claiming truth, + And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend + The little wick of life’s poor shallow lamp + In playing tricks with nature, giving laws + To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. + Is’t not a pity now, that tickling rheums + Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight + Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, + That having wielded the elements, and built + A thousand systems, each in his own way, + They should go out in fume and be forgot? + Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are they + But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke— + Eternity for bubbles proves at last + A senseless bargain. When I see such games + Played by the creatures of a Power who swears + That He will judge the earth, and call the fool + To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain, + And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, + And prove it in the infallible result + So hollow and so false—I feel my heart + Dissolve in pity, and account the learned, + If this be learning, most of all deceived. + Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps + While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. + Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, + From reveries so airy, from the toil + Of dropping buckets into empty wells, + And growing old in drawing nothing up! + + ’Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, + Terribly arched and aquiline his nose, + And overbuilt with most impending brows, + ’Twere well could you permit the world to live + As the world pleases. What’s the world to you?— + Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk + As sweet as charity from human breasts. + I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, + And exercise all functions of a man. + How then should I and any man that lives + Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, + Take of the crimson stream meandering there, + And catechise it well. Apply your glass, + Search it, and prove now if it be not blood + Congenial with thine own; and if it be, + What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose + Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, + To cut the link of brotherhood, by which + One common Maker bound me to the kind? + True; I am no proficient, I confess, + In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift + And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, + And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath; + I cannot analyse the air, nor catch + The parallax of yonder luminous point + That seems half quenched in the immense abyss: + Such powers I boast not—neither can I rest + A silent witness of the headlong rage, + Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, + Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. + + God never meant that man should scale the heavens + By strides of human wisdom. In His works, + Though wondrous, He commands us in His Word + To seek Him rather where His mercy shines. + The mind indeed, enlightened from above, + Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand cause + The grand effect; acknowledges with joy + His manner, and with rapture tastes His style. + But never yet did philosophic tube, + That brings the planets home into the eye + Of observation, and discovers, else + Not visible, His family of worlds, + Discover Him that rules them; such a veil + Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, + And dark in things divine. Full often too + Our wayward intellect, the more we learn + Of nature, overlooks her Author more; + From instrumental causes proud to draw + Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake: + But if His Word once teach us, shoot a ray + Through all the heart’s dark chambers, and reveal + Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, + Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised + In the pure fountain of eternal love, + Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees + As meant to indicate a God to man, + Gives _Him_ His praise, and forfeits not her own. + Learning has borne such fruit in other days + On all her branches. Piety has found + Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer + Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. + Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! + Sagacious reader of the works of God, + And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine, + Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, + And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom + Our British Themis gloried with just cause, + Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, + And sound integrity not more, than famed + For sanctity of manners undefiled. + + All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades + Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind; + Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; + The man we celebrate must find a tomb, + And we that worship him, ignoble graves. + Nothing is proof against the general curse + Of vanity, that seizes all below. + The only amaranthine flower on earth + Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth. + But what is truth? ’twas Pilate’s question put + To truth itself, that deigned him no reply. + And wherefore? will not God impart His light + To them that ask it?—Freely—’tis His joy, + His glory, and His nature to impart. + But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, + Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. + What’s that which brings contempt upon a book + And him that writes it, though the style be neat, + The method clear, and argument exact? + That makes a minister in holy things + The joy of many, and the dread of more, + His name a theme for praise and for reproach?— + That, while it gives us worth in God’s account, + Depreciates and undoes us in our own? + What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, + That learning is too proud to gather up, + But which the poor and the despised of all + Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? + Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth. + + Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man, + Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, + Domestic life in rural leisure passed! + Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, + Though many boast thy favours, and affect + To understand and choose thee for their own. + But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, + Even as his first progenitor, and quits, + Though placed in paradise, for earth has still + Some traces of her youthful beauty left, + Substantial happiness for transient joy. + Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse + The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, + By every pleasing image they present, + Reflections such as meliorate the heart, + Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; + Scenes such as these, ’tis his supreme delight + To fill with riot and defile with blood. + Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes + We persecute, annihilate the tribes + That draw the sportsman over hill and dale + Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; + Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, + Nor baited hook deceive the fish’s eye; + Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and song + Be quelled in all our summer months’ retreats; + How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, + Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, + Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, + And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! + They love the country, and none else, who seek + For their own sake its silence and its shade; + Delights which who would leave, that has a heart + Susceptible of pity, or a mind + Cultured and capable of sober thought, + For all the savage din of the swift pack, + And clamours of the field? Detested sport, + That owes its pleasures to another’s pain, + That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks + Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued + With eloquence, that agonies inspire, + Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs! + Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find + A corresponding tone in jovial souls. + Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hare + Has never heard the sanguinary yell + Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. + Innocent partner of my peaceful home, + Whom ten long years’ experience of my care + Has made at last familiar, she has lost + Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, + Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. + Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand + That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor + At evening, and at night retire secure + To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; + For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged + All that is human in me to protect + Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. + If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, + And when I place thee in it, sighing say, + I knew at least one hare that had a friend. + + How various his employments, whom the world + Calls idle, and who justly in return + Esteems that busy world an idler, too! + Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, + Delightful industry enjoyed at home, + And nature in her cultivated trim + Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad— + Can he want occupation who has these? + Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? + Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, + Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, + Not waste it; and aware that human life + Is but a loan to be repaid with use, + When He shall call His debtors to account, + From whom are all our blessings; business finds + Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve, + At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, + The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack + Too oft, and much impeded in its work + By causes not to be divulged in vain, + To its just point—the service of mankind. + He that attends to his interior self, + That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind + That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks + A social, not a dissipated life, + Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve + No unimportant, though a silent task. + A life all turbulence and noise may seem, + To him that leads it, wise and to be praised; + But wisdom is a pearl with most success + Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies. + He that is ever occupied in storms, + Or dives not for it or brings up instead, + Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. + + The morning finds the self-sequestered man + Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. + Whether inclement seasons recommend + His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, + With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, + Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph + Which neatly she prepares; then to his book + Well chosen, and not sullenly perused + In selfish silence, but imparted oft + As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, + Or turn to nourishment digested well. + Or if the garden with its many cares, + All well repaid, demand him, he attends + The welcome call, conscious how much the hand + Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, + Oft loitering lazily if not o’erseen, + Or misapplying his unskilful strength. + Nor does he govern only or direct, + But much performs himself; no works indeed + That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, + Servile employ—but such as may amuse, + Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. + Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees + That meet, no barren interval between, + With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, + Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. + These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, + No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, + None but his steel approach them. What is weak, + Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, + Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand + Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft + And succulent that feeds its giant growth, + But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs + Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick + With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left + That may disgrace his art, or disappoint + Large expectation, he disposes neat + At measured distances, that air and sun + Admitted freely may afford their aid, + And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. + Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, + And hence even Winter fills his withered hand + With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, + Fair recompense of labour well bestowed + And wise precaution, which a clime so rude + Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child + Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods + Discovering much the temper of her sire. + For oft, as if in her the stream of mild + Maternal nature had reversed its course, + She brings her infants forth with many smiles, + But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. + He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies + Her want of care, screening and keeping warm + The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep + His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft + As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, + The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev’ry beam, + And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. + + To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, + So grateful to the palate, and when rare + So coveted, else base and disesteemed— + Food for the vulgar merely—is an art + That toiling ages have but just matured, + And at this moment unessayed in song. + Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, + Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, + And these the Grecian in ennobling strains; + And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye + The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, + Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame! + The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers + Presuming an attempt not less sublime, + Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste + Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, + A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. + + The stable yields a stercoraceous heap + Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, + And potent to resist the freezing blast. + For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf + Deciduous, and when now November dark + Checks vegetation in the torpid plant + Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. + Warily therefore, and with prudent heed + He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds + The agglomerated pile, his frame may front + The sun’s meridian disk, and at the back + Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge + Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread + Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe + The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, + And lightly, shaking it with agile hand + From the full fork, the saturated straw. + What longest binds the closest, forms secure + The shapely side, that as it rises takes + By just degrees an overhanging breadth, + Sheltering the base with its projected eaves. + The uplifted frame compact at every joint, + And overlaid with clear translucent glass, + He settles next upon the sloping mount, + Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure + From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls. + He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. + Thrice must the voluble and restless earth + Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth + Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass + Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold! + A pestilent and most corrosive steam, + Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, + And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, + Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged + And drenched conservatory breathes abroad, + In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank, + And purified, rejoices to have lost + Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage + The impatient fervour which it first conceives + Within its reeking bosom, threatening death + To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. + Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft + The way to glory by miscarriage foul, + Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch + The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat, + Friendly to vital motion, may afford + Soft fermentation, and invite the seed. + The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth + And glossy, he commits to pots of size + Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared + And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, + And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds: + These on the warm and genial earth that hides + The smoking manure, and o’erspreads it all, + He places lightly, and, as time subdues + The rage of fermentation, plunges deep + In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. + Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick + And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first + Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon, + If fanned by balmy and nutritious air + Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green. + Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, + Cautious he pinches from the second stalk + A pimple, that portends a future sprout, + And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed + The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, + Prolific all, and harbingers of more. + The crowded roots demand enlargement now + And transplantation in an ampler space. + Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply + Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, + Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. + These have their sexes, and when summer shines + The bee transports the fertilising meal + From flower to flower, and even the breathing air + Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. + Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art + Then acts in nature’s office, brings to pass + The glad espousals and insures the crop. + + Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have + His dainties, and the world’s more numerous half + Lives by contriving delicates for you), + Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, + The vigilance, the labour, and the skill + That day and night are exercised, and hang + Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, + That ye may garnish your profuse regales + With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. + Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart + The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, + Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies + Minute as dust and numberless, oft work + Dire disappointment that admits no cure, + And which no care can obviate. It were long, + Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts + Which he, that fights a season so severe, + Devises, while he guards his tender trust, + And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise + Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song + Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit + Of too much labour, worthless when produced. + + Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. + Unconscious of a less propitious clime + There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, + While the winds whistle and the snows descend. + The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf + Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast + Of Portugal and Western India there, + The ruddier orange and the paler lime, + Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, + And seem to smile at what they need not fear. + The amomum there with intermingling flowers + And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts + Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, + Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, + All plants, of every leaf, that can endure + The winter’s frown if screened from his shrewd bite, + Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, + Levantine regions these; the Azores send + Their jessamine; her jessamine remote + Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, + They form one social shade, as if convened + By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. + Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass + But by a master’s hand, disposing well + The gay diversities of leaf and flower, + Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, + And dress the regular yet various scene. + Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van + The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still + Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. + So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, + A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; + And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, + The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose + Some note of Nature’s music from his lips, + And covetous of Shakespeare’s beauty, seen + In every flash of his far-beaming eye. + Nor taste alone and well-contrived display + Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace + Of their complete effect. Much yet remains + Unsung, and many cares are yet behind + And more laborious; cares on which depends + Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. + The soil must be renewed, which often washed + Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, + And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, + Close interwoven where they meet the vase, + Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch + Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf + Must be detached, and where it strews the floor + Swept with a woman’s neatness, breeding else + Contagion, and disseminating death. + Discharge but these kind offices (and who + Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) + Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, + The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, + Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad + Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. + + So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, + All healthful, are the employs of rural life, + Reiterated as the wheel of time + Runs round, still ending, and beginning still. + Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll + That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears + A flowery island from the dark green lawn + Emerging, must be deemed a labour due + To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. + Here also grateful mixture of well-matched + And sorted hues (each giving each relief, + And by contrasted beauty shining more) + Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, + May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, + But elegance, chief grace the garden shows + And most attractive, is the fair result + Of thought, the creature of a polished mind. + Without it, all is Gothic as the scene + To which the insipid citizen resorts, + Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, + But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, + Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons + Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil, + And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. + He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed + Sightly and in just order, ere he gives + The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, + Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene + Shall break into its preconceived display, + Each for itself, and all as with one voice + Conspiring, may attest his bright design. + Nor even then, dismissing as performed + His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. + Few self-supported flowers endure the wind + Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid + Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied + Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, + For interest sake, the living to the dead. + Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused + And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair; + Like virtue, thriving most where little seen. + Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub + With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, + Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon + And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well + The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. + All hate the rank society of weeds, + Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust + The impoverished earth; an overbearing race, + That, like the multitude made faction-mad, + Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. + + Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world, + Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat + Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore + Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; + But it has peace, and much secures the mind + From all assaults of evil; proving still + A faithful barrier, not o’erleaped with ease + By vicious custom raging uncontrolled + Abroad and desolating public life. + When fierce temptation, seconded within + By traitor appetite, and armed with darts + Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast, + To combat may be glorious, and success + Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe. + Had I the choice of sublunary good, + What could I wish that I possess not here? + Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace, + No loose or wanton though a wandering muse, + And constant occupation without care. + Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; + Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds + And profligate abusers of a world + Created fair so much in vain for them, + Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, + Allured by my report; but sure no less + That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, + And what they will not taste, must yet approve. + What we admire we praise; and when we praise + Advance it into notice, that, its worth + Acknowledged, others may admire it too. + I therefore recommend, though at the risk + Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, + The cause of piety and sacred truth + And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained + Should best secure them and promote them most; + Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive + Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. + Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, + And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. + Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, + Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, + To grace the full pavilion. His design + Was but to boast his own peculiar good, + Which all might view with envy, none partake. + My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, + And she that sweetens all my bitters, too, + Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form + And lineaments divine I trace a hand + That errs not, and find raptures still renewed, + Is free to all men—universal prize. + Strange that so fair a creature should yet want + Admirers, and be destined to divide + With meaner objects even the few she finds. + Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers, + She loses all her influence. Cities then + Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, + Abandoned, as unworthy of our love. + But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed + By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt, + And groves, if unharmonious yet secure + From clamour and whose very silence charms, + To be preferred to smoke—to the eclipse + That Metropolitan volcanoes make, + Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long, + And to the stir of commerce, driving slow, + And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels? + They would be, were not madness in the head + And folly in the heart; were England now + What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, + And undebauched. But we have bid farewell + To all the virtues of those better days, + And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once + Knew their own masters, and laborious hands + That had survived the father, served the son. + Now the legitimate and rightful lord + Is but a transient guest, newly arrived + And soon to be supplanted. He that saw + His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, + Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price + To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. + Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, + Then advertised, and auctioneered away. + The country starves, and they that feed the o’er-charged + And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, + By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. + The wings that waft our riches out of sight + Grow on the gamester’s elbows, and the alert + And nimble motion of those restless joints, + That never tire, soon fans them all away. + Improvement too, the idol of the age, + Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes— + The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. + Down falls the venerable pile, the abode + Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race, + But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, + But in a distant spot; where more exposed + It may enjoy the advantage of the North + And aguish East, till time shall have transformed + Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. + He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, + Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, + And streams, as if created for his use, + Pursue the track of his directed wand + Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, + Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades, + Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles. + ’Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems, + Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, + A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. + Drained to the last poor item of his wealth, + He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan + That he has touched and retouched, many a day + Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, + Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven + He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy. + And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, + When having no stake left, no pledge to endear + Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause + A moment’s operation on his love, + He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal + To serve his country. Ministerial grace + Deals him out money from the public chest, + Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse + Supplies his need with an usurious loan, + To be refunded duly, when his vote, + Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. + Oh, innocent compared with arts like these, + Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball + Sent through the traveller’s temples! He that finds + One drop of heaven’s sweet mercy in his cup, + Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content, + So he may wrap himself in honest rags + At his last gasp; but could not for a world + Fish up his dirty and dependent bread + From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, + Sordid and sickening at his own success. + + Ambition, avarice, penury incurred + By endless riot, vanity, the lust + Of pleasure and variety, despatch, + As duly as the swallows disappear, + The world of wandering knights and squires to town; + London engulfs them all. The shark is there, + And the shark’s prey; the spendthrift, and the leech + That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he + That with bare-headed and obsequious bows + Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail + And groat per diem if his patron frown. + The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp + Were charactered on every statesman’s door, + ‘BATTERED AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE.’ + These are the charms that sully and eclipse + The charms of nature. ’Tis the cruel gripe + That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, + The hope of better things, the chance to win, + The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, + That, at the sound of Winter’s hoary wing, + Unpeople all our counties of such herds + Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose + And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast + And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. + + Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, + Chequered with all complexions of mankind, + And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see + Much that I love, and more that I admire, + And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair + That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh + And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, + Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee! + Ten righteous would have saved a city once, + And thou hast many righteous.—Well for thee— + That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, + And therefore more obnoxious at this hour + Than Sodom in her day had power to be, + For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. + + + +BOOK IV. +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 spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back. + True to his charge the close-packed load behind, + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped the 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 indifferent 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 amorous sighs of absent swains, + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh, the important budget! ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? + 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 jewelled 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 imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance 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 squeezed + And bored 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 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? + Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge + That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, + The seals of office glitter in his eyes; + He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels, + Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, + And with a dextrous 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 plundered of their sweets. + Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, + Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs, + Ethereal 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. + 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 makes 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 scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, + Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks + Fringed with a beard made white with other snows + Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, + A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne + A sliding car indebted to no wheels, + But 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, and fixing thought + Not less 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 undisturbed retirement, and the hours + Of long uninterrupted evening know. + No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; + No powdered pert proficients in the art + Of sounding an alarm, assault 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 curly 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. + The volume closed, the customary rites + Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal, + Such as the mistress of the world once found + Delicious, when her patriots of high note, + Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, + And under an old oak’s domestic shade, + Enjoyed—spare feast!—a radish and an egg. + Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, + Nor such as with a frown forbids the play + Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth; + Nor do we madly, like an impious world, + Who deem religion frenzy, and the God + That made them an intruder on their joys, + Start at His awful name, or deem His praise + A jarring note; themes of a graver tone + Exciting oft our gratitude and love, + While we retrace with memory’s pointing wand + That calls the past to our exact review, + The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare, + The disappointed foe, deliverance found + Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored, + Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:— + Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed + The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, + More to be prized and coveted than yours, + As more illumined and with nobler truths, + That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. + + Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? + Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, + The pent-up breath of an unsavoury 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 controlled them all, + Relaxed into an universal grin, + Sees not a countenance there that speaks a 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 unfurnished brain, + To palliate dulness and give time a shove. + Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing, + Unsoiled 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 mast + Well does the work of his destructive scythe. + Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds + To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, + Whose only happy are their wasted hours. + Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore + The back-string 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. + But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, + Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? + As he that travels far, oft turns aside + To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower, + Which seen 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 mixed for a far different use, + Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing + That fancy finds in her excursive flights. + + Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, + Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! + Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, + With matron-step slow moving, while the night + Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed + In letting fall the curtain of repose + On bird and beast, the other charged for man + With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; + Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, + Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems, + A star or two just twinkling on thy brow + Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine + No less than hers, not worn indeed on high + With ostentatious pageantry, but set + With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, + Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. + Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, + Or make me so. Composure is thy gift; + And whether I devote thy gentle hours + To books, to music, or to poet’s toil, + To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit, + Or twining silken threads round ivory reels + When they command whom man was born to please, + I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. + + Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze + With lights, by clear reflection multiplied + From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, + Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk + Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, + My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps + The glowing hearth may satisfy a while + With faint illumination, that uplifts + The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits + Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. + Not undelightful is an hour to me + So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom + Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, + The mind contemplative, with some new theme + Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. + Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers + That never feel a stupor, know no pause, + Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess. + Fearless, a soul that does not always think. + Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild + Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, + Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed + In the red cinders, while with poring eye + I gazed, myself creating what I saw. + Nor less amused have I quiescent watched + The sooty films that play upon the bars + Pendulous, and foreboding in the view + Of superstition, prophesying still, + Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach. + ’Tis thus the understanding takes repose + In indolent vacuity of thought, + And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face + Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask + Of deep deliberation, as the man + Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost. + Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour + At evening, till at length the freezing blast + That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home + The recollected powers, and, snapping short + The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves + Her brittle toys, restores me to myself. + How calm is my recess! and how the frost + Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear + The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! + I saw the woods and fields at close of day + A variegated show; the meadows green + Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved + The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, + Upturned so lately by the forceful share; + I saw far off the weedy fallows smile + With verdure not unprofitable, grazed + By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each + His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves + That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue, + Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. + To-morrow brings a change, a total change, + Which even now, though silently performed + And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face + Of universal nature undergoes. + Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes, + Descending and with never-ceasing lapse + Softly alighting upon all below, + Assimilate all objects. Earth receives + Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green + And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, + Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. + + In such a world, so thorny, and where none + Finds happiness unblighted, or if found, + Without some thistly sorrow at its side, + It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin + Against the law of love, to measure lots + With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus + We may with patience bear our moderate ills, + And sympathise with others, suffering more. + Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks + In ponderous boots beside his reeking team; + The wain goes heavily, impeded sore + By congregating loads adhering close + To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, + Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. + The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, + While every breath, by respiration strong + Forced downward, is consolidated soon + Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear + The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, + With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth + Presented bare against the storm, plods on; + One hand secures his hat, save when with both + He brandishes his pliant length of whip, + Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. + Oh happy, and, in my account, denied + That sensibility of pain with which + Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! + Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed + The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; + The learned finger never need explore + Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, + That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone + Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. + Thy days roll on exempt from household care, + Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, + That drag the dull companion to and fro, + Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. + Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, + Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, + With needless hurry whirled from place to place, + Humane as they would seem, not always show. + + Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, + Such claim compassion in a night like this, + And have a friend in every feeling heart. + Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long + They brave the season, and yet find at eve, + Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. + The frugal housewife trembles when she lights + Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, + But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; + The few small embers left she nurses well. + And while her infant race with outspread hands + And crowded knees sit cowering o’er the sparks, + Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. + The man feels least, as more inured than she + To winter, and the current in his veins + More briskly moved by his severer toil; + Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. + The taper soon extinguished, which I saw + Dangled along at the cold finger’s end + Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf + Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce + Of sav’ry cheese, or butter costlier still, + Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, + Where penury is felt the thought is chained, + And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. + With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care + Ingenious parsimony takes, but just + Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, + Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. + They live, and live without extorted alms + From grudging hands, but other boast have none + To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, + Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. + I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, + For ye are worthy; choosing rather far + A dry but independent crust, hard-earned + And eaten with a sigh, than to endure + The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs + Of knaves in office, partial in their work + Of distribution; liberal of their aid + To clamorous importunity in rags, + But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush + To wear a tattered garb however coarse, + Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; + These ask with painful shyness, and, refused + Because deserving, silently retire. + But be ye of good courage! Time itself + Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, + And all your numerous progeny, well trained, + But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, + And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want + What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, + Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. + I mean the man, who when the distant poor + Need help, denies them nothing but his name. + + But poverty with most, who whimper forth + Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, + The effect of laziness or sottish waste. + Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad + For plunder; much solicitous how best + He may compensate for a day of sloth, + By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, + Woe to the gardener’s pale, the farmer’s hedge + Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes + Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength + Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame + To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil— + An ass’s burden,—and when laden most + And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. + Nor does the boarded hovel better guard + The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots + From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave + Unwrenched the door, however well secured, + Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps + In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch + He gives the princely bird with all his wives + To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, + And loudly wondering at the sudden change. + Nor this to feed his own. ’Twere some excuse + Did pity of their sufferings warp aside + His principle, and tempt him into sin + For their support, so destitute; but they + Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more + Exposed than others, with less scruple made + His victims, robbed of their defenceless all. + Cruel is all he does. ’Tis quenchless thirst + Of ruinous ebriety that prompts + His every action, and imbrutes the man. + Oh for a law to noose the villain’s neck + Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood + He gave them in his children’s veins, and hates + And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love. + + Pass where we may, through city, or through town, + Village or hamlet of this merry land, + Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace + Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff + Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes + That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. + There sit involved and lost in curling clouds + Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, + The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there + Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil; + Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, + And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike, + All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams + Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed + Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; + Fierce the dispute, whate’er the theme; while she, + Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, + Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand + Her undecisive scales. In this she lays + A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride, + And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. + Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound + The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised + As ornamental, musical, polite, + Like those which modern senators employ, + Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame. + Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, + Once simple, are initiated in arts + Which some may practise with politer grace, + But none with readier skill! ’Tis here they learn + The road that leads from competence and peace + To indigence and rapine; till at last + Society, grown weary of the load, + Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out. + But censure profits little. Vain the attempt + To advertise in verse a public pest, + That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds + His hungry acres, stinks and is of use. + The excise is fattened with the rich result + Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, + For ever dribbling out their base contents, + Touched by the Midas finger of the state, + Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away. + Drink and be mad then; ’tis your country bids! + Gloriously drunk, obey the important call, + Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;— + Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. + + Would I had fallen upon those happier days + That poets celebrate; those golden times + And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, + And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. + Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts + That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems, + From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves; + The footsteps of simplicity, impressed + Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing), + Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane + And manners profligate were rarely found, + Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed. + Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams + Sat for the picture; and the poet’s hand, + Imparting substance to an empty shade, + Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. + Grant it: I still must envy them an age + That favoured such a dream, in days like these + Impossible, when virtue is so scarce + That to suppose a scene where she presides + Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. + No. We are polished now. The rural lass, + Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, + Her artless manners and her neat attire, + So dignified, that she was hardly less + Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, + Is seen no more. The character is lost. + Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft + And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised + And magnified beyond all human size, + Indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s hand + For more than half the tresses it sustains; + Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form + Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed + (But that the basket dangling on her arm + Interprets her more truly) of a rank + Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs; + Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, + No longer blushing for her awkward load, + Her train and her umbrella all her care. + + The town has tinged the country; and the stain + Appears a spot upon a vestal’s robe, + The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs + Down into scenes still rural, but alas, + Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now. + Time was when in the pastoral retreat + The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch + To invade another’s right, or guard their own. + Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared + By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale + Of midnight murder was a wonder heard + With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes + But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, + And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep, + See that your polished arms be primed with care, + And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad, + And the first larum of the cock’s shrill throat + May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear + To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. + Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk + Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once + Of other tenants than melodious birds, + Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. + Lamented change! to which full many a cause + Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. + The course of human things from good to ill, + From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. + Increase of power begets increase of wealth; + Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; + Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague + That seizes first the opulent, descends + To the next rank contagious, and in time + Taints downward all the graduated scale + Of order, from the chariot to the plough. + The rich, and they that have an arm to check + The licence of the lowest in degree, + Desert their office; and themselves, intent + On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus + To all the violence of lawless hands + Resign the scenes their presence might protect. + Authority itself not seldom sleeps, + Though resident, and witness of the wrong. + The plump convivial parson often bears + The magisterial sword in vain, and lays + His reverence and his worship both to rest + On the same cushion of habitual sloth. + Perhaps timidity restrains his arm, + When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, + Himself enslaved by terror of the band, + The audacious convict whom he dares not bind. + Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, + He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove + Less dainty than becomes his grave outside + In lucrative concerns. Examine well + His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean— + But here and there an ugly smutch appears. + Foh! ’twas a bribe that left it. He has touched + Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here + Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, + Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. + + But faster far and more than all the rest + A noble cause, which none who bears a spark + Of public virtue ever wished removed, + Works the deplored and mischievous effect. + ’Tis universal soldiership has stabbed + The heart of merit in the meaner class. + Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage + Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, + Seem most at variance with all moral good, + And incompatible with serious thought. + The clown, the child of nature, without guile, + Blest with an infant’s ignorance of all + But his own simple pleasures, now and then + A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair, + Is balloted, and trembles at the news. + Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears + A Bible-oath to be whate’er they please, + To do he knows not what. The task performed, + That instant he becomes the serjeant’s care, + His pupil, and his torment, and his jest; + His awkward gait, his introverted toes, + Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, + Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, + Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff, + He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, + Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well. + He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk, + He steps right onward, martial in his air, + His form and movement; is as smart above + As meal and larded locks can make him: wears + His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace, + And, his three years of heroship expired, + Returns indignant to the slighted plough. + He hates the field in which no fife or drum + Attends him, drives his cattle to a march, + And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. + ’Twere well if his exterior change were all— + But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost + His ignorance and harmless manners too. + To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home + By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, + The great proficiency he made abroad, + To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, + To break some maiden’s and his mother’s heart, + To be a pest where he was useful once, + Are his sole aim, and all his glory now! + Man in society is like a flower + Blown in its native bed. ’Tis there alone + His faculties expanded in full bloom + Shine out, there only reach their proper use. + But man associated and leagued with man + By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond + For interest sake, or swarming into clans + Beneath one head for purposes of war, + Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound + And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, + Fades rapidly, and by compression marred + Contracts defilement not to be endured. + Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues, + And burghers, men immaculate perhaps + In all their private functions, once combined, + Become a loathsome body, only fit + For dissolution, hurtful to the main. + Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin + Against the charities of domestic life, + Incorporated, seem at once to lose + Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard + For mercy and the common rights of man, + Build factories with blood, conducting trade + At the sword’s point, and dyeing the white robe + Of innocent commercial justice red. + Hence too the field of glory, as the world + Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, + With all the majesty of thundering pomp, + Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, + Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught + On principle, where foppery atones + For folly, gallantry for every vice. + + But slighted as it is, and by the great + Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, + Infected with the manners and the modes + It knew not once, the country wins me still. + I never framed a wish or formed a plan + That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, + But there I laid the scene. There early strayed + My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice + Had found me, or the hope of being free. + My very dreams were rural, rural too + The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, + Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells + Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. + No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned + To Nature’s praises. Heroes and their feats + Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe + Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang + The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. + Then Milton had indeed a poet’s charms: + New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed + The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue + To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. + I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age + As twice seven years, his beauties had then first + Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, + And still admiring, with regret supposed + The joy half lost because not sooner found. + Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved, + Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit + Determined, and possessing it at last + With transports such as favoured lovers feel, + I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, + Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed + By modern lights from an erroneous taste, + I cannot but lament thy splendid wit + Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. + I still revere thee, courtly though retired, + Though stretched at ease in Chertsey’s silent bowers, + Not unemployed, and finding rich amends + For a lost world in solitude and verse. + ’Tis born with all. The love of Nature’s works + Is an ingredient in the compound, man, + Infused at the creation of the kind. + And though the Almighty Maker has throughout + Discriminated each from each, by strokes + And touches of His hand, with so much art + Diversified, that two were never found + Twins at all points—yet this obtains in all, + That all discern a beauty in His works, + And all can taste them: minds that have been formed + And tutored, with a relish more exact, + But none without some relish, none unmoved. + It is a flame that dies not even there, + Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, + Nor habits of luxurious city life, + Whatever else they smother of true worth + In human bosoms, quench it or abate. + The villas, with which London stands begirt + Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, + Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, + The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer + The citizen, and brace his languid frame! + Even in the stifling bosom of the town, + A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms + That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled + That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, + Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well + He cultivates. These serve him with a hint + That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green + Is still the livery she delights to wear, + Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. + What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, + The prouder sashes fronted with a range + Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, + The Frenchman’s darling? are they not all proofs + That man, immured in cities, still retains + His inborn inextinguishable thirst + Of rural scenes, compensating his loss + By supplemental shifts, the best he may? + The most unfurnished with the means of life, + And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds + To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, + Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head + Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick + And watered duly. There the pitcher stands + A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; + Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets + The country, with what ardour he contrives + A peep at nature, when he can no more. + + Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease + And contemplation, heart-consoling joys + And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode + Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life! + Address himself who will to the pursuit + Of honours, or emolument, or fame, + I shall not add myself to such a chase, + Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. + Some must be great. Great offices will have + Great talents. And God gives to every man + The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, + That lifts him into life, and lets him fall + Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. + To the deliverer of an injured land + He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart + To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; + To monarchs dignity, to judges sense; + To artists ingenuity and skill; + To me an unambitious mind, content + In the low vale of life, that early felt + A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long + Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. + + + +BOOK V. +THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + + + ’TIS morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb + Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, + That crowd away before the driving wind, + More ardent as the disk emerges more, + Resemble most some city in a blaze, + Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray + Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, + And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, + From every herb and every spiry blade + Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field, + Mine, spindling into longitude immense, + In spite of gravity, and sage remark + That I myself am but a fleeting shade, + Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance + I view the muscular proportioned limb + Transformed to a lean shank; the shapeless pair, + As they designed to mock me, at my side + Take step for step, and, as I near approach + The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, + Preposterous sight, the legs without the man. + The verdure of the plain lies buried deep + Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents + And coarser grass upspearing o’er the rest, + Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine + Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad, + And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. + The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence + Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep + In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait + Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man, + Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, + And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay. + He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, + Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft + His broad keen knife into the solid mass: + Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, + With such undeviating and even force + He severs it away: no needless care, + Lest storms should overset the leaning pile + Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. + Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned + The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe + And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, + From morn to eve his solitary task. + Shaggy and lean and shrewd, with pointed ears + And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, + His dog attends him. Close behind his heel + Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk, + Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow + With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; + Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy. + Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl + Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, + But now and then, with pressure of his thumb, + To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, + That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud + Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. + Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale, + Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam + Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, + Come trooping at the housewife’s well-known call + The feathered tribes domestic; half on wing, + And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, + Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. + The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves + To seize the fair occasion; well they eye + The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved + To escape the impending famine, often scared + As oft return, a pert, voracious kind. + Clean riddance quickly made, one only care + Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, + Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned + To sad necessity the cock foregoes + His wonted strut, and, wading at their head + With well-considered steps, seems to resent + His altered gait, and stateliness retrenched. + How find the myriads, that in summer cheer + The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, + Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? + Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe + Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs + Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns + That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), + Afford the smaller minstrel no supply. + The long-protracted rigour of the year + Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes + Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, + As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die. + The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, + Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now + Repays their labour more; and perched aloft + By the way-side, or stalking in the path, + Lean pensioners upon the traveller’s track, + Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, + Of voided pulse, or half-digested grain. + The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, + O’erwhelming all distinction. On the flood + Indurated and fixed the snowy weight + Lies undissolved, while silently beneath + And unperceived the current steals away; + Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps + The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, + And wantons in the pebbly gulf below. + No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force + Can but arrest the light and smoky mist + That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. + And see where it has hung the embroidered banks + With forms so various, that no powers of art, + The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene! + Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high + (Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof + Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees + And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops + That trickle down the branches, fast congealed, + Shoot into pillars of pellucid length + And prop the pile they but adorned before. + Here grotto within grotto safe defies + The sunbeam. There imbossed and fretted wild, + The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes + Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain + The likeness of some object seen before. + Thus nature works as if to mock at art, + And in defiance of her rival powers; + By these fortuitous and random strokes + Performing such inimitable feats, + As she with all her rules can never reach. + Less worthy of applause though more admired, + Because a novelty, the work of man, + Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, + Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, + The wonder of the North. No forest fell + When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores + To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, + And make thy marble of the glassy wave. + In such a palace Aristaeus found + Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale + Of his lost bees to her maternal ear. + In such a palace poetry might place + The armoury of winter, where his troops, + The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, + Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, + And snow that often blinds the traveller’s course, + And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. + Silently as a dream the fabric rose. + No sound of hammer or of saw was there. + Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts + Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked + Than water interfused to make them one. + Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, + Illumined every side. A watery light + Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed + Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen + From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. + So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth + And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound + Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within + That royal residence might well befit, + For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths + Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth, + Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none + Where all was vitreous, but in order due + Convivial table and commodious seat + (What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, + Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. + The same lubricity was found in all, + And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene + Of evanescent glory, once a stream, + And soon to slide into a stream again. + Alas, ’twas but a mortifying stroke + Of undesigned severity, that glanced + (Made by a monarch) on her own estate, + On human grandeur and the courts of kings + ’Twas transient in its nature, as in show + ’Twas durable; as worthless, as it seemed + Intrinsically precious; to the foot + Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold. + + Great princes have great playthings. Some have played + At hewing mountains into men, and some + At building human wonders mountain high. + Some have amused the dull sad years of life + (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) + With schemes of monumental fame, and sought + By pyramids and mausoleum pomp, + Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones. + Some seek diversion in the tented field, + And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. + But war’s a game which, were their subjects wise, + Kings should not play at. Nations would do well + To extort their truncheons from the puny hands + Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds + Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, + Because men suffer it, their toy the world. + + When Babel was confounded, and the great + Confederacy of projectors wild and vain + Was split into diversity of tongues, + Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, + These to the upland, to the valley those, + God drave asunder and assigned their lot + To all the nations. Ample was the boon + He gave them, in its distribution fair + And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. + Peace was a while their care. They ploughed and sowed, + And reaped their plenty without grudge or strife, + But violence can never longer sleep + Than human passions please. In every heart + Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war, + Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. + Cain had already shed a brother’s blood: + The Deluge washed it out; but left unquenched + The seeds of murder in the breast of man. + Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line + Of his descending progeny was found + The first artificer of death; the shrewd + Contriver who first sweated at the forge, + And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel + To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. + Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, + The sword and falchion their inventor claim, + And the first smith was the first murderer’s son. + His art survived the waters; and ere long, + When man was multiplied and spread abroad + In tribes and clans, and had begun to call + These meadows and that range of hills his own, + The tasted sweets of property begat + Desire of more; and industry in some + To improve and cultivate their just demesne, + Made others covet what they saw so fair. + Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil, + And those in self-defence. Savage at first + The onset, and irregular. At length + One eminent above the rest, for strength, + For stratagem, or courage, or for all, + Was chosen leader. Him they served in war, + And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds + Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare? + Or who so worthy to control themselves + As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes? + Thus war, affording field for the display + Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, + Which have their exigencies too, and call + For skill in government, at length made king. + King was a name too proud for man to wear + With modesty and meekness, and the crown, + So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, + Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. + It is the abject property of most, + That being parcel of the common mass, + And destitute of means to raise themselves, + They sink and settle lower than they need. + They know not what it is to feel within + A comprehensive faculty, that grasps + Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, + Almost without an effort, plans too vast + For their conception, which they cannot move. + Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk + With gazing, when they see an able man + Step forth to notice; and besotted thus + Build him a pedestal and say—Stand there, + And be our admiration and our praise. + They roll themselves before him in the dust, + Then most deserving in their own account + When most extravagant in his applause, + As if exalting him they raised themselves. + Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound + And sober judgment that he is but man, + They demi-deify and fume him so + That in due season he forgets it too. + Inflated and astrut with self-conceit + He gulps the windy diet, and ere long, + Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks + The world was made in vain if not for him. + Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born + To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, + And sweating in his service. His caprice + Becomes the soul that animates them all. + He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, + Spent in the purchase of renown for him + An easy reckoning, and they think the same. + Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings + Were burnished into heroes, and became + The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; + Storks among frogs, that have but croaked and died. + Strange that such folly, as lifts bloated man + To eminence fit only for a god, + Should ever drivel out of human lips, + Even in the cradled weakness of the world! + Still stranger much, that when at length mankind + Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth, + And could discriminate and argue well + On subjects more mysterious, they were yet + Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear + And quake before the gods themselves had made. + But above measure strange, that neither proof + Of sad experience, nor examples set + By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed, + Can even now, when they are grown mature + In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps + Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest! + Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone + To reverence what is ancient, and can plead + A course of long observance for its use, + That even servitude, the worst of ills, + Because delivered down from sire to son, + Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. + But is it fit, or can it bear the shock + Of rational discussion, that a man, + Compounded and made up like other men + Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust + And folly in as ample measure meet, + As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, + Should be a despot absolute, and boast + Himself the only freeman of his land? + Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, + Wage war, with any or with no pretence + Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, + And force the beggarly last doit, by means + That his own humour dictates, from the clutch + Of poverty, that thus he may procure + His thousands, weary of penurious life, + A splendid opportunity to die? + Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old + Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees + In politic convention) put your trust + I’ th’ shadow of a bramble, and recline + In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, + Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway, + Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs + Your self-denying zeal that holds it good + To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang + His thorns with streamers of continual praise? + We too are friends to loyalty; we love + The king who loves the law, respects his bounds. + And reigns content within them; him we serve + Freely and with delight, who leaves us free; + But recollecting still that he is man, + We trust him not too far. King though he be, + And king in England, too, he may be weak + And vain enough to be ambitious still, + May exercise amiss his proper powers, + Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: + Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, + To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, + But not to warp or change it. We are his, + To serve him nobly in the common cause + True to the death, but not to be his slaves. + Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love + Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. + We love the man; the paltry pageant you: + We the chief patron of the commonwealth; + You the regardless author of its woes: + We, for the sake of liberty, a king; + You chains and bondage for a tyrant’s sake. + + Our love is principle, and has its root + In reason, is judicious, manly, free; + Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, + And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. + Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, + Sterling, and worthy of a wise man’s wish, + I would not be a king to be beloved + Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, + Where love is more attachment to the throne, + Not to the man who fills it as he ought. + + Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at will + Of a superior, he is never free. + Who lives, and is not weary of a life + Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. + The state that strives for liberty, though foiled + And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, + Deserves at least applause for her attempt, + And pity for her loss. But that’s a cause + Not often unsuccessful; power usurped + Is weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong, + ’Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. + But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought + Of freedom, in that hope itself possess + All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, + The scorn of danger, and united hearts, + The surest presage of the good they seek. {127} + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats, + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille! + Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears, + The sighs and groans of miserable men! + There’s not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free. + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded. ’Tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of humankind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried, + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music; that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour, and the lover, that has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight;— + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;— + To read engraven on the mouldy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor’s tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;— + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;— + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till the sum, exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:— + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon the endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps a heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + ’Tis liberty alone that gives the flower + Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, + And we are weeds without it. All constraint, + Except what wisdom lays on evil men, + Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes + Their progress in the road of science; blinds + The eyesight of discovery, and begets, + In those that suffer it, a sordid mind + Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit + To be the tenant of man’s noble form. + Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, + With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed + By public exigence, till annual food + Fails for the craving hunger of the state, + Thee I account still happy, and the chief + Among the nations, seeing thou art free, + My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, + Replete with vapours, and disposes much + All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine; + Thine unadulterate manners are less soft + And plausible than social life requires. + And thou hast need of discipline and art + To give thee what politer France receives + From Nature’s bounty—that humane address + And sweetness, without which no pleasure is + In converse, either starved by cold reserve, + Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl; + Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake + Of that one feature, can be well content, + Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, + To seek no sublunary rest beside. + But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure + Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, + Where I am free by birthright, not at all. + Then what were left of roughness in the grain + Of British natures, wanting its excuse + That it belongs to freemen, would disgust + And shock me. I should then with double pain + Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; + And, if I must bewail the blessing lost + For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, + I would at least bewail it under skies + Milder, among a people less austere, + In scenes which, having never known me free, + Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. + Do I forebode impossible events, + And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may, + But the age of virtuous politics is past, + And we are deep in that of cold pretence. + Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, + And we too wise to trust them. He that takes + Deep in his soft credulity the stamp + Designed by loud declaimers on the part + Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, + Incurs derision for his easy faith + And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. + For when was public virtue to be found, + Where private was not? Can he love the whole + Who loves no part? he be a nation’s friend + Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there? + Can he be strenuous in his country’s cause, + Who slights the charities for whose dear sake + That country, if at all, must be beloved? + —’Tis therefore sober and good men are sad + For England’s glory, seeing it wax pale + And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts + So loose to private duty, that no brain, + Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, + Can dream them trusty to the general weal. + Such were not they of old whose tempered blades + Dispersed the shackles of usurped control, + And hewed them link from link. Then Albion’s sons + Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart + Beat high within them at a mother’s wrongs, + And shining each in his domestic sphere, + Shone brighter still once called to public view. + ’Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot + Forbids their interference, looking on, + Anticipate perforce some dire event; + And seeing the old castle of the state, + That promised once more firmness, so assailed + That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, + Stand motionless expectants of its fall. + All has its date below. The fatal hour + Was registered in heaven ere time began. + We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works + Die too. The deep foundations that we lay, + Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. + We build with what we deem eternal rock; + A distant age asks where the fabric stood; + And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain, + The undiscoverable secret sleeps. + + But there is yet a liberty unsung + By poets, and by senators unpraised, + Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power + Of earth and hell confederate take away; + A liberty, which persecution, fraud, + Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind, + Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more: + ’Tis liberty of heart, derived from heaven, + Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, + And sealed with the same token. It is held + By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure + By the unimpeachable and awful oath + And promise of a God. His other gifts + All bear the royal stamp that speaks them His, + And are august, but this transcends them all. + His other works, this visible display + Of all-creating energy and might, + Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the Word + That, finding an interminable space + Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, + And made so sparkling what was dark before. + But these are not His glory. Man, ’tis true, + Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, + Might well suppose the Artificer Divine + Meant it eternal, had He not Himself + Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, + And still designing a more glorious far, + Doomed it, as insufficient for His praise. + These, therefore, are occasional, and pass; + Formed for the confutation of the fool + Whose lying heart disputes against a God; + That office served, they must be swept away. + Not so the labours of His love; they shine + In other heavens than these that we behold, + And fade not. There is Paradise that fears + No forfeiture, and of its fruits He sends + Large prelibation oft to saints below. + Of these the first in order, and the pledge + And confident assurance of the rest, + Is liberty; a flight into His arms + Ere yet mortality’s fine threads give way, + A clear escape from tyrannising lust, + And fill immunity from penal woe. + + Chains are the portion of revolted man, + Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves + The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, + Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. + Propense his heart to idols, he is held + In silly dotage on created things + Careless of their Creator. And that low + And sordid gravitation of his powers + To a vile clod, so draws him with such force + Resistless from the centre he should seek, + That he at last forgets it. All his hopes + Tend downward, his ambition is to sink, + To reach a depth profounder still, and still + Profounder, in the fathomless abyss + Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. + But ere he gain the comfortless repose + He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, + In heaven renouncing exile, he endures + What does he not? from lusts opposed in vain, + And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees + The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, + Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all + That can ennoble man, and make frail life, + Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, + Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins + Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes + Ages of hopeless misery; future death, + And death still future; not a hasty stroke, + Like that which sends him to the dusty grave, + But unrepealable enduring death. + Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: + What none can prove a forgery, may be true; + What none but bad men wish exploded, must. + That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud + Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst + Of laughter his compunctions are sincere, + And he abhors the jest by which he shines. + Remorse begets reform. His master-lust + Falls first before his resolute rebuke, + And seems dethroned and vanquished. Peace ensues, + But spurious and short-lived, the puny child + Of self-congratulating Pride, begot + On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, + And fights again; but finds his best essay, + A presage ominous, portending still + Its own dishonour by a worse relapse, + Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foiled + So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, + Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now + Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause, + Perversely, which of late she so condemned; + With shallow shifts and old devices, worn + And tattered in the service of debauch, + Covering his shame from his offended sight. + + “Hath God indeed given appetites to man, + And stored the earth so plenteously with means + To gratify the hunger of His wish, + And doth He reprobate and will He damn + The use of His own bounty? making first + So frail a kind, and then enacting laws + So strict, that less than perfect must despair? + Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth, + Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. + Do they themselves, who undertake for hire + The teacher’s office, and dispense at large + Their weekly dole of edifying strains, + Attend to their own music? have they faith + In what, with such solemnity of tone + And gesture, they propound to our belief? + Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice + Is but an instrument on which the priest + May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, + The unequivocal authentic deed, + We find sound argument, we read the heart.” + + Such reasonings (if that name must needs belong + To excuses in which reason has no part) + Serve to compose a spirit well inclined + To live on terms of amity with vice, + And sin without disturbance. Often urged + (As often as, libidinous discourse + Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes + Of theological and grave import), + They gain at last his unreserved assent, + Till, hardened his heart’s temper in the forge + Of lust and on the anvil of despair, + He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, + Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; + Vain tampering has but fostered his disease, + ’Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. + Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. + Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear + Of rectitude and fitness: moral truth + How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, + Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps + Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. + Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers + Of rant and rhapsody in virtue’s praise, + Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, + And with poetic trappings grace thy prose + Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.— + Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass + Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm + The eclipse that intercepts truth’s heavenly beam, + And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. + The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, + Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect, + Who calls for things that are not, and they come. + + Grace makes the slave a freeman. ’Tis a change + That turns to ridicule the turgid speech + And stately tone of moralists, who boast, + As if, like him of fabulous renown, + They had indeed ability to smooth + The shag of savage nature, and were each + An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. + But transformation of apostate man + From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, + Is work for Him that made him. He alone, + And He, by means in philosophic eyes + Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves + The wonder; humanising what is brute + In the lost kind, extracting from the lips + Of asps their venom, overpowering strength + By weakness, and hostility by love. + + Patriots have toiled, and in their country’s cause + Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, + Receive proud recompense. We give in charge + Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, + Proud of the treasure, marches with it down + To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, + Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, + To guard them, and to immortalise her trust. + But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, + To those who, posted at the shrine of truth, + Have fallen in her defence. A patriot’s blood + Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed, + And for a time ensure to his loved land, + The sweets of liberty and equal laws; + But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, + And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed + In confirmation of the noblest claim, + Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, + To walk with God, to be divinely free, + To soar, and to anticipate the skies! + Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, + Till persecution dragged them into fame + And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew + —No marble tells us whither. With their names + No bard embalms and sanctifies his song, + And history, so warm on meaner themes, + Is cold on this. She execrates indeed + The tyranny that doomed them to the fire, + But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. + + He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, + And all are slaves beside. There’s not a chain + That hellish foes confederate for his harm + Can wind around him, but he casts it off + With as much ease as Samson his green withes. + He looks abroad into the varied field + Of Nature, and, though poor perhaps compared + With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, + Calls the delightful scenery all his own. + His are the mountains, and the valleys his, + And the resplendent river’s. His to enjoy + With a propriety that none can feel, + But who, with filial confidence inspired, + Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, + And smiling say—My Father made them all! + Are they not his by a peculiar right, + And by an emphasis of interest his, + Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, + Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind + With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love + That planned, and built, and still upholds a world + So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? + Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reap + The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good + In senseless riot; but ye will not find + In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, + A liberty like his, who, unimpeached + Of usurpation, and to no man’s wrong, + Appropriates nature as his Father’s work, + And has a richer use of yours, than you. + He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth + Of no mean city, planned or e’er the hills + Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea + With all his roaring multitude of waves. + His freedom is the same in every state; + And no condition of this changeful life + So manifold in cares, whose every day + Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. + For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, + Nor penury, can cripple or confine. + No nook so narrow but he spreads them there + With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds + His body bound, but knows not what a range + His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; + And that to bind him is a vain attempt, + Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. + + Acquaint thyself with God if thou wouldst taste + His works. Admitted once to His embrace, + Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; + Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart, + Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight + Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. + Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone, + And eyes intent upon the scanty herb + It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, + Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread + Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away + From inland regions to the distant main. + Man views it and admires, but rests content + With what he views. The landscape has his praise, + But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed + The paradise he sees, he finds it such, + And such well pleased to find it, asks no more. + Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, + And in the school of sacred wisdom taught + To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, + Fair as it is, existed ere it was. + Nor for its own sake merely, but for His + Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise; + Praise that from earth resulting as it ought + To earth’s acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once + Its only just proprietor in Him. + The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed + New faculties or learns at least to employ + More worthily the powers she owned before; + Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze + Of ignorance, till then she overlooked, + A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms + Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute + The unambiguous footsteps of the God + Who gives its lustre to an insect’s wing + And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds. + Much conversant with heaven, she often holds + With those fair ministers of light to man + That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp + Sweet conference; inquires what strains were they + With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste + To gratulate the new-created earth, + Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God + Shouted for joy.—“Tell me, ye shining hosts + That navigate a sea that knows no storms, + Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, + If from your elevation, whence ye view + Distinctly scenes invisible to man + And systems of whose birth no tidings yet + Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race + Favoured as ours, transgressors from the womb + And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise + And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? + As one who, long detained on foreign shores, + Pants to return, and when he sees afar + His country’s weather-bleached and battered rocks, + From the green wave emerging, darts an eye + Radiant with joy towards the happy land; + So I with animated hopes behold, + And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, + That show like beacons in the blue abyss, + Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home + From toilsome life to never-ending rest. + Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires + That give assurance of their own success, + And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend.” + + So reads he Nature whom the lamp of truth + Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word! + Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost + With intellect bemazed in endless doubt, + But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, + With means that were not till by Thee employed, + Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength + Been less, or less benevolent than strong. + They are Thy witnesses, who speak Thy power + And goodness infinite, but speak in ears + That hear not, or receive not their report. + In vain Thy creatures testify of Thee + Till Thou proclaim Thyself. Theirs is indeed + A teaching voice; but ’tis the praise of Thine + That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, + And with the boon gives talents for its use. + Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain + Possess the heart, and fables, false as hell, + Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death + The uninformed and heedless souls of men. + We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, + The glory of Thy work, which yet appears + Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, + Challenging human scrutiny, and proved + Then skilful most when most severely judged. + But chance is not; or is not where Thou reign’st: + Thy providence forbids that fickle power + (If power she be that works but to confound) + To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws. + Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can, + Instruction, and inventing to ourselves + Gods such as guilt makes welcome—gods that sleep, + Or disregard our follies, or that sit + Amused spectators of this bustling stage. + Thee we reject, unable to abide + Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, + Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause + For which we shunned and hated Thee before. + Then we are free: then liberty, like day, + Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven + Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. + A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not + Till Thou hast touched them; ’tis the voice of song, + A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works, + Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, + And adds his rapture to the general praise. + In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide + Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile + The Author of her beauties, who, retired + Behind His own creation, works unseen + By the impure, and hears His power denied. + Thou art the source and centre of all minds, + Their only point of rest, eternal Word! + From Thee departing, they are lost and rove + At random, without honour, hope, or peace. + From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, + His high endeavour, and his glad success, + His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. + But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good, + Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown! + Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, + And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. + + + +BOOK VI. +THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + + + THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, + And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased + With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; + Some chord in unison with what we hear + Is touched within us, and the heart replies. + How soft the music of those village bells + Falling at intervals upon the ear + In cadence sweet, now dying all away, + Now pealing loud again, and louder still, + Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on. + With easy force it opens all the cells + Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard + A kindred melody, the scene recurs, + And with it all its pleasures and its pains. + Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, + That in a few short moments I retrace + (As in a map the voyager his course) + The windings of my way through many years. + Short as in retrospect the journey seems, + It seemed not always short; the rugged path, + And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, + Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. + Yet feeling present evils, while the past + Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, + How readily we wish time spent revoked, + That we might try the ground again, where once + (Through inexperience as we now perceive) + We missed that happiness we might have found. + Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend + A father, whose authority, in show + When most severe, and mustering all its force, + Was but the graver countenance of love; + Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, + And utter now and then an awful voice, + But had a blessing in its darkest frown, + Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. + We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand + That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured + By every gilded folly, we renounced + His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent + That converse which we now in vain regret. + How gladly would the man recall to life + The boy’s neglected sire! a mother too, + That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, + Might he demand them at the gates of death. + Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed + The playful humour; he could now endure + (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) + And feel a parent’s presence no restraint. + But not to understand a treasure’s worth + Till time has stolen away the slighted good, + Is cause of half the poverty we feel, + And makes the world the wilderness it is. + The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, + And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, + Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o’er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings, as I tread + The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though movable through all its length, + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And, intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought: + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes and more than half suppressed. + Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give an useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men; + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds + Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore without pause or choice + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + What prodigies can power divine perform + More grand than it produces year by year, + And all in sight of inattentive man? + Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, + And in the constancy of Nature’s course, + The regular return of genial months, + And renovation of a faded world, + See nought to wonder at. Should God again, + As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race + Of the undeviating and punctual sun, + How would the world admire! but speaks it less + An agency divine, to make him know + His moment when to sink and when to rise + Age after age, than to arrest his course? + All we behold is miracle: but, seen + So duly, all is miracle in vain. + Where now the vital energy that moved, + While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph + Through the imperceptible meandering veins + Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch + Of unprolific winter has impressed + A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. + But let the months go round, a few short months, + And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, + Barren as lances, among which the wind + Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, + Shall put their graceful foliage on again, + And more aspiring and with ampler spread + Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. + Then, each in its peculiar honours clad, + Shall publish even to the distant eye + Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich + In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure; + The scented and the scentless rose; this red + And of a humbler growth, the other tall, + And throwing up into the darkest gloom + Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, + Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf + That the wind severs from the broken wave; + The lilac various in array, now white, + Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set + With purple spikes pyramidal, as if + Studious of ornament, yet unresolved + Which hue she most approved, she chose them all; + Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, + But well compensating their sickly looks + With never-cloying odours, early and late; + Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm + Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods, + That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, + Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset + With blushing wreaths investing every spray; + Althæa with the purple eye; the broom, + Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed + Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all + The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, + The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf + Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more + The bright profusion of her scattered stars.— + These have been, and these shall be in their day, + And all this uniform uncoloured scene + Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, + And flush into variety again. + From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, + Is Nature’s progress when she lectures man + In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes + The grand transition, that there lives and works + A soul in all things, and that soul is God. + The beauties of the wilderness are His, + That make so gay the solitary place + Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms + That cultivation glories in, are His. + He sets the bright procession on its way, + And marshals all the order of the year. + He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, + And blunts his pointed fury. In its case, + Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ + Uninjured, with inimitable art, + And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, + Designs the blooming wonders of the next. + + Some say that in the origin of things, + When all creation started into birth, + The infant elements received a law + From which they swerve not since; that under force + Of that controlling ordinance they move, + And need not His immediate hand, who first + Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. + Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God + The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare + The great Artificer of all that moves + The stress of a continual act, the pain + Of unremitted vigilance and care, + As too laborious and severe a task. + So man the moth is not afraid, it seems, + To span Omnipotence, and measure might + That knows no measure, by the scanty rule + And standard of his own, that is to-day, + And is not ere to-morrow’s sun go down. + But how should matter occupy a charge + Dull as it is, and satisfy a law + So vast in its demands, unless impelled + To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, + And under pressure of some conscious cause? + The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused + Sustains and is the life of all that lives. + Nature is but a name for an effect + Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire + By which the mighty process is maintained, + Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight + Slow-circling ages are as transient days; + Whose work is without labour, whose designs + No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts, + And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. + Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, + With self-taught rites and under various names + Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, + And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth + With tutelary goddesses and gods + That were not, and commending as they would + To each some province, garden, field, or grove. + But all are under One. One spirit—His + Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows— + Rules universal nature. Not a flower + But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, + Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires + Their balmy odours and imparts their hues, + And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, + In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, + The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth. + Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds + Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, + Or what he views of beautiful or grand + In nature, from the broad majestic oak + To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, + Prompts with remembrance of a present God. + His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, + Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene + Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please. + Though winter had been none had man been true, + And earth be punished for its tenant’s sake, + Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, + So soon succeeding such an angry night, + And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream, + Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. + + Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned + To contemplation, and within his reach + A scene so friendly to his favourite task, + Would waste attention at the chequered board, + His host of wooden warriors to and fro + Marching and counter-marching, with an eye + As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged + And furrowed into storms, and with a hand + Trembling, as if eternity were hung + In balance on his conduct of a pin? + Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, + Who pant with application misapplied + To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls + Across the velvet level, feel a joy + Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds + Its destined goal of difficult access. + Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon + To Miss, the Mercer’s plague, from shop to shop + Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks + The polished counter, and approving none, + Or promising with smiles to call again. + Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced, + And soothed into a dream that he discerns + The difference of a Guido from a daub, + Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there + As duly as the Langford of the show, + With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, + And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant + And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease, + Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls + He notes it in his book, then raps his box, + Swears ’tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate + That he has let it pass—but never bids. + + Here unmolested, through whatever sign + The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, + Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me, + Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. + Even in the spring and play-time of the year + That calls the unwonted villager abroad + With all her little ones, a sportive train, + To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, + And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick + A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, + These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, + Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, + Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed + Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends + His long love-ditty for my near approach. + Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm + That age or injury has hollowed deep, + Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves + He has outslept the winter, ventures forth + To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, + The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. + He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, + Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, + And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, + With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, + And anger insignificantly fierce. + + The heart is hard in nature, and unfit + For human fellowship, as being void + Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike + To love and friendship both, that is not pleased + With sight of animals enjoying life, + Nor feels their happiness augment his own. + The bounding fawn that darts across the glade + When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, + And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; + The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, + That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, + Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels + Starts to the voluntary race again; + The very kine that gambol at high noon, + The total herd receiving first from one, + That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, + Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth + Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent + To give such act and utterance as they may + To ecstasy too big to be suppressed— + These, and a thousand images of bliss, + With which kind nature graces every scene + Where cruel man defeats not her design, + Impart to the benevolent, who wish + All that are capable of pleasure pleased, + A far superior happiness to theirs, + The comfort of a reasonable joy. + + Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call + Who formed him from the dust, his future grave, + When he was crowned as never king was since. + God set His diadem upon his head, + And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood + The new-made monarch, while before him passed, + All happy and all perfect in their kind, + The creatures, summoned from their various haunts + To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. + Vast was his empire, absolute his power, + Or bounded only by a law whose force + ’Twas his sublimest privilege to feel + And own, the law of universal love. + He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy. + No cruel purpose lurked within his heart, + And no distrust of his intent in theirs. + So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, + Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole + Begat a tranquil confidence in all, + And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. + But sin marred all; and the revolt of man, + That source of evils not exhausted yet, + Was punished with revolt of his from him. + Garden of God, how terrible the change + Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart, + Each animal of every name, conceived + A jealousy and an instinctive fear, + And, conscious of some danger, either fled + Precipitate the loathed abode of man, + Or growled defiance in such angry sort, + As taught him too to tremble in his turn. + Thus harmony and family accord + Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour + The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled + To such gigantic and enormous growth, + Were sown in human nature’s fruitful soil. + Hence date the persecution and the pain + That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, + Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, + To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, + Or his base gluttony, are causes good + And just in his account, why bird and beast + Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed + With blood of their inhabitants impaled. + Earth groans beneath the burden of a war + Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, + Not satisfied to prey on all around, + Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs + Needless, and first torments ere he devours. + Now happiest they that occupy the scenes + The most remote from his abhorred resort, + Whom once as delegate of God on earth + They feared, and as His perfect image loved. + The wilderness is theirs with all its caves, + Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains + Unvisited by man. There they are free, + And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled, + Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. + Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude + Within the confines of their wild domain; + The lion tells him, “I am monarch here;” + And if he spares him, spares him on the terms + Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn + To rend a victim trembling at his foot. + In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, + Or by necessity constrained, they live + Dependent upon man, those in his fields, + These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; + They prove too often at how dear a rate + He sells protection. Witness, at his foot + The spaniel dying for some venial fault, + Under dissection of the knotted scourge; + Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells + Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs + To madness, while the savage at his heels + Laughs at the frantic sufferer’s fury spent + Upon the guiltless passenger o’erthrown. + He too is witness, noblest of the train + That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: + With unsuspecting readiness he takes + His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day, + With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life, + To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies. + So little mercy shows who needs so much! + Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, + Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None. + He lives, and o’er his brimming beaker boasts + (As if barbarity were high desert) + The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise + Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose + The honours of his matchless horse his own. + But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth, + Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt, + Have each their record, with a curse annexed. + Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, + But God will never. When He charged the Jew + To assist his foe’s down-fallen beast to rise, + And when the bush-exploring boy that seized + The young, to let the parent bird go free, + Proved He not plainly that His meaner works + Are yet His care, and have an interest all, + All, in the universal Father’s love? + On Noah, and in him on all mankind, + The charter was conferred by which we hold + The flesh of animals in fee, and claim, + O’er all we feed on, power of life and death. + But read the instrument, and mark it well; + The oppression of a tyrannous control + Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield + Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, + Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute. + + The Governor of all, Himself to all + So bountiful, in whose attentive ear + The unfledged raven and the lion’s whelp + Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs + Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed, + Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite + The injurious trampler upon nature’s law, + That claims forbearance even for a brute. + He hates the hardness of a Balaam’s heart, + And, prophet as he was, he might not strike + The blameless animal, without rebuke, + On which he rode. Her opportune offence + Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. + He sees that human equity is slack + To interfere, though in so just a cause, + And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb + And helpless victims with a sense so keen + Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, + And such sagacity to take revenge, + That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man. + An ancient, not a legendary tale, + By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, + (If such, who plead for Providence may seem + In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear. + + Where England, stretched towards the setting sun, + Narrow and long, o’erlooks the western wave, + Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he + Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, + Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. + He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went, + To join a traveller of far different note— + Evander, famed for piety, for years + Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. + Fame had not left the venerable man + A stranger to the manners of the youth, + Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. + Their way was on the margin of the land, + O’er the green summit of the rocks whose base + Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. + The charity that warmed his heart was moved + At sight of the man-monster. With a smile + Gentle and affable, and full of grace, + As fearful of offending whom he wished + Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths + Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed, + But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. + “And dost thou dream,” the impenetrable man + Exclaimed, “that me the lullabies of age, + And fantasies of dotards such as thou, + Can cheat, or move a moment’s fear in me? + Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave + Need no such aids as superstition lends + To steel their hearts against the dread of death.” + He spoke, and to the precipice at hand + Pushed with a madman’s fury. Fancy shrinks, + And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought + Of such a gulf as he designed his grave. + But though the felon on his back could dare + The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed + Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, + Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge, + Baffled his rider, saved against his will. + The frenzy of the brain may be redressed + By medicine well applied, but without grace + The heart’s insanity admits no cure. + Enraged the more by what might have reformed + His horrible intent, again he sought + Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed, + With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood. + But still in vain. The Providence that meant + A longer date to the far nobler beast, + Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. + And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere, + Incurable obduracy evinced, + His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned + So cheaply the renown of that attempt, + With looks of some complacence he resumed + His road, deriding much the blank amaze + Of good Evander, still where he was left + Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread. + So on they fared; discourse on other themes + Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past, + And tamer far for so much fury shown + (As is the course of rash and fiery men) + The rude companion smiled as if transformed. + But ’twas a transient calm. A storm was near, + An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. + The impious challenger of power divine + Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, + Is never with impunity defied. + His horse, as he had caught his master’s mood, + Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, + Unbidden, and not now to be controlled, + Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood. + At once the shock unseated him; he flew + Sheer o’er the craggy barrier, and, immersed + Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, + The death he had deserved, and died alone. + So God wrought double justice; made the fool + The victim of his own tremendous choice, + And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. + + I would not enter on my list of friends + (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility) the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes + A visitor unwelcome into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, + The chamber, or refectory, may die. + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field. + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + The sum is this: if man’s convenience, health, + Or safety interfere, his rights and claims + Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. + Else they are all—the meanest things that are— + As free to live and to enjoy that life, + As God was free to form them at the first, + Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. + Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons + To love it too. The spring-time of our years + Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most + By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand + To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, + If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, + Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. + Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule + And righteous limitation of its act, + By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man; + And he that shows none, being ripe in years, + And conscious of the outrage he commits, + Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. + + Distinguished much by reason, and still more + By our capacity of grace divine, + From creatures that exist but for our sake, + Which having served us, perish, we are held + Accountable, and God, some future day, + Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse + Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. + Superior as we are, they yet depend + Not more on human help, than we on theirs. + Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given + In aid of our defects. In some are found + Such teachable and apprehensive parts, + That man’s attainments in his own concerns, + Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, + Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind. + Some show that nice sagacity of smell, + And read with such discernment, in the port + And figure of the man, his secret aim, + That oft we owe our safety to a skill + We could not teach, and must despair to learn. + But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop + To quadruped instructors, many a good + And useful quality, and virtue too, + Rarely exemplified among ourselves; + Attachment never to be weaned, or changed + By any change of fortune, proof alike + Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; + Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat + Can move or warp; and gratitude for small + And trivial favours, lasting as the life, + And glistening even in the dying eye. + + Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms + Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit + Patiently present at a sacred song, + Commemoration-mad; content to hear + (Oh wonderful effect of music’s power!) + Messiah’s eulogy, for Handel’s sake. + But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve— + (For was it less? What heathen would have dared + To strip Jove’s statue of his oaken wreath + And hang it up in honour of a man?) + Much less might serve, when all that we design + Is but to gratify an itching ear, + And give the day to a musician’s praise. + Remember Handel! who, that was not born + Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, + Or can, the more than Homer of his age? + Yes—we remember him; and, while we praise + A talent so divine, remember too + That His most holy Book from whom it came + Was never meant, was never used before + To buckram out the memory of a man. + But hush!—the muse perhaps is too severe, + And with a gravity beyond the size + And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed + Less impious than absurd, and owing more + To want of judgment than to wrong design. + So in the chapel of old Ely House, + When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, + Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, + The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, + And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, + Sung to the praise and glory of King George. + —Man praises man; and Garrick’s memory next, + When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made + The idol of our worship while he lived + The god of our idolatry once more, + Shall have its altar; and the world shall go + In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. + The theatre, too small, shall suffocate + Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits + Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return + Ungratified. For there some noble lord + Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard’s bunch, + Or wrap himself in Hamlet’s inky cloak, + And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, + To show the world how Garrick did not act, + For Garrick was a worshipper himself; + He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites + And solemn ceremonial of the day, + And called the world to worship on the banks + Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof + That piety has still in human hearts + Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. + The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths, + The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance, + The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs, + And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree + Supplied such relics as devotion holds + Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. + So ’twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned, + And mirth without offence. No few returned + Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed. + —Man praises man. The rabble all alive, + From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, + Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, + A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes; + Some shout him, and some hang upon his car + To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave + Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy + While others not so satisfied unhorse + The gilded equipage, and, turning loose + His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. + Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state? + No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. + Enchanting novelty, that moon at full + That finds out every crevice of the head + That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs + Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, + And his own cattle must suffice him soon. + Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, + And dedicate a tribute, in its use + And just direction sacred, to a thing + Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there. + Encomium in old time was poet’s work; + But, poets having lavishly long since + Exhausted all materials of the art, + The task now falls into the public hand; + And I, contented with a humble theme, + Have poured my stream of panegyric down + The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds + Among her lovely works, with a secure + And unambitious course, reflecting clear + If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes. + And I am recompensed, and deem the toil + Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine + May stand between an animal and woe, + And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. + + The groans of Nature in this nether world, + Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. + Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, + Whose fire was kindled at the prophets’ lamp, + The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes. + Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh + Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course + Over a sinful world; and what remains + Of this tempestuous state of human things, + Is merely as the working of a sea + Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. + For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds + The dust that waits upon His sultry march, + When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot, + Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend + Propitious, in His chariot paved with love, + And what His storms have blasted and defaced + For man’s revolt, shall with a smile repair. + + Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet + Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch; + Nor can the wonders it records be sung + To meaner music, and not suffer loss. + But when a poet, or when one like me, + Happy to rove among poetic flowers, + Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last + On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, + Such is the impulse and the spur he feels + To give it praise proportioned to its worth, + That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems + The labour, were a task more arduous still. + + Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, + Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see, + Though but in distant prospect, and not feel + His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? + Rivers of gladness water all the earth, + And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach + Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field + Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean, + Or fertile only in its own disgrace, + Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. + The various seasons woven into one, + And that one season an eternal spring, + The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, + For there is none to covet, all are full. + The lion and the libbard and the bear + Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon + Together, or all gambol in the shade + Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. + Antipathies are none. No foe to man + Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees, + And smiles to see, her infant’s playful hand + Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, + To stroke his azure neck, or to receive + The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. + All creatures worship man, and all mankind + One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; + That creeping pestilence is driven away, + The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart + No passion touches a discordant string, + But all is harmony and love. Disease + Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood + Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. + One song employs all nations; and all cry, + “Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!” + The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks + Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops + From distant mountains catch the flying joy, + Till nation after nation taught the strain, + Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. + Behold the measure of the promise filled, + See Salem built, the labour of a God! + Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; + All kingdoms and all princes of the earth + Flock to that light; the glory of all lands + Flows into her, unbounded is her joy + And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, + Nebaioth, {170} and the flocks of Kedar there; + The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, + And Saba’s spicy groves pay tribute there. + Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls, + And in her streets, and in her spacious courts + Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there + Kneels with the native of the farthest West, + And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand, + And worships. Her report has travelled forth + Into all lands. From every clime they come + To see thy beauty and to share thy joy, + O Sion! an assembly such as earth + Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see. + + Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once + Perfect, and all must be at length restored. + So God has greatly purposed; who would else + In His dishonoured works Himself endure + Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. + Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, + Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see + (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) + A world that does not dread and hate His laws, + And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair + The creature is that God pronounces good, + How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. + Here every drop of honey hides a sting; + Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, + And even the joy, that haply some poor heart + Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, + Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint + From touch of human lips, at best impure. + Oh for a world in principle as chaste + As this is gross and selfish! over which + Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, + That govern all things here, shouldering aside + The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her + To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife + In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men, + Where violence shall never lift the sword, + Nor cunning justify the proud man’s wrong, + Leaving the poor no remedy but tears; + Where he that fills an office, shall esteem + The occasion it presents of doing good + More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak + Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts, + And equity, not jealous more to guard + A worthless form, than to decide aright; + Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, + Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) + With lean performance ape the work of love. + + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, + Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine + By ancient covenant, ere nature’s birth, + And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since, + And overpaid its value with Thy blood. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts + Thy title is engraven with a pen + Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay + Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see + The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired, + Would creep into the bowels of the hills, + And flee for safety to the falling rocks. + The very spirit of the world is tired + Of its own taunting question, asked so long, + “Where is the promise of your Lord’s approach?” + The infidel has shot his bolts away, + Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, + He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled, + And aims them at the shield of truth again. + The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, + That hides divinity from mortal eyes; + And all the mysteries to faith proposed, + Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, + As useless, to the moles and to the bats. + They now are deemed the faithful and are praised, + Who, constant only in rejecting Thee, + Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr’s zeal, + And quit their office for their error’s sake. + Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these + Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel, + Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man! + So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare, + The world takes little thought; who will may preach, + And what they will. All pastors are alike + To wandering sheep resolved to follow none. + Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain; + For these they live, they sacrifice to these, + And in their service wage perpetual war + With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, + And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth + To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, + High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. + Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down + The features of the last degenerate times, + Exhibit every lineament of these. + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one as radiant as the rest, + Due to Thy last and most effectual work, + Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world. + + He is the happy man, whose life even now + Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; + Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, + Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, + Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit + Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, + Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one + Content indeed to sojourn while he must + Below the skies, but having there his home. + The world o’erlooks him in her busy search + Of objects more illustrious in her view; + And occupied as earnestly as she, + Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world. + She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; + He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. + He cannot skim the ground like summer birds + Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems + Her honours, her emoluments, her joys; + Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, + Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth + She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, + And shows him glories yet to be revealed. + Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, + And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams + Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird + That flutters least is longest on the wing. + Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, + Or what achievements of immortal fame + He purposes, and he shall answer—None. + His warfare is within. There unfatigued + His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, + And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself, + And never-withering wreaths, compared with which + The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. + Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, + That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks, + Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see, + Deems him a cipher in the works of God, + Receives advantage from his noiseless hours + Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes + Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring + And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes + When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint + Walks forth to meditate at eventide, + And think on her who thinks not for herself. + Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns + Of little worth, and idler in the best, + If, author of no mischief and some good, + He seeks his proper happiness by means + That may advance, but cannot hinder thine. + Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, + Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, + Account him an encumbrance on the state, + Receiving benefits, and rendering none. + His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere + Shine with his fair example, and though small + His influence, if that influence all be spent + In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, + In aiding helpless indigence, in works + From which at least a grateful few derive + Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, + Then let the supercilious great confess + He serves his country; recompenses well + The state beneath the shadow of whose vine + He sits secure, and in the scale of life + Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. + The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, + Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise; + But he may boast, what few that win it can, + That if his country stand not by his skill, + At least his follies have not wrought her fall. + Polite refinement offers him in vain + Her golden tube, through which a sensual world + Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, + The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. + Not that he peevishly rejects a mode + Because that world adopts it. If it bear + The stamp and clear impression of good sense, + And be not costly more than of true worth, + He puts it on, and for decorum sake + Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she. + She judges of refinement by the eye, + He by the test of conscience, and a heart + Not soon deceived; aware that what is base + No polish can make sterling, and that vice, + Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed, + Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, + Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far + For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. + So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, + More golden than that age of fabled gold + Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care, + Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved + Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. + + So glide my life away! and so at last, + My share of duties decently fulfilled, + May some disease, not tardy to perform + Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, + Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat + Beneath the turf that I have often trod. + It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called + To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, + I played awhile, obedient to the fair, + With that light task, but soon to please her more, + Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, + Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; + Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, ’tis true, + Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof, + But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some + To palates that can taste immortal truth; + Insipid else, and sure to be despised. + But all is in His hand whose praise I seek, + In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, + If He regard not, though divine the theme. + ’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime + And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre, + To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; + Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, + Whose approbation—prosper even mine. + + + + +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 Mistress Gilpin, “That’s well said; + And, for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear.” + + John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O’erjoyed 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 allowed + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folk so glad; + The stones did rattle underneath + As if Cheapside were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse’s side + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + + For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + ’Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind. + When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, + “The wine is left behind!” + + “Good lack!” quoth he; “yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword, + When I do exercise.” + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o’er the stones + With caution and good heed! + + But, finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + + So, “Fair and softly,” John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; + And every soul cried out, “Well done!” + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin—who but he? + His fame soon spread around— + He carries weight! he rides a race! + ’Tis for a thousand pound! + + And still, as fast as he drew near, + ’Twas wonderful to view + How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; + For all might see the bottle-necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols he did play, + And till he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay. + + And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + + At Edmonton, his loving wife + From the bal-cony spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + “Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—here’s the house!” + They all at once did cry; + “The dinner waits, and we are tired.” + Said Gilpin, “So am I!” + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; + For why?—his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware. + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly—which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin, out of breath, + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the Calender’s + His horse at last stood still. + + The Calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him:— + + “What news? what news? your tidings tell: + Tell me you must and shall— + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all.” + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; + And thus unto the Calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + “I came because your horse would come; + And if I well forebode, + My hat and wig will soon be here; + They are upon the road.” + + The Calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, + Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig, + A wig that flowed behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and, in his turn, + Thus showed his ready wit,— + “My head is twice as big as yours; + They therefore needs must fit. + + “But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case.” + + Says John, “It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware.” + + So turning to his horse, he said, + “I am in haste to dine; + ’Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine.” + + Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin’s hat and wig; + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?—they were too big. + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pulled out half-a-crown. + + And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to “The Bell,” + “This shall be yours when you bring back + My husband safe and well.” + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain, + Whom in a trice he tried to stop + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, + The frighted steed he frighted more, + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, + The postboy’s horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry: + + “Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!” + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space, + The tollmen thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, “Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see!” + + + + +AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + + + DEAR JOSEPH,—five and twenty years ago— + Alas, how time escapes!—’tis even so— + With frequent intercourse, and always sweet + And always friendly, we were wont to cheat + A tedious hour—and now we never meet. + As some grave gentleman in Terence says + (’Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), + “Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings— + Strange fluctuation of all human things!” + True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, + But distance only cannot change the heart: + And were I called to prove the assertion true, + One proof should serve—a reference to you. + + Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life, + Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife, + We find the friends we fancied we had won, + Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? + Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? + No. Gold they seemed, but they were never such. + Horatio’s servant once, with bow and cringe, + Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, + Dreading a negative, and overawed + Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad. + “Go, fellow!—whither?”—turning short about— + “Nay. Stay at home; you’re always going out.”— + “’Tis but a step, sir; just at the street’s end.” + “For what?”—“An please you, sir, to see a friend.” + “A friend!” Horatio cried, and seemed to start; + “Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart— + And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw + I’ll see him too—the first I ever saw.” + + I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, + And was his plaything often when a child; + But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, + Else he was seldom bitter or morose. + Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed, + His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; + Perhaps ’twas mere good-humour gave it birth, + The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. + Howe’er it was, his language in my mind + Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. + + But not to moralise too much, and strain + To prove an evil of which all complain + (I hate long arguments, verbosely spun), + One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. + Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man. + No matter where, in China or Japan, + Decreed that whosoever should offend + Against the well-known duties of a friend, + Convicted once, should ever after wear + But half a coat, and show his bosom bare; + The punishment importing this, no doubt, + That all was naught within and all found out. + + Oh happy Britain! we have not to fear + Such hard and arbitrary measure here; + Else could a law, like that which I relate, + Once have the sanction of our triple state, + Some few that I have known in days of old + Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold. + While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, + Might traverse England safely to and fro, + An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, + Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. + + + + +TO MARY. + + + THE twentieth year is well-nigh past + Since first our sky was overcast, + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + I see thee daily weaker grow— + ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, + My Mary! + + Thy needles, once a shining store, + For my sake restless heretofore, + Now rust disused, and shine no more, + My Mary! + + For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil + The same kind office for me still, + Thy sight now seconds not thy will, + My Mary! + + But well thou playedst the housewife’s part, + And all thy threads with magic art + Have wound themselves about this heart, + My Mary! + + Thy indistinct expressions seem + Like language uttered in a dream; + Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, + My Mary! + + Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, + Are still more lovely in my sight + Than golden beams of orient light, + My Mary! + + For could I view nor them nor thee, + What sight worth seeing could I see? + The sun would rise in vain for me, + My Mary! + + Partakers of thy sad decline, + Thy hands their little force resign; + Yet gently prest, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st, + That now at every step thou mov’st + Upheld by two, yet still thou lov’st, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though prest with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me, is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + How oft the sadness that I show, + Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, + My Mary! + + And should my future lot be cast + With much resemblance of the past, + Thy worn-out heart will break at last, + My Mary! + + + + +FOOTNOTES. + + +{127} The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary +warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become +almost fashionable to stigmatise such sentiments as no better than empty +declamation. But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.—C. + +{170} Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the +Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to may be reasonably +considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.—C. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK*** + + +******* This file should be named 3698-0.txt or 3698-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/6/9/3698 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Task + and Other Poems + + +Author: William Cowper + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: March 29, 2015 [eBook #3698] +[This file was first posted on July 24, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK*** +</pre> +<p>This eBook was produced by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.</span></p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<h1><span class="smcap">The Task</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND OTHER POEMS</span></h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +WILLIAM COWPER.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center">CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:<br +/> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>LONDON</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">, </span><span +class="GutSmall"><i>PARIS</i></span><span class="GutSmall">, +</span><span class="GutSmall"><i>NEW YORK & +MELBOURNE</i></span><span class="GutSmall">.</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">1899.</span></p> +<h2>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">After</span> the publication of his +“Table Talk” and other poems in March, 1782, William +Cowper, in his quiet retirement at Olney, under Mrs. +Unwin’s care, found a new friend in Lady Austen. She +was a baronet’s widow who had a sister married to a +clergyman near Olney, with whom Cowper was slightly +acquainted. In the summer of 1781, when his first volume +was being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the +street at Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to +tea. Their coming was the beginning of a cordial +friendship. Lady Austen, without being less earnest, had a +liveliness that satisfied Cowper’s sense of fun to an +extent that stirred at last some jealousy in Mrs. Unwin. +“She had lived much in France,” Cowper said, +“was very sensible, and had infinite vivacity.”</p> +<p>The Vicar of Olney was in difficulties, with his affairs in +the hands of trustees. The duties of his office were entirely +discharged by a curate, and the vicarage was to let. Lady +Austen, in 1782, rented it, to be near her new friends. +There was only a wall between the garden of the house occupied by +Cowper and Mrs. Unwin and the vicarage garden. A door was +made in the wall, and there was a close companionship of +three. When Lady Austen did not spend her evenings with +Mrs. Unwin and Cowper, Mrs. Unwin and Cowper spent their evenings +with Lady Austen. They read, talked, Lady Austen played and +sang, and they all called one another by their Christian names, +William, Mary (Mrs. Unwin), and Anna (Lady Austen). In a +poetical epistle to Lady Austen, written in December, 1781, +Cowper closes a reference to the strength of their friendship +with the evidence it gave,—</p> +<blockquote><p>“That Solomon has wisely spoken,—<br +/> +‘A threefold cord is not soon broken.’”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was +low-spirited, Lady Austen told him in lively fashion the story +upon which he founded the ballad of “John +Gilpin.” Its original hero is said to have been a Mr. +Bayer, who had a draper’s shop in London, at the corner of +Cheapside. Cowper was so much tickled by it, that he lay +awake part of the night rhyming and laughing, and by the next +evening the ballad was complete. It was sent to Mrs. +Unwin’s son, who sent it to the Public Advertiser, where +for the next two or three years it lay buried in the +“Poets’ Corner,” and attracted no particular +attention.</p> +<p>In the summer of 1783, when one of the three friends had been +reading blank verse aloud to the other two, Lady Austen, from her +seat upon the sofa, urged upon Cowper, as she had urged before, +that blank verse was to be preferred to the rhymed couplets in +which his first book had been written, and that he should write a +poem in blank verse. “I will,” he said, +“if you will give me a subject.” +“Oh,” she answered, “you can write upon +anything. Write on this sofa.” He playfully +accepted that as “the task” set him, and began his +poem called “The Task,” which was finished in the +summer of the next year, 1784. But before “The +Task” was finished, Mrs. Unwin’s jealousy obliged +Cowper to give up his new friend—whom he had made a point +of calling upon every morning at eleven—and prevent her +return to summer quarters in the vicarage.</p> +<p>Two miles from Olney was Weston Underwood with a park, to +which its owner gave Cowper the use of a key. In 1782 a +younger brother, John Throckmorton, came with his wife to live at +Weston, and continued Cowper’s privilege. The +Throckmortons were Roman Catholics, but in May, 1784, Mr. Unwin +was tempted by an invitation to see a balloon ascent from their +park. Their kindness as hosts won upon Cowper; they sought +and had his more intimate friendship, till in his correspondence +he playfully abused the first syllable of their name and called +them Mr. and Mrs. Frog.</p> +<p>Cowper’s “Task” went to its publisher and +printing was begun, when suddenly “John Gilpin,” +after a long sleep in the Public Advertiser, rode triumphant +through the town. A favourite actor of the day was giving +recitations at Freemason’s Hall. A man of letters, +Richard Sharp, who had read and liked “John Gilpin,” +pointed out to the actor how well it would suit his +purpose. The actor was John Henderson, whose Hamlet, +Shylock, Richard III., and Falstaff were the most popular of his +day. He died suddenly in 1785, at the age of thirty-eight, +and it was thus in the last year of his life that his power of +recitation drew “John Gilpin” from obscurity and made +it the nine days’ wonder of the town. Pictures of +John Gilpin abounded in all forms. He figured on +pocket-handkerchiefs. When the publisher asked for a few +more pages to his volume of “The Task,” Cowper gave +him as makeweights an “Epistle to Joseph Hill,” his +“Tirocinium,” and, a little doubtfully, “John +Gilpin.” So the book was published in June, 1785; was +sought by many because it was by the author of “John +Gilpin,” and at once won recognition. The preceding volume +had not made Cowper famous. “The Task” at once +gave him his place among the poets.</p> +<p>Cowper’s “Task” is to this day, except +Wordsworth’s “Excursion,” the best purely +didactic poem in the English language. The +“Sofa” stands only as a point of departure:—it +suits a gouty limb; but as the poet is not gouty, he is up and +off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin in the country +about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural +sounds, taking first the inanimate sounds, then the +animate. In muddy winter weather he walks alone, finds a +solitary cottage, and draws from it comment upon the false +sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk to the park at +Weston Underwood, the prospect from the hilltop, touches upon his +privilege in having a key of the gate, describes the avenues of +trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the +thresher’s flail then suggests to him that all live by +energy, best ease is after toil. He compares the luxury of +art with wholesomeness of Nature free to all, that brings health +to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. Spleen vexes +votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the +innocent. So thought flows on, and touches in its course +the vital questions of a troubled time. “The +Task” appeared four years before the outbreak of the French +Revolution, and is in many passages not less significant of +rising storms than the “Excursion” is significant of +what came with the breaking of the clouds.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">H. M.</p> +<h2><span class="smcap">The Task</span>.</h2> +<h3>BOOK I.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE SOFA.</span></h3> +<p>[“The history of the following production is briefly +this:—A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that +kind from the author, and gave him the <span +class="smcap">Sofa</span> for a subject. He obeyed, and +having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, +pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of +mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of the trifle +which he at first intended, a serious affair—a +volume.”]</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sing</span> the +Sofa. I, who lately sang<br /> +Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe<br /> +The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,<br /> +Escaped with pain from that advent’rous flight,<br /> +Now seek repose upon a humbler theme:<br /> +The theme though humble, yet august and proud<br /> +The occasion—for the Fair commands the song.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Time was, when clothing +sumptuous or for use,<br /> +Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.<br /> +As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,<br /> +Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:<br /> +The hardy chief upon the rugged rock<br /> +Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank<br /> +Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,<br /> +Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.<br /> +Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next<br /> +The birthday of invention; weak at first,<br /> +Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.<br /> +Joint-stools were then created; on three legs<br /> +Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm<br /> +A massy slab, in fashion square or round.<br /> +On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,<br /> +And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;<br /> +And such in ancient halls and mansions drear<br /> +May still be seen, but perforated sore<br /> +And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,<br /> +By worms voracious eating through and through.</p> +<p class="poetry"> At length a generation more +refined<br /> +Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,<br /> +Gave them a twisted form vermicular,<br /> +And o’er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed,<br /> +Induced a splendid cover green and blue,<br /> +Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought<br /> +And woven close, or needlework sublime.<br /> +There might ye see the peony spread wide,<br /> +The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,<br /> +Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,<br /> +And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now came the cane from India, +smooth and bright<br /> +With Nature’s varnish; severed into stripes<br /> +That interlaced each other, these supplied,<br /> +Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced<br /> +The new machine, and it became a chair.<br /> +But restless was the chair; the back erect<br /> +Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;<br /> +The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part<br /> +That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,<br /> +Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.<br /> +These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed<br /> +In modest mediocrity, content<br /> +With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides<br /> +Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,<br /> +With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,<br /> +Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:<br /> +If cushion might be called, what harder seemed<br /> +Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed.<br /> +No want of timber then was felt or feared<br /> +In Albion’s happy isle. The lumber stood<br /> +Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.<br /> +But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,<br /> +An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,<br /> +And some ascribe the invention to a priest<br /> +Burly and big, and studious of his ease.<br /> +But rude at first, and not with easy slope<br /> +Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,<br /> +And bruised the side, and elevated high<br /> +Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.<br /> +Long time elapsed or e’er our rugged sires<br /> +Complained, though incommodiously pent in,<br /> +And ill at ease behind. The ladies first<br /> +Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.<br /> +Ingenious fancy, never better pleased<br /> +Than when employed to accommodate the fair,<br /> +Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised<br /> +The soft settee; one elbow at each end,<br /> +And in the midst an elbow, it received,<br /> +United yet divided, twain at once.<br /> +So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;<br /> +And so two citizens who take the air,<br /> +Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.<br /> +But relaxation of the languid frame<br /> +By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,<br /> +Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow<br /> +The growth of what is excellent, so hard<br /> +To attain perfection in this nether world.<br /> +Thus first necessity invented stools,<br /> +Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,<br /> +And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The nurse sleeps sweetly, +hired to watch the sick,<br /> +Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he<br /> +Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour<br /> +To sleep within the carriage more secure,<br /> +His legs depending at the open door.<br /> +Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,<br /> +The tedious rector drawling o’er his head,<br /> +And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep<br /> +Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,<br /> +Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour<br /> +To slumber in the carriage more secure,<br /> +Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,<br /> +Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,<br /> +Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh, may I live exempted +(while I live<br /> +Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)<br /> +From pangs arthritic that infest the toe<br /> +Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits<br /> +The gouty limb, ’tis true; but gouty limb,<br /> +Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:<br /> +For I have loved the rural walk through lanes<br /> +Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,<br /> +And skirted thick with intertexture firm<br /> +Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk<br /> +O’er hills, through valleys, and by river’s brink,<br +/> +E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds<br /> +To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.<br /> +And still remember, nor without regret<br /> +Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,<br /> +How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,<br /> +Still hungering penniless and far from home,<br /> +I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,<br /> +Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss<br /> +The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.<br /> +Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite<br /> +Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved<br /> +By culinary arts unsavoury deems.<br /> +No Sofa then awaited my return,<br /> +No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs<br /> +His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil<br /> +Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,<br /> +As life declines, speed rapidly away,<br /> +And not a year but pilfers as he goes<br /> +Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,<br /> +A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees<br /> +Their length and colour from the locks they spare;<br /> +The elastic spring of an unwearied foot<br /> +That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,<br /> +That play of lungs inhaling and again<br /> +Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes<br /> +Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,<br /> +Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired<br /> +My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed<br /> +Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find<br /> +Still soothing and of power to charm me still.<br /> +And witness, dear companion of my walks,<br /> +Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive<br /> +Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,<br /> +Confirmed by long experience of thy worth<br /> +And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire—<br /> +Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.<br /> +Thou know’st my praise of Nature most sincere,<br /> +And that my raptures are not conjured up<br /> +To serve occasions of poetic pomp,<br /> +But genuine, and art partner of them all.<br /> +How oft upon yon eminence, our pace<br /> +Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne<br /> +The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,<br /> +While admiration feeding at the eye,<br /> +And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!<br /> +Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned<br /> +The distant plough slow-moving, and beside<br /> +His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,<br /> +The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!<br /> +Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain<br /> +Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,<br /> +Conducts the eye along his sinuous course<br /> +Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank<br /> +Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms<br /> +That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;<br /> +While far beyond and overthwart the stream<br /> +That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,<br /> +The sloping land recedes into the clouds;<br /> +Displaying on its varied side the grace<br /> +Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,<br /> +Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells<br /> +Just undulates upon the listening ear;<br /> +Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.<br /> +Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed<br /> +Please daily, and whose novelty survives<br /> +Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:<br /> +Praise justly due to those that I describe.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Nor rural sights alone, but +rural sounds<br /> +Exhilarate the spirit, and restore<br /> +The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,<br /> +That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood<br /> +Of ancient growth, make music not unlike<br /> +The dash of ocean on his winding shore,<br /> +And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,<br /> +Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,<br /> +And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.<br /> +Nor less composure waits upon the roar<br /> +Of distant floods, or on the softer voice<br /> +Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip<br /> +Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall<br /> +Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length<br /> +In matted grass, that with a livelier green<br /> +Betrays the secret of their silent course.<br /> +Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,<br /> +But animated Nature sweeter still<br /> +To soothe and satisfy the human ear.<br /> +Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one<br /> +The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes<br /> +Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,<br /> +But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime<br /> +In still repeated circles, screaming loud,<br /> +The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl<br /> +That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.<br /> +Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,<br /> +Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,<br /> +And only there, please highly for their sake.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Peace to the artist, whose +ingenious thought<br /> +Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!<br /> +Fearless of humid air and gathering rains<br /> +Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself!<br /> +More delicate his timorous mate retires.<br /> +When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,<br /> +Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,<br /> +Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,<br /> +The task of new discoveries falls on me.<br /> +At such a season and with such a charge<br /> +Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,<br /> +A cottage, whither oft we since repair:<br /> +’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close<br /> +Environed with a ring of branching elms<br /> +That overhang the thatch, itself unseen<br /> +Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset<br /> +With foliage of such dark redundant growth,<br /> +I called the low-roofed lodge the <i>peasant’s nest</i>.<br +/> +And hidden as it is, and far remote<br /> +From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear<br /> +In village or in town, the bay of curs<br /> +Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,<br /> +And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,<br /> +Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.<br /> +Here, I have said, at least I should possess<br /> +The poet’s treasure, silence, and indulge<br /> +The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.<br /> +Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat<br /> +Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.<br /> +Its elevated site forbids the wretch<br /> +To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;<br /> +He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,<br /> +And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,<br /> +Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits<br /> +Dependent on the baker’s punctual call,<br /> +To hear his creaking panniers at the door,<br /> +Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.<br /> +So farewell envy of the <i>peasant’s nest</i>.<br /> +If solitude make scant the means of life,<br /> +Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,<br /> +Be still a pleasing object in my view,<br /> +My visit still, but never mine abode.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Not distant far, a length of +colonnade<br /> +Invites us; monument of ancient taste,<br /> +Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.<br /> +Our fathers knew the value of a screen<br /> +From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks<br /> +And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon<br /> +The gloom and coolness of declining day.<br /> +We bear our shades about us; self-deprived<br /> +Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,<br /> +And range an Indian waste without a tree.<br /> +Thanks to Benevolus—he spares me yet<br /> +These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,<br /> +And, though himself so polished, still reprieves<br /> +The obsolete prolixity of shade.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Descending now (but cautious, +lest too fast)<br /> +A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge<br /> +We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip<br /> +Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.<br /> +Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme<br /> +We mount again, and feel at every step<br /> +Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,<br /> +Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.<br /> +He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,<br /> +Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark<br /> +Toils much to earn a monumental pile,<br /> +That may record the mischiefs he has done.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The summit gained, behold the +proud alcove<br /> +That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures<br /> +The grand retreat from injuries impressed<br /> +By rural carvers, who with knives deface<br /> +The panels, leaving an obscure rude name<br /> +In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.<br /> +So strong the zeal to immortalise himself<br /> +Beats in the breast of man, that even a few<br /> +Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred<br /> +Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,<br /> +And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,<br /> +And posted on this speculative height<br /> +Exults in its command. The sheepfold here<br /> +Pours out its fleecy tenants o’er the glebe.<br /> +At first, progressive as a stream, they seek<br /> +The middle field; but scattered by degrees,<br /> +Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.<br /> +There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps<br /> +The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,<br /> +The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,<br /> +The boorish driver leaning o’er his team,<br /> +Vociferous, and impatient of delay.<br /> +Nor less attractive is the woodland scene<br /> +Diversified with trees of every growth,<br /> +Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks<br /> +Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,<br /> +Within the twilight of their distant shades;<br /> +There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood<br /> +Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.<br /> +No tree in all the grove but has its charms,<br /> +Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,<br /> +And of a wannish gray; the willow such,<br /> +And poplar that with silver lines his leaf,<br /> +And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;<br /> +Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,<br /> +Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.<br /> +Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,<br /> +The maple, and the beech of oily nuts<br /> +Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve<br /> +Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass<br /> +The sycamore, capricious in attire,<br /> +Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet<br /> +Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.<br /> +O’er these, but far beyond (a spacious map<br /> +Of hill and valley interposed between),<br /> +The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,<br /> +Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,<br /> +As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hence the declivity is sharp +and short,<br /> +And such the re-ascent; between them weeps<br /> +A little Naiad her impoverished urn,<br /> +All summer long, which winter fills again.<br /> +The folded gates would bar my progress now,<br /> +But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,<br /> +Communicative of the good he owns,<br /> +Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye<br /> +Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.<br /> +Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?<br /> +By short transition we have lost his glare,<br /> +And stepped at once into a cooler clime.<br /> +Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn<br /> +Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice<br /> +That yet a remnant of your race survives.<br /> +How airy and how light the graceful arch,<br /> +Yet awful as the consecrated roof<br /> +Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath,<br /> +The chequered earth seems restless as a flood<br /> +Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light<br /> +Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,<br /> +Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,<br /> +And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves<br /> +Play wanton, every moment, every spot.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And now, with nerves +new-braced and spirits cheered,<br /> +We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks,<br /> +With curvature of slow and easy sweep—<br /> +Deception innocent—give ample space<br /> +To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;<br /> +Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms<br /> +We may discern the thresher at his task.<br /> +Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,<br /> +That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls<br /> +Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,<br /> +The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist<br /> +Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.<br /> +Come hither, ye that press your beds of down<br /> +And sleep not: see him sweating o’er his bread<br /> +Before he eats it.—’Tis the primal curse,<br /> +But softened into mercy; made the pledge<br /> +Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.</p> +<p class="poetry"> By ceaseless action, all that +is subsists.<br /> +Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel<br /> +That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,<br /> +Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads<br /> +An instant’s pause, and lives but while she moves.<br /> +Its own revolvency upholds the world.<br /> +Winds from all quarters agitate the air,<br /> +And fit the limpid element for use,<br /> +Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams<br /> +All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed<br /> +By restless undulation: even the oak<br /> +Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:<br /> +He seems indeed indignant, and to feel<br /> +The impression of the blast with proud disdain,<br /> +Frowning as if in his unconscious arm<br /> +He held the thunder. But the monarch owes<br /> +His firm stability to what he scorns,<br /> +More fixed below, the more disturbed above.<br /> +The law, by which all creatures else are bound,<br /> +Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives<br /> +No mean advantage from a kindred cause,<br /> +From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.<br /> +The sedentary stretch their lazy length<br /> +When custom bids, but no refreshment find,<br /> +For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek<br /> +Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,<br /> +And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,<br /> +Reproach their owner with that love of rest<br /> +To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.<br /> +Not such the alert and active. Measure life<br /> +By its true worth, the comforts it affords,<br /> +And theirs alone seems worthy of the name<br /> +Good health, and, its associate in the most,<br /> +Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake,<br /> +And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;<br /> +The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;<br /> +Even age itself seems privileged in them<br /> +With clear exemption from its own defects.<br /> +A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front<br /> +The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard<br /> +With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave<br /> +Sprightly, and old almost without decay.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Like a coy maiden, Ease, when +courted most,<br /> +Farthest retires—an idol, at whose shrine<br /> +Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.<br /> +The love of Nature and the scene she draws<br /> +Is Nature’s dictate. Strange, there should be +found<br /> +Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,<br /> +Renounce the odours of the open field<br /> +For the unscented fictions of the loom;<br /> +Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes,<br /> +Prefer to the performance of a God<br /> +The inferior wonders of an artist’s hand.<br /> +Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art,<br /> +But Nature’s works far lovelier. I admire,<br /> +None more admires, the painter’s magic skill,<br /> +Who shows me that which I shall never see,<br /> +Conveys a distant country into mine,<br /> +And throws Italian light on English walls.<br /> +But imitative strokes can do no more<br /> +Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense.<br /> +The air salubrious of her lofty hills,<br /> +The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,<br /> +And music of her woods—no works of man<br /> +May rival these; these all bespeak a power<br /> +Peculiar, and exclusively her own.<br /> +Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;<br /> +’Tis free to all—’tis ev’ry day +renewed,<br /> +Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home.<br /> +He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long<br /> +In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey<br /> +To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank<br /> +And clammy of his dark abode have bred<br /> +Escapes at last to liberty and light;<br /> +His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue,<br /> +His eye relumines its extinguished fires,<br /> +He walks, he leaps, he runs—is winged with joy,<br /> +And riots in the sweets of every breeze.<br /> +He does not scorn it, who has long endured<br /> +A fever’s agonies, and fed on drugs.<br /> +Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed<br /> +With acrid salts; his very heart athirst<br /> +To gaze at Nature in her green array.<br /> +Upon the ship’s tall side he stands, possessed<br /> +With visions prompted by intense desire;<br /> +Fair fields appear below, such as he left<br /> +Far distant, such as he would die to find—<br /> +He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The spleen is seldom felt +where Flora reigns;<br /> +The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,<br /> +And sullen sadness that o’ershade, distort,<br /> +And mar the face of beauty, when no cause<br /> +For such immeasurable woe appears,<br /> +These Flora banishes, and gives the fair<br /> +Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.<br /> +It is the constant revolution, stale<br /> +And tasteless, of the same repeated joys<br /> +That palls and satiates, and makes languid life<br /> +A pedlar’s pack that bows the bearer down.<br /> +Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart<br /> +Recoils from its own choice—at the full feast<br /> +Is famished—finds no music in the song,<br /> +No smartness in the jest, and wonders why.<br /> +Yet thousands still desire to journey on,<br /> +Though halt and weary of the path they tread.<br /> +The paralytic, who can hold her cards<br /> +But cannot play them, borrows a friend’s hand<br /> +To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort<br /> +Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits<br /> +Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad<br /> +And silent cipher, while her proxy plays.<br /> +Others are dragged into the crowded room<br /> +Between supporters; and once seated, sit<br /> +Through downright inability to rise,<br /> +Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.<br /> +These speak a loud memento. Yet even these<br /> +Themselves love life, and cling to it as he,<br /> +That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.<br /> +They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,<br /> +Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.<br /> +Then wherefore not renounce them? No—the dread,<br /> +The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds<br /> +Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,<br /> +And their inveterate habits, all forbid.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Whom call we gay? That +honour has been long<br /> +The boast of mere pretenders to the name.<br /> +The innocent are gay—the lark is gay,<br /> +That dries his feathers saturate with dew<br /> +Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams<br /> +Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest.<br /> +The peasant too, a witness of his song,<br /> +Himself a songster, is as gay as he.<br /> +But save me from the gaiety of those<br /> +Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed;<br /> +And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes<br /> +Flash desperation, and betray their pangs<br /> +For property stripped off by cruel chance;<br /> +From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,<br /> +The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The earth was made so +various, that the mind<br /> +Of desultory man, studious of change,<br /> +And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.<br /> +Prospects however lovely may be seen<br /> +Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,<br /> +Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off<br /> +Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.<br /> +Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,<br /> +Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,<br /> +Delight us, happy to renounce a while,<br /> +Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,<br /> +That such short absence may endear it more.<br /> +Then forests, or the savage rock may please,<br /> +That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts<br /> +Above the reach of man: his hoary head<br /> +Conspicuous many a league, the mariner,<br /> +Bound homeward, and in hope already there,<br /> +Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist<br /> +A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,<br /> +And at his feet the baffled billows die.<br /> +The common overgrown with fern, and rough<br /> +With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed<br /> +And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,<br /> +And decks itself with ornaments of gold,<br /> +Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf<br /> +Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs<br /> +And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense<br /> +With luxury of unexpected sweets.</p> +<p class="poetry"> There often wanders one, whom +better days<br /> +Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed<br /> +With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.<br /> +A serving-maid was she, and fell in love<br /> +With one who left her, went to sea and died.<br /> +Her fancy followed him through foaming waves<br /> +To distant shores, and she would sit and weep<br /> +At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,<br /> +Delusive most where warmest wishes are,<br /> +Would oft anticipate his glad return,<br /> +And dream of transports she was not to know.<br /> +She heard the doleful tidings of his death,<br /> +And never smiled again. And now she roams<br /> +The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,<br /> +And there, unless when charity forbids,<br /> +The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,<br /> +Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown<br /> +More tattered still; and both but ill conceal<br /> +A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.<br /> +She begs an idle pin of all she meets,<br /> +And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,<br /> +Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,<br /> +Though pinched with cold, asks never.—Kate is crazed!</p> +<p class="poetry"> I see a column of slow-rising +smoke<br /> +O’ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.<br /> +A vagabond and useless tribe there eat<br /> +Their miserable meal. A kettle slung<br /> +Between two poles upon a stick transverse,<br /> +Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog,<br /> +Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined<br /> +From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!<br /> +They pick their fuel out of every hedge,<br /> +Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched<br /> +The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide<br /> +Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,<br /> +The vellum of the pedigree they claim.<br /> +Great skill have they in palmistry, and more<br /> +To conjure clean away the gold they touch,<br /> +Conveying worthless dross into its place;<br /> +Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.<br /> +Strange! that a creature rational, and cast<br /> +In human mould, should brutalise by choice<br /> +His nature, and, though capable of arts<br /> +By which the world might profit and himself,<br /> +Self-banished from society, prefer<br /> +Such squalid sloth to honourable toil.<br /> +Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft<br /> +They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,<br /> +And vex their flesh with artificial sores,<br /> +Can change their whine into a mirthful note<br /> +When safe occasion offers, and with dance,<br /> +And music of the bladder and the bag,<br /> +Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.<br /> +Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy<br /> +The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;<br /> +And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,<br /> +Need other physic none to heal the effects<br /> +Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Blest he, though +undistinguished from the crowd<br /> +By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure<br /> +Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside<br /> +His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn<br /> +The manners and the arts of civil life.<br /> +His wants, indeed, are many; but supply<br /> +Is obvious; placed within the easy reach<br /> +Of temperate wishes and industrious hands.<br /> +Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;<br /> +Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,<br /> +And terrible to sight, as when she springs<br /> +(If e’er she spring spontaneous) in remote<br /> +And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,<br /> +And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,<br /> +By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,<br /> +And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.<br /> +War and the chase engross the savage whole;<br /> +War followed for revenge, or to supplant<br /> +The envied tenants of some happier spot;<br /> +The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!<br /> +His hard condition with severe constraint<br /> +Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth<br /> +Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns<br /> +Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,<br /> +Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.<br /> +Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,<br /> +And thus the rangers of the western world,<br /> +Where it advances far into the deep,<br /> +Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles<br /> +So lately found, although the constant sun<br /> +Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,<br /> +Can boast but little virtue; and inert<br /> +Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain<br /> +In manners, victims of luxurious ease.<br /> +These therefore I can pity, placed remote<br /> +From all that science traces, art invents,<br /> +Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed<br /> +In boundless oceans, never to be passed<br /> +By navigators uninformed as they,<br /> +Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again.<br /> +But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,<br /> +Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee<br /> +Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,<br /> +Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw<br /> +Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here<br /> +With what superior skill we can abuse<br /> +The gifts of Providence, and squander life.<br /> +The dream is past. And thou hast found again<br /> +Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams,<br /> +And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found<br +/> +Their former charms? And, having seen our state,<br /> +Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp<br /> +Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,<br /> +And heard our music; are thy simple friends,<br /> +Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights<br /> +As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys<br /> +Lost nothing by comparison with ours?<br /> +Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude<br /> +And ignorant, except of outward show),<br /> +I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart<br /> +And spiritless, as never to regret<br /> +Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.<br /> +Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,<br /> +And asking of the surge that bathes the foot<br /> +If ever it has washed our distant shore.<br /> +I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,<br /> +A patriot’s for his country. Thou art sad<br /> +At thought of her forlorn and abject state,<br /> +From which no power of thine can raise her up.<br /> +Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err,<br /> +Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus.<br /> +She tells me too that duly every morn<br /> +Thou climb’st the mountain-top, with eager eye<br /> +Exploring far and wide the watery waste,<br /> +For sight of ship from England. Every speck<br /> +Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale<br /> +With conflict of contending hopes and fears.<br /> +But comes at last the dull and dusky eve,<br /> +And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared<br /> +To dream all night of what the day denied.<br /> +Alas, expect it not. We found no bait<br /> +To tempt us in thy country. Doing good,<br /> +Disinterested good, is not our trade.<br /> +We travel far, ’tis true, but not for naught;<br /> +And must be bribed to compass earth again<br /> +By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But though true worth and +virtue, in the mild<br /> +And genial soil of cultivated life<br /> +Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there,<br /> +Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay<br /> +And gain-devoted cities, thither flow,<br /> +As to a common and most noisome sewer,<br /> +The dregs and feculence of every land.<br /> +In cities, foul example on most minds<br /> +Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds<br /> +In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust,<br /> +And wantonness and gluttonous excess.<br /> +In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,<br /> +Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught<br /> +By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there,<br /> +Beyond the achievement of successful flight.<br /> +I do confess them nurseries of the arts,<br /> +In which they flourish most; where, in the beams<br /> +Of warm encouragement, and in the eye<br /> +Of public note, they reach their perfect size.<br /> +Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed<br /> +The fairest capital in all the world,<br /> +By riot and incontinence the worst.<br /> +There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes<br /> +A lucid mirror, in which nature sees<br /> +All her reflected features. Bacon there<br /> +Gives more than female beauty to a stone,<br /> +And Chatham’s eloquence to marble lips.<br /> +Nor does the chisel occupy alone<br /> +The powers of sculpture, but the style as much;<br /> +Each province of her art her equal care.<br /> +With nice incision of her guided steel<br /> +She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil<br /> +So sterile with what charms soe’er she will,<br /> +The richest scenery and the loveliest forms.<br /> +Where finds philosophy her eagle eye,<br /> +With which she gazes at yon burning disk<br /> +Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots?<br /> +In London. Where her implements exact,<br /> +With which she calculates, computes, and scans<br /> +All distance, motion, magnitude, and now<br /> +Measures an atom, and now girds a world?<br /> +In London. Where has commerce such a mart,<br /> +So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied,<br /> +As London, opulent, enlarged, and still<br /> +Increasing London? Babylon of old<br /> +Not more the glory of the earth, than she<br /> +A more accomplished world’s chief glory now.</p> +<p class="poetry"> She has her praise. Now +mark a spot or two<br /> +That so much beauty would do well to purge;<br /> +And show this queen of cities, that so fair<br /> +May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise.<br /> +It is not seemly, nor of good report,<br /> +That she is slack in discipline; more prompt<br /> +To avenge than to prevent the breach of law:<br /> +That she is rigid in denouncing death<br /> +On petty robbers, and indulges life<br /> +And liberty, and ofttimes honour too,<br /> +To peculators of the public gold:<br /> +That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts<br /> +Into his overgorged and bloated purse<br /> +The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.<br /> +Nor is it well, nor can it come to good,<br /> +That through profane and infidel contempt<br /> +Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul<br /> +And abrogate, as roundly as she may,<br /> +The total ordinance and will of God;<br /> +Advancing fashion to the post of truth,<br /> +And centring all authority in modes<br /> +And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites<br /> +Have dwindled into unrespected forms,<br /> +And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced.</p> +<p class="poetry"> God made the country, and man +made the town.<br /> +What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts<br /> +That can alone make sweet the bitter draught<br /> +That life holds out to all, should most abound<br /> +And least be threatened in the fields and groves?<br /> +Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about<br /> +In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue<br /> +But that of idleness, and taste no scenes<br /> +But such as art contrives, possess ye still<br /> +Your element; there only ye can shine,<br /> +There only minds like yours can do no harm.<br /> +Our groves were planted to console at noon<br /> +The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve<br /> +The moonbeam, sliding softly in between<br /> +The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish,<br /> +Birds warbling all the music. We can spare<br /> +The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse<br /> +Our softer satellite. Your songs confound<br /> +Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs<br /> +Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute.<br /> +There is a public mischief in your mirth;<br /> +It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,<br /> +Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,<br /> +Has made, which enemies could ne’er have done,<br /> +Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,<br /> +A mutilated structure, soon to fall.</p> +<h3>BOOK II.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE TIMEPIECE.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span> for a lodge in +some vast wilderness,<br /> +Some boundless contiguity of shade,<br /> +Where rumour of oppression and deceit,<br /> +Of unsuccessful or successful war,<br /> +Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,<br /> +My soul is sick with every day’s report<br /> +Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.<br /> +There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart,<br /> +It does not feel for man. The natural bond<br /> +Of brotherhood is severed as the flax<br /> +That falls asunder at the touch of fire.<br /> +He finds his fellow guilty of a skin<br /> +Not coloured like his own, and having power<br /> +To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause<br /> +Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey.<br /> +Lands intersected by a narrow frith<br /> +Abhor each other. Mountains interposed<br /> +Make enemies of nations, who had else<br /> +Like kindred drops been mingled into one.<br /> +Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys;<br /> +And worse than all, and most to be deplored,<br /> +As human nature’s broadest, foulest blot,<br /> +Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat<br /> +With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart,<br /> +Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast.<br /> +Then what is man? And what man, seeing this,<br /> +And having human feelings, does not blush<br /> +And hang his head, to think himself a man?<br /> +I would not have a slave to till my ground,<br /> +To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,<br /> +And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth<br /> +That sinews bought and sold have ever earned.<br /> +No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart’s<br /> +Just estimation prized above all price,<br /> +I had much rather be myself the slave<br /> +And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.<br /> +We have no slaves at home—then why abroad?<br /> +And they themselves, once ferried o’er the wave<br /> +That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.<br /> +Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs<br /> +Receive our air, that moment they are free,<br /> +They touch our country and their shackles fall.<br /> +That’s noble, and bespeaks a nation proud<br /> +And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then,<br /> +And let it circulate through every vein<br /> +Of all your empire; that where Britain’s power<br /> +Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Sure there is need of social +intercourse,<br /> +Benevolence and peace and mutual aid,<br /> +Between the nations, in a world that seems<br /> +To toll the death-bell to its own decease;<br /> +And by the voice of all its elements<br /> +To preach the general doom. When were the winds<br /> +Let slip with such a warrant to destroy?<br /> +When did the waves so haughtily o’erleap<br /> +Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry?<br /> +Fires from beneath and meteors from above,<br /> +Portentous, unexampled, unexplained,<br /> +Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old<br /> +And crazy earth has had her shaking fits<br /> +More frequent, and foregone her usual rest.<br /> +Is it a time to wrangle, when the props<br /> +And pillars of our planet seem to fail,<br /> +And nature with a dim and sickly eye<br /> +To wait the close of all? But grant her end<br /> +More distant, and that prophecy demands<br /> +A longer respite, unaccomplished yet;<br /> +Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak<br /> +Displeasure in His breast who smites the earth<br /> +Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice.<br /> +And ’tis but seemly, that, where all deserve<br /> +And stand exposed by common peccancy<br /> +To what no few have felt, there should be peace,<br /> +And brethren in calamity should love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Alas for Sicily, rude +fragments now<br /> +Lie scattered where the shapely column stood.<br /> +Her palaces are dust. In all her streets<br /> +The voice of singing and the sprightly chord<br /> +Are silent. Revelry and dance and show<br /> +Suffer a syncope and solemn pause,<br /> +While God performs, upon the trembling stage<br /> +Of His own works, His dreadful part alone.<br /> +How does the earth receive Him?—With what signs<br /> +Of gratulation and delight, her King?<br /> +Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad,<br /> +Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums,<br /> +Disclosing paradise where’er He treads?<br /> +She quakes at His approach. Her hollow womb,<br /> +Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps<br /> +And fiery caverns roars beneath His foot.<br /> +The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke,<br /> +For He has touched them. From the extremest point<br /> +Of elevation down into the abyss,<br /> +His wrath is busy and His frown is felt.<br /> +The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise,<br /> +The rivers die into offensive pools,<br /> +And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross<br /> +And mortal nuisance into all the air.<br /> +What solid was, by transformation strange<br /> +Grows fluid, and the fixed and rooted earth<br /> +Tormented into billows, heaves and swells,<br /> +Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl<br /> +Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense<br /> +The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs<br /> +And agonies of human and of brute<br /> +Multitudes, fugitive on every side,<br /> +And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene<br /> +Migrates uplifted, and, with all its soil<br /> +Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out<br /> +A new possessor, and survives the change.<br /> +Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought<br /> +To an enormous and o’erbearing height,<br /> +Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice<br /> +Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore<br /> +Resistless. Never such a sudden flood,<br /> +Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge,<br /> +Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng<br /> +That pressed the beach and hasty to depart<br /> +Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone,<br /> +Gone with the refluent wave into the deep,<br /> +A prince with half his people. Ancient towers,<br /> +And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes<br /> +Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume<br /> +Life in the unproductive shades of death,<br /> +Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth,<br /> +And, happy in their unforeseen release<br /> +From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy<br /> +The terrors of the day that sets them free.<br /> +Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast,<br /> +Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret,<br /> +That even a judgment, making way for thee,<br /> +Seems in their eyes a mercy, for thy sake.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Such evil sin hath wrought; +and such a flame<br /> +Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth,<br /> +And, in the furious inquest that it makes<br /> +On God’s behalf, lays waste His fairest works.<br /> +The very elements, though each be meant<br /> +The minister of man to serve his wants,<br /> +Conspire against him. With his breath he draws<br /> +A plague into his blood; and cannot use<br /> +Life’s necessary means, but he must die.<br /> +Storms rise to o’erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds<br /> +Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise,<br /> +And, needing none assistance of the storm,<br /> +Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there.<br /> +The earth shall shake him out of all his holds,<br /> +Or make his house his grave; nor so content,<br /> +Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood,<br /> +And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs.<br /> +What then—were they the wicked above all,<br /> +And we the righteous, whose fast-anchored isle<br /> +Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff,<br /> +The sport of every wave? No: none are clear,<br /> +And none than we more guilty. But where all<br /> +Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts<br /> +Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose His mark,<br /> +May punish, if He please, the less, to warn<br /> +The more malignant. If He spared not them,<br /> +Tremble and be amazed at thine escape,<br /> +Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Happy the man who sees a God +employed<br /> +In all the good and ill that chequer life!<br /> +Resolving all events, with their effects<br /> +And manifold results, into the will<br /> +And arbitration wise of the Supreme.<br /> +Did not His eye rule all things, and intend<br /> +The least of our concerns (since from the least<br /> +The greatest oft originate), could chance<br /> +Find place in His dominion, or dispose<br /> +One lawless particle to thwart His plan,<br /> +Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen<br /> +Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb<br /> +The smooth and equal course of His affairs.<br /> +This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed<br /> +In nature’s tendencies, oft overlooks;<br /> +And, having found His instrument, forgets<br /> +Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still,<br /> +Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims<br /> +His hot displeasure against foolish men<br /> +That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven<br /> +In tempests, quits His grasp upon the winds<br /> +And gives them all their fury; bids a plague<br /> +Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin,<br /> +And putrefy the breath of blooming health.<br /> +He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend<br /> +Blows mildew from between his shrivelled lips,<br /> +And taints the golden ear. He springs His mines,<br /> +And desolates a nation at a blast.<br /> +Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells<br /> +Of homogeneal and discordant springs<br /> +And principles; of causes how they work<br /> +By necessary laws their sure effects;<br /> +Of action and reaction. He has found<br /> +The source of the disease that nature feels,<br /> +And bids the world take heart and banish fear.<br /> +Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause<br /> +Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God<br /> +Still wrought by means since first He made the world,<br /> +And did He not of old employ His means<br /> +To drown it? What is His creation less<br /> +Than a capacious reservoir of means<br /> +Formed for His use, and ready at His will?<br /> +Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of Him,<br /> +Or ask of whomsoever He has taught,<br /> +And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.</p> +<p class="poetry"> England, with all thy faults, +I love thee still—<br /> +My country! and while yet a nook is left,<br /> +Where English minds and manners may be found,<br /> +Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime<br /> +Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed<br /> +With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,<br /> +I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies<br /> +And fields without a flower, for warmer France<br /> +With all her vines; nor for Ausonia’s groves<br /> +Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.<br /> +To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime<br /> +Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire<br /> +Upon thy foes, was never meant my task;<br /> +But I can feel thy fortune, and partake<br /> +Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart<br /> +As any thunderer there. And I can feel<br /> +Thy follies too, and with a just disdain<br /> +Frown at effeminates, whose very looks<br /> +Reflect dishonour on the land I love.<br /> +How, in the name of soldiership and sense,<br /> +Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth<br /> +And tender as a girl, all essenced o’er<br /> +With odours, and as profligate as sweet,<br /> +Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,<br /> +And love when they should fight; when such as these<br /> +Presume to lay their hand upon the ark<br /> +Of her magnificent and awful cause?<br /> +Time was when it was praise and boast enough<br /> +In every clime, and travel where we might,<br /> +That we were born her children. Praise enough<br /> +To fill the ambition of a private man,<br /> +That Chatham’s language was his mother tongue,<br /> +And Wolfe’s great name compatriot with his own.<br /> +Farewell those honours, and farewell with them<br /> +The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen<br /> +Each in his field of glory; one in arms,<br /> +And one in council;—Wolfe upon the lap<br /> +Of smiling victory that moment won,<br /> +And Chatham, heart-sick of his country’s shame.<br /> +They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still<br /> +Consulting England’s happiness at home,<br /> +Secured it by an unforgiving frown<br /> +If any wronged her. Wolfe, where’er he fought,<br /> +Put so much of his heart into his act,<br /> +That his example had a magnet’s force,<br /> +And all were swift to follow whom all loved.<br /> +Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!<br /> +Or all that we have left is empty talk<br /> +Of old achievements, and despair of new.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now hoist the sail, and let +the streamers float<br /> +Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck<br /> +With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets,<br /> +That no rude savour maritime invade<br /> +The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft,<br /> +Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes,<br /> +That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds<br /> +May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore.<br /> +True, we have lost an empire—let it pass.<br /> +True, we may thank the perfidy of France<br /> +That picked the jewel out of England’s crown,<br /> +With all the cunning of an envious shrew.<br /> +And let that pass—’twas but a trick of state.<br /> +A brave man knows no malice, but at once<br /> +Forgets in peace the injuries of war,<br /> +And gives his direst foe a friend’s embrace.<br /> +And shamed as we have been, to the very beard<br /> +Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved<br /> +Too weak for those decisive blows that once<br /> +Insured us mastery there, we yet retain<br /> +Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast<br /> +At least superior jockeyship, and claim<br /> +The honours of the turf as all our own.<br /> +Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek,<br /> +And show the shame ye might conceal at home,<br /> +In foreign eyes!—be grooms, and win the plate,<br /> +Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!—<br /> +’Tis generous to communicate your skill<br /> +To those that need it. Folly is soon learned,<br /> +And, under such preceptors, who can fail?</p> +<p class="poetry"> There is a pleasure in poetic +pains<br /> +Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,<br /> +The expedients and inventions multiform<br /> +To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms<br /> +Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win—<br /> +To arrest the fleeting images that fill<br /> +The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,<br /> +And force them sit, till he has pencilled off<br /> +A faithful likeness of the forms he views;<br /> +Then to dispose his copies with such art<br /> +That each may find its most propitious light,<br /> +And shine by situation, hardly less<br /> +Than by the labour and the skill it cost,<br /> +Are occupations of the poet’s mind<br /> +So pleasing, and that steal away the thought<br /> +With such address from themes of sad import,<br /> +That, lost in his own musings, happy man!<br /> +He feels the anxieties of life, denied<br /> +Their wonted entertainment, all retire.<br /> +Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,<br /> +Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.<br /> +Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps<br /> +Aware of nothing arduous in a task<br /> +They never undertook, they little note<br /> +His dangers or escapes, and haply find<br /> +There least amusement where he found the most.<br /> +But is amusement all? studious of song<br /> +And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,<br /> +I would not trifle merely, though the world<br /> +Be loudest in their praise who do no more.<br /> +Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?<br /> +It may correct a foible, may chastise<br /> +The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,<br /> +Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;<br /> +But where are its sublimer trophies found?<br /> +What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed<br /> +By rigour, or whom laughed into reform?<br /> +Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed.<br /> +Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,<br /> +Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,<br /> +That fear no discipline of human hands.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The pulpit +therefore—and I name it, filled<br /> +With solemn awe, that bids me well beware<br /> +With what intent I touch that holy thing—<br /> +The pulpit, when the satirist has at last,<br /> +Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,<br /> +Spent all his force, and made no proselyte—<br /> +I say the pulpit, in the sober use<br /> +Of its legitimate peculiar powers,<br /> +Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand,<br /> +The most important and effectual guard,<br /> +Support, and ornament of virtue’s cause.<br /> +There stands the messenger of truth; there stands<br /> +The legate of the skies; his theme divine,<br /> +His office sacred, his credentials clear.<br /> +By him, the violated Law speaks out<br /> +Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet<br /> +As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.<br /> +He stablishes the strong, restores the weak,<br /> +Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,<br /> +And, armed himself in panoply complete<br /> +Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms<br /> +Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule<br /> +Of holy discipline, to glorious war,<br /> +The sacramental host of God’s elect.<br /> +Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were!<br /> +But hark—the Doctor’s voice—fast wedged +between<br /> +Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks<br /> +Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far<br /> +Than all invective is his bold harangue,<br /> +While through that public organ of report<br /> +He hails the clergy, and, defying shame,<br /> +Announces to the world his own and theirs,<br /> +He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed,<br /> +And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone,<br /> +And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer<br /> +The adagio and andante it demands.<br /> +He grinds divinity of other days<br /> +Down into modern use; transforms old print<br /> +To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes<br /> +Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.—<br /> +Are there who purchase of the Doctor’s ware?<br /> +Oh name it not in Gath!—it cannot be,<br /> +That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid.<br /> +He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll,<br /> +Assuming thus a rank unknown before,<br /> +Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I venerate the man whose +heart is warm,<br /> +Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life,<br /> +Coincident, exhibit lucid proof<br /> +That he is honest in the sacred cause.<br /> +To such I render more than mere respect,<br /> +Whose actions say that they respect themselves.<br /> +But, loose in morals, and in manners vain,<br /> +In conversation frivolous, in dress<br /> +Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse,<br /> +Frequent in park with lady at his side,<br /> +Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes,<br /> +But rare at home, and never at his books<br /> +Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card;<br /> +Constant at routs, familiar with a round<br /> +Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor;<br /> +Ambitions of preferment for its gold,<br /> +And well prepared by ignorance and sloth,<br /> +By infidelity and love o’ the world,<br /> +To make God’s work a sinecure; a slave<br /> +To his own pleasures and his patron’s pride.—<br /> +From such apostles, O ye mitred heads,<br /> +Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands<br /> +On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Would I describe a preacher, +such as Paul,<br /> +Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,<br /> +Paul should himself direct me. I would trace<br /> +His master-strokes, and draw from his design.<br /> +I would express him simple, grave, sincere;<br /> +In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain,<br /> +And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste,<br /> +And natural in gesture; much impressed<br /> +Himself, as conscious of his awful charge,<br /> +And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds<br /> +May feel it too; affectionate in look<br /> +And tender in address, as well becomes<br /> +A messenger of grace to guilty men.<br /> +Behold the picture!—Is it like?—Like whom?<br /> +The things that mount the rostrum with a skip,<br /> +And then skip down again; pronounce a text,<br /> +Cry—Hem; and reading what they never wrote,<br /> +Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,<br /> +And with a well-bred whisper close the scene.</p> +<p class="poetry"> In man or woman, but far most +in man,<br /> +And most of all in man that ministers<br /> +And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe<br /> +All affectation. ’Tis my perfect scorn;<br /> +Object of my implacable disgust.<br /> +What!—will a man play tricks, will he indulge<br /> +A silly fond conceit of his fair form<br /> +And just proportion, fashionable mien,<br /> +And pretty face, in presence of his God?<br /> +Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,<br /> +As with the diamond on his lily hand,<br /> +And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,<br /> +When I am hungry for the Bread of Life?<br /> +He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames<br /> +His noble office, and, instead of truth,<br /> +Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock!<br /> +Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare<br /> +And start theatric, practised at the glass.<br /> +I seek divine simplicity in him<br /> +Who handles things divine; and all beside,<br /> +Though learned with labour, and though much admired<br /> +By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed,<br /> +To me is odious as the nasal twang<br /> +Heard at conventicle, where worthy men,<br /> +Misled by custom, strain celestial themes<br /> +Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid.<br /> +Some, decent in demeanour while they preach,<br /> +That task performed, relapse into themselves,<br /> +And having spoken wisely, at the close<br /> +Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye—<br /> +Whoe’er was edified themselves were not.<br /> +Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke<br /> +An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock;<br /> +Then with an air, most gracefully performed,<br /> +Fall back into our seat; extend an arm,<br /> +And lay it at its ease with gentle care,<br /> +With handkerchief in hand, depending low:<br /> +The better hand, more busy, gives the nose<br /> +Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye<br /> +With opera glass to watch the moving scene,<br /> +And recognise the slow-retiring fair.<br /> +Now this is fulsome, and offends me more<br /> +Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect<br /> +And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind<br /> +May be indifferent to her house of clay,<br /> +And slight the hovel as beneath her care.<br /> +But how a body so fantastic, trim,<br /> +And quaint in its deportment and attire,<br /> +Can lodge a heavenly mind—demands a doubt.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He that negotiates between +God and man,<br /> +As God’s ambassador, the grand concerns<br /> +Of judgment and of mercy, should beware<br /> +Of lightness in his speech. ’Tis pitiful<br /> +To court a grin, when you should woo a soul;<br /> +To break a jest, when pity would inspire<br /> +Pathetic exhortation; and to address<br /> +The skittish fancy with facetious tales,<br /> +When sent with God’s commission to the heart.<br /> +So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip<br /> +Or merry turn in all he ever wrote,<br /> +And I consent you take it for your text,<br /> +Your only one, till sides and benches fail.<br /> +No: he was serious in a serious cause,<br /> +And understood too well the weighty terms<br /> +That he had ta’en in charge. He would not stoop<br /> +To conquer those by jocular exploits,<br /> +Whom truth and soberness assailed in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh, popular applause! what +heart of man<br /> +Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms?<br /> +The wisest and the best feel urgent need<br /> +Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales;<br /> +But swelled into a gust—who then, alas!<br /> +With all his canvas set, and inexpert,<br /> +And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power?<br /> +Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald<br /> +Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean<br /> +And craving poverty, and in the bow<br /> +Respectful of the smutched artificer,<br /> +Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb<br /> +The bias of the purpose. How much more,<br /> +Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite,<br /> +In language soft as adoration breathes?<br /> +Ah, spare your idol! think him human still;<br /> +Charms he may have, but he has frailties too;<br /> +Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.</p> +<p class="poetry"> All truth is from the +sempiternal source<br /> +Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome<br /> +Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we<br /> +Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head.<br /> +To them it flowed much mingled and defiled<br /> +With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams<br /> +Illusive of philosophy, so called,<br /> +But falsely. Sages after sages strove,<br /> +In vain, to filter off a crystal draught<br /> +Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced<br /> +The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred<br /> +Intoxication and delirium wild.<br /> +In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth<br /> +And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man?<br /> +Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is?<br /> +Where must he find his Maker? With what rites<br /> +Adore Him? Will He hear, accept, and bless?<br /> +Or does He sit regardless of His works?<br /> +Has man within him an immortal seed?<br /> +Or does the tomb take all? If he survive<br /> +His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe?<br /> +Knots worthy of solution, which alone<br /> +A Deity could solve. Their answers vague,<br /> +And all at random, fabulous and dark,<br /> +Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life,<br /> +Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak<br /> +To bind the roving appetite, and lead<br /> +Blind nature to a God not yet revealed.<br /> +’Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts,<br /> +Explains all mysteries, except her own,<br /> +And so illuminates the path of life,<br /> +That fools discover it, and stray no more.<br /> +Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,<br /> +My man of morals, nurtured in the shades<br /> +Of Academus, is this false or true?<br /> +Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?<br /> +If Christ, then why resort at every turn<br /> +To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short<br /> +Of man’s occasions, when in Him reside<br /> +Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store?<br /> +How oft when Paul has served us with a text,<br /> +Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached!<br /> +Men that, if now alive, would sit content<br /> +And humble learners of a Saviour’s worth,<br /> +Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,<br /> +Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too.</p> +<p class="poetry"> And thus it is. The +pastor, either vain<br /> +By nature, or by flattery made so, taught<br /> +To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt<br /> +Absurdly, not his office, but himself;<br /> +Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn,<br /> +Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach,<br /> +Perverting often, by the stress of lewd<br /> +And loose example, whom he should instruct,<br /> +Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace<br /> +The noblest function, and discredits much<br /> +The brightest truths that man has ever seen.<br /> +For ghostly counsel, if it either fall<br /> +Below the exigence, or be not backed<br /> +With show of love, at least with hopeful proof<br /> +Of some sincerity on the giver’s part;<br /> +Or be dishonoured in the exterior form<br /> +And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks<br /> +As move derision, or by foppish airs<br /> +And histrionic mummery, that let down<br /> +The pulpit to the level of the stage;<br /> +Drops from the lips a disregarded thing.<br /> +The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught,<br /> +While prejudice in men of stronger minds<br /> +Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see.<br /> +A relaxation of religion’s hold<br /> +Upon the roving and untutored heart<br /> +Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt,<br /> +The laity run wild.—But do they now?<br /> +Note their extravagance, and be convinced.</p> +<p class="poetry"> As nations, ignorant of God, +contrive<br /> +A wooden one, so we, no longer taught<br /> +By monitors that Mother Church supplies,<br /> +Now make our own. Posterity will ask<br /> +(If e’er posterity sees verse of mine),<br /> +Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence,<br /> +What was a monitor in George’s days?<br /> +My very gentle reader, yet unborn,<br /> +Of whom I needs must augur better things,<br /> +Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world<br /> +Productive only of a race like us,<br /> +A monitor is wood—plank shaven thin.<br /> +We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced<br /> +And neatly fitted, it compresses hard<br /> +The prominent and most unsightly bones,<br /> +And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use<br /> +Sovereign and most effectual to secure<br /> +A form, not now gymnastic as of yore,<br /> +From rickets and distortion, else, our lot.<br /> +But thus admonished we can walk erect,<br /> +One proof at least of manhood; while the friend<br /> +Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.<br /> +Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore,<br /> +And, by caprice as multiplied as his,<br /> +Just please us while the fashion is at full,<br /> +But change with every moon. The sycophant,<br /> +That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date,<br /> +Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;<br /> +Finds one ill made, another obsolete,<br /> +This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived;<br /> +And, making prize of all that he condemns,<br /> +With our expenditure defrays his own.<br /> +Variety’s the very spice of life,<br /> +That gives it all its flavour. We have run<br /> +Through every change that fancy, at the loom<br /> +Exhausted, has had genius to supply,<br /> +And, studious of mutation still, discard<br /> +A real elegance, a little used,<br /> +For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.<br /> +We sacrifice to dress, till household joys<br /> +And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry,<br /> +And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires,<br /> +And introduces hunger, frost, and woe,<br /> +Where peace and hospitality might reign.<br /> +What man that lives, and that knows how to live,<br /> +Would fail to exhibit at the public shows<br /> +A form as splendid as the proudest there,<br /> +Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?<br /> +A man o’ the town dines late, but soon enough,<br /> +With reasonable forecast and despatch,<br /> +To ensure a side-box station at half-price.<br /> +You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress,<br /> +His daily fare as delicate. Alas!<br /> +He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems<br /> +With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet.<br /> +The rout is folly’s circle which she draws<br /> +With magic wand. So potent is the spell,<br /> +That none decoyed into that fatal ring,<br /> +Unless by Heaven’s peculiar grace, escape.<br /> +There we grow early gray, but never wise;<br /> +There form connections, and acquire no friend;<br /> +Solicit pleasure hopeless of success;<br /> +Waste youth in occupations only fit<br /> +For second childhood, and devote old age<br /> +To sports which only childhood could excuse.<br /> +There they are happiest who dissemble best<br /> +Their weariness; and they the most polite,<br /> +Who squander time and treasure with a smile,<br /> +Though at their own destruction. She that asks<br /> +Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,<br /> +And hates their coming. They (what can they less?)<br /> +Make just reprisals, and, with cringe and shrug<br /> +And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her.<br /> +All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace,<br /> +Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies,<br /> +And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass,<br /> +To her who, frugal only that her thrift<br /> +May feed excesses she can ill afford,<br /> +Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste<br /> +Alighting, turns the key in her own door,<br /> +And, at the watchman’s lantern borrowing light,<br /> +Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.<br /> +Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives,<br /> +On Fortune’s velvet altar offering up<br /> +Their last poor pittance—Fortune, most severe<br /> +Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far<br /> +Than all that held their routs in Juno’s heaven.—<br +/> +So fare we in this prison-house the world.<br /> +And ’tis a fearful spectacle to see<br /> +So many maniacs dancing in their chains.<br /> +They gaze upon the links that hold them fast<br /> +With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,<br /> +Then shake them in despair, and dance again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now basket up the family of +plagues<br /> +That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale<br /> +Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds<br /> +By forgery, by subterfuge of law,<br /> +By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen<br /> +As the necessities their authors feel;<br /> +Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat<br /> +At the right door. Profusion is its sire.<br /> +Profusion unrestrained, with all that’s base<br /> +In character, has littered all the land,<br /> +And bred within the memory of no few<br /> +A priesthood such as Baal’s was of old,<br /> +A people such as never was till now.<br /> +It is a hungry vice:—it eats up all<br /> +That gives society its beauty, strength,<br /> +Convenience, and security, and use;<br /> +Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped<br /> +And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws<br /> +Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot<br /> +Of union, and converts the sacred band<br /> +That holds mankind together to a scourge.<br /> +Profusion, deluging a state with lusts<br /> +Of grossest nature and of worst effects,<br /> +Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds,<br /> +And warps the consciences of public men<br /> +Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools<br /> +That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face<br /> +That would have shocked credulity herself,<br /> +Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;—<br /> +Since all alike are selfish, why not they?<br /> +This does Profusion, and the accursed cause<br /> +Of such deep mischief has itself a cause.</p> +<p class="poetry"> In colleges and halls, in +ancient days,<br /> +When learning, virtue, piety, and truth<br /> +Were precious, and inculcated with care,<br /> +There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head,<br /> +Not yet by time completely silvered o’er,<br /> +Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,<br /> +But strong for service still, and unimpaired.<br /> +His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile<br /> +Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard<br /> +Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love.<br /> +The occupation dearest to his heart<br /> +Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke<br /> +The head of modest and ingenuous worth,<br /> +That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth<br /> +Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew<br /> +Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant;<br /> +The mind was well informed, the passions held<br /> +Subordinate, and diligence was choice.<br /> +If e’er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must,<br /> +That one among so many overleaped<br /> +The limits of control, his gentle eye<br /> +Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke;<br /> +His frown was full of terror, and his voice<br /> +Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe<br /> +As left him not, till penitence had won<br /> +Lost favour back again, and closed the breach.<br /> +But Discipline, a faithful servant long,<br /> +Declined at length into the vale of years;<br /> +A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye<br /> +Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung<br /> +Grew tremulous, and moved derision more<br /> +Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth.<br /> +So colleges and halls neglected much<br /> +Their good old friend, and Discipline at length,<br /> +O’erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died.<br /> +Then study languished, emulation slept,<br /> +And virtue fled. The schools became a scene<br /> +Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts,<br /> +His cap well lined with logic not his own,<br /> +With parrot tongue performed the scholar’s part,<br /> +Proceeding soon a graduated dunce.<br /> +Then compromise had place, and scrutiny<br /> +Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck,<br /> +And he was competent whose purse was so.<br /> +A dissolution of all bonds ensued,<br /> +The curbs invented for the mulish mouth<br /> +Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts<br /> +Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates<br /> +Forgot their office, opening with a touch;<br /> +Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade;<br /> +The tasselled cap and the spruce band a jest,<br /> +A mockery of the world. What need of these<br /> +For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure,<br /> +Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen<br /> +With belted waist, and pointers at their heels,<br /> +Than in the bounds of duty? What was learned,<br /> +If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot,<br /> +And such expense as pinches parents blue<br /> +And mortifies the liberal hand of love,<br /> +Is squandered in pursuit of idle sports<br /> +And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name,<br /> +That sits a stigma on his father’s house,<br /> +And cleaves through life inseparably close<br /> +To him that wears it. What can after-games<br /> +Of riper joys, and commerce with the world,<br /> +The lewd vain world that must receive him soon,<br /> +Add to such erudition thus acquired,<br /> +Where science and where virtue are professed?<br /> +They may confirm his habits, rivet fast<br /> +His folly, but to spoil him is a task<br /> +That bids defiance to the united powers<br /> +Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews.<br /> +Now, blame we most the nurselings, or the nurse?<br /> +The children crooked and twisted and deformed<br /> +Through want of care, or her whose winking eye<br /> +And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood?<br /> +The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge,<br /> +She needs herself correction; needs to learn<br /> +That it is dangerous sporting with the world,<br /> +With things so sacred as a nation’s trust;<br /> +The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge.</p> +<p class="poetry"> All are not such. I had +a brother once—<br /> +Peace to the memory of a man of worth,<br /> +A man of letters and of manners too—<br /> +Of manners sweet as virtue always wears,<br /> +When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles.<br /> +He graced a college in which order yet<br /> +Was sacred, and was honoured, loved, and wept,<br /> +By more than one, themselves conspicuous there.<br /> +Some minds are tempered happily, and mixt<br /> +With such ingredients of good sense and taste<br /> +Of what is excellent in man, they thirst<br /> +With such a zeal to be what they approve,<br /> +That no restraints can circumscribe them more<br /> +Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom’s sake.<br /> +Nor can example hurt them. What they see<br /> +Of vice in others but enhancing more<br /> +The charms of virtue in their just esteem.<br /> +If such escape contagion, and emerge<br /> +Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad,<br /> +And give the world their talents and themselves,<br /> +Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth<br /> +Exposed their inexperience to the snare,<br /> +And left them to an undirected choice.</p> +<p class="poetry"> See, then, the quiver broken +and decayed,<br /> +In which are kept our arrows. Rusting there<br /> +In wild disorder and unfit for use,<br /> +What wonder if discharged into the world<br /> +They shame their shooters with a random flight,<br /> +Their points obtuse and feathers drunk with wine.<br /> +Well may the Church wage unsuccessful war<br /> +With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide<br /> +The undreaded volley with a sword of straw,<br /> +And stands an impudent and fearless mark.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Have we not tracked the felon +home, and found<br /> +His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns—<br /> +Mourns, because every plague that can infest<br /> +Society, that saps and worms the base<br /> +Of the edifice that Policy has raised,<br /> +Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear,<br /> +And suffocates the breath at every turn.<br /> +Profusion breeds them. And the cause itself<br /> +Of that calamitous mischief has been found,<br /> +Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts<br /> +Of the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraigned<br /> +Stand up unconscious and refute the charge.<br /> +So, when the Jewish leader stretched his arm<br /> +And waved his rod divine, a race obscene,<br /> +Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth<br /> +Polluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plains<br /> +Were covered with the pest. The streets were filled;<br /> +The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook,<br /> +Nor palaces nor even chambers ’scaped,<br /> +And the land stank, so numerous was the fry.</p> +<h3>BOOK III.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE GARDEN.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> one who, long in +thickets and in brakes<br /> +Entangled, winds now this way and now that<br /> +His devious course uncertain, seeking home;<br /> +Or, having long in miry ways been foiled<br /> +And sore discomfited, from slough to slough<br /> +Plunging, and half despairing of escape,<br /> +If chance at length he find a greensward smooth<br /> +And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,<br /> +He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,<br /> +And winds his way with pleasure and with ease;<br /> +So I, designing other themes, and called<br /> +To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,<br /> +To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams,<br /> +Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat<br /> +Of academic fame, howe’er deserved,<br /> +Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last.<br /> +But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road<br /> +I mean to tread. I feel myself at large,<br /> +Courageous, and refreshed for future toil,<br /> +If toil await me, or if dangers new.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Since pulpits fail, and +sounding-boards reflect<br /> +Most part an empty ineffectual sound,<br /> +What chance that I, to fame so little known,<br /> +Nor conversant with men or manners much,<br /> +Should speak to purpose, or with better hope<br /> +Crack the satiric thong? ’Twere wiser far<br /> +For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes,<br /> +And charmed with rural beauty, to repose,<br /> +Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine<br /> +My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains;<br /> +Or when rough winter rages, on the soft<br /> +And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air<br /> +Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth;<br /> +There, undisturbed by folly, and apprised<br /> +How great the danger of disturbing her,<br /> +To muse in silence, or at least confine<br /> +Remarks that gall so many to the few,<br /> +My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed<br /> +Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault<br /> +Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Domestic happiness, thou only +bliss<br /> +Of Paradise that has survived the fall!<br /> +Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure,<br /> +Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm<br /> +Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets<br /> +Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect<br /> +Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.<br /> +Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms<br /> +She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,<br /> +Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again.<br /> +Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored,<br /> +That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist<br /> +And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm<br /> +Of Novelty, her fickle frail support;<br /> +For thou art meek and constant, hating change,<br /> +And finding in the calm of truth-tried love<br /> +Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.<br /> +Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made<br /> +Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,<br /> +Till prostitution elbows us aside<br /> +In all our crowded streets, and senates seem<br /> +Convened for purposes of empire less,<br /> +Than to release the adult’ress from her bond.<br /> +The adult’ress! what a theme for angry verse,<br /> +What provocation to the indignant heart<br /> +That feels for injured love! but I disdain<br /> +The nauseous task to paint her as she is,<br /> +Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame.<br /> +No; let her pass, and charioted along<br /> +In guilty splendour shake the public ways;<br /> +The frequency of crimes has washed them white,<br /> +And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch<br /> +Whom matrons now of character unsmirched<br /> +And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own.<br /> +Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time<br /> +Not to be passed; and she that had renounced<br /> +Her sex’s honour, was renounced herself<br /> +By all that prized it; not for prudery’s sake,<br /> +But dignity’s, resentful of the wrong.<br /> +’Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif<br /> +Desirous to return, and not received;<br /> +But was a wholesome rigour in the main,<br /> +And taught the unblemished to preserve with care<br /> +That purity, whose loss was loss of all.<br /> +Men, too, were nice in honour in those days,<br /> +And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped,<br /> +And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained,<br /> +Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold<br /> +His country, or was slack when she required<br /> +His every nerve in action and at stretch,<br /> +Paid with the blood that he had basely spared<br /> +The price of his default. But now,—yes, now,<br /> +We are become so candid and so fair,<br /> +So liberal in construction, and so rich<br /> +In Christian charity (good-natured age!)<br /> +That they are safe, sinners of either sex,<br /> +Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred,<br +/> +Well equipaged, is ticket good enough<br /> +To pass us readily through every door.<br /> +Hypocrisy, detest her as we may<br /> +(And no man’s hatred ever wronged her yet),<br /> +May claim this merit still—that she admits<br /> +The worth of what she mimics with such care,<br /> +And thus gives virtue indirect applause;<br /> +But she has burnt her mask, not needed here,<br /> +Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts<br /> +And specious semblances have lost their use.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I was a stricken deer that +left the herd<br /> +Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt<br /> +My panting side was charged, when I withdrew<br /> +To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.<br /> +There was I found by one who had himself<br /> +Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore,<br /> +And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.<br /> +With gentle force soliciting the darts<br /> +He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live.<br /> +Since then, with few associates, in remote<br /> +And silent woods I wander, far from those<br /> +My former partners of the peopled scene,<br /> +With few associates, and not wishing more.<br /> +Here much I ruminate, as much I may,<br /> +With other views of men and manners now<br /> +Than once, and others of a life to come.<br /> +I see that all are wanderers, gone astray<br /> +Each in his own delusions; they are lost<br /> +In chase of fancied happiness, still woo’d<br /> +And never won. Dream after dream ensues,<br /> +And still they dream that they shall still succeed,<br /> +And still are disappointed: rings the world<br /> +With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,<br /> +And add two-thirds of the remaining half,<br /> +And find the total of their hopes and fears<br /> +Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay<br /> +As if created only, like the fly<br /> +That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon,<br /> +To sport their season and be seen no more.<br /> +The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,<br /> +And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.<br /> +Some write a narrative of wars, and feats<br /> +Of heroes little known, and call the rant<br /> +A history; describe the man, of whom<br /> +His own coevals took but little note,<br /> +And paint his person, character, and views,<br /> +As they had known him from his mother’s womb;<br /> +They disentangle from the puzzled skein,<br /> +In which obscurity has wrapped them up,<br /> +The threads of politic and shrewd design<br /> +That ran through all his purposes, and charge<br /> +His mind with meanings that he never had,<br /> +Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore<br /> +The solid earth, and from the strata there<br /> +Extract a register, by which we learn<br /> +That He who made it and revealed its date<br /> +To Moses, was mistaken in its age.<br /> +Some, more acute and more industrious still,<br /> +Contrive creation; travel nature up<br /> +To the sharp peak of her sublimest height,<br /> +And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt,<br /> +And planetary some; what gave them first<br /> +Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light.<br /> +Great contest follows, and much learned dust<br /> +Involves the combatants, each claiming truth,<br /> +And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend<br /> +The little wick of life’s poor shallow lamp<br /> +In playing tricks with nature, giving laws<br /> +To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.<br /> +Is’t not a pity now, that tickling rheums<br /> +Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight<br /> +Of oracles like these? Great pity, too,<br /> +That having wielded the elements, and built<br /> +A thousand systems, each in his own way,<br /> +They should go out in fume and be forgot?<br /> +Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are they<br /> +But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke—<br /> +Eternity for bubbles proves at last<br /> +A senseless bargain. When I see such games<br /> +Played by the creatures of a Power who swears<br /> +That He will judge the earth, and call the fool<br /> +To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain,<br /> +And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well,<br /> +And prove it in the infallible result<br /> +So hollow and so false—I feel my heart<br /> +Dissolve in pity, and account the learned,<br /> +If this be learning, most of all deceived.<br /> +Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps<br /> +While thoughtful man is plausibly amused.<br /> +Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I,<br /> +From reveries so airy, from the toil<br /> +Of dropping buckets into empty wells,<br /> +And growing old in drawing nothing up!</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Twere well, says one +sage erudite, profound,<br /> +Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,<br /> +And overbuilt with most impending brows,<br /> +’Twere well could you permit the world to live<br /> +As the world pleases. What’s the world to +you?—<br /> +Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk<br /> +As sweet as charity from human breasts.<br /> +I think, articulate, I laugh and weep,<br /> +And exercise all functions of a man.<br /> +How then should I and any man that lives<br /> +Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,<br /> +Take of the crimson stream meandering there,<br /> +And catechise it well. Apply your glass,<br /> +Search it, and prove now if it be not blood<br /> +Congenial with thine own; and if it be,<br /> +What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose<br /> +Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,<br /> +To cut the link of brotherhood, by which<br /> +One common Maker bound me to the kind?<br /> +True; I am no proficient, I confess,<br /> +In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift<br /> +And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,<br /> +And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath;<br /> +I cannot analyse the air, nor catch<br /> +The parallax of yonder luminous point<br /> +That seems half quenched in the immense abyss:<br /> +Such powers I boast not—neither can I rest<br /> +A silent witness of the headlong rage,<br /> +Or heedless folly, by which thousands die,<br /> +Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine.</p> +<p class="poetry"> God never meant that man +should scale the heavens<br /> +By strides of human wisdom. In His works,<br /> +Though wondrous, He commands us in His Word<br /> +To seek Him rather where His mercy shines.<br /> +The mind indeed, enlightened from above,<br /> +Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand cause<br /> +The grand effect; acknowledges with joy<br /> +His manner, and with rapture tastes His style.<br /> +But never yet did philosophic tube,<br /> +That brings the planets home into the eye<br /> +Of observation, and discovers, else<br /> +Not visible, His family of worlds,<br /> +Discover Him that rules them; such a veil<br /> +Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,<br /> +And dark in things divine. Full often too<br /> +Our wayward intellect, the more we learn<br /> +Of nature, overlooks her Author more;<br /> +From instrumental causes proud to draw<br /> +Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake:<br /> +But if His Word once teach us, shoot a ray<br /> +Through all the heart’s dark chambers, and reveal<br /> +Truths undiscerned but by that holy light,<br /> +Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised<br /> +In the pure fountain of eternal love,<br /> +Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees<br /> +As meant to indicate a God to man,<br /> +Gives <i>Him</i> His praise, and forfeits not her own.<br /> +Learning has borne such fruit in other days<br /> +On all her branches. Piety has found<br /> +Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer<br /> +Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews.<br /> +Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage!<br /> +Sagacious reader of the works of God,<br /> +And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine,<br /> +Milton, whose genius had angelic wings,<br /> +And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom<br /> +Our British Themis gloried with just cause,<br /> +Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised,<br /> +And sound integrity not more, than famed<br /> +For sanctity of manners undefiled.</p> +<p class="poetry"> All flesh is grass, and all +its glory fades<br /> +Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind;<br /> +Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream;<br /> +The man we celebrate must find a tomb,<br /> +And we that worship him, ignoble graves.<br /> +Nothing is proof against the general curse<br /> +Of vanity, that seizes all below.<br /> +The only amaranthine flower on earth<br /> +Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth.<br /> +But what is truth? ’twas Pilate’s question put<br /> +To truth itself, that deigned him no reply.<br /> +And wherefore? will not God impart His light<br /> +To them that ask it?—Freely—’tis His joy,<br /> +His glory, and His nature to impart.<br /> +But to the proud, uncandid, insincere,<br /> +Or negligent inquirer, not a spark.<br /> +What’s that which brings contempt upon a book<br /> +And him that writes it, though the style be neat,<br /> +The method clear, and argument exact?<br /> +That makes a minister in holy things<br /> +The joy of many, and the dread of more,<br /> +His name a theme for praise and for reproach?—<br /> +That, while it gives us worth in God’s account,<br /> +Depreciates and undoes us in our own?<br /> +What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,<br /> +That learning is too proud to gather up,<br /> +But which the poor and the despised of all<br /> +Seek and obtain, and often find unsought?<br /> +Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh, friendly to the best +pursuits of man,<br /> +Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace,<br /> +Domestic life in rural leisure passed!<br /> +Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets,<br /> +Though many boast thy favours, and affect<br /> +To understand and choose thee for their own.<br /> +But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss,<br /> +Even as his first progenitor, and quits,<br /> +Though placed in paradise, for earth has still<br /> +Some traces of her youthful beauty left,<br /> +Substantial happiness for transient joy.<br /> +Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse<br /> +The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest,<br /> +By every pleasing image they present,<br /> +Reflections such as meliorate the heart,<br /> +Compose the passions, and exalt the mind;<br /> +Scenes such as these, ’tis his supreme delight<br /> +To fill with riot and defile with blood.<br /> +Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes<br /> +We persecute, annihilate the tribes<br /> +That draw the sportsman over hill and dale<br /> +Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares;<br /> +Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again,<br /> +Nor baited hook deceive the fish’s eye;<br /> +Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and song<br /> +Be quelled in all our summer months’ retreats;<br /> +How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,<br /> +Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,<br /> +Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,<br /> +And crowd the roads, impatient for the town!<br /> +They love the country, and none else, who seek<br /> +For their own sake its silence and its shade;<br /> +Delights which who would leave, that has a heart<br /> +Susceptible of pity, or a mind<br /> +Cultured and capable of sober thought,<br /> +For all the savage din of the swift pack,<br /> +And clamours of the field? Detested sport,<br /> +That owes its pleasures to another’s pain,<br /> +That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks<br /> +Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued<br /> +With eloquence, that agonies inspire,<br /> +Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs!<br /> +Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find<br /> +A corresponding tone in jovial souls.<br /> +Well—one at least is safe. One sheltered hare<br /> +Has never heard the sanguinary yell<br /> +Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.<br /> +Innocent partner of my peaceful home,<br /> +Whom ten long years’ experience of my care<br /> +Has made at last familiar, she has lost<br /> +Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,<br /> +Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.<br /> +Yes—thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand<br /> +That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor<br /> +At evening, and at night retire secure<br /> +To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;<br /> +For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged<br /> +All that is human in me to protect<br /> +Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.<br /> +If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,<br /> +And when I place thee in it, sighing say,<br /> +I knew at least one hare that had a friend.</p> +<p class="poetry"> How various his employments, +whom the world<br /> +Calls idle, and who justly in return<br /> +Esteems that busy world an idler, too!<br /> +Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,<br /> +Delightful industry enjoyed at home,<br /> +And nature in her cultivated trim<br /> +Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad—<br /> +Can he want occupation who has these?<br /> +Will he be idle who has much to enjoy?<br /> +Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,<br /> +Not slothful; happy to deceive the time,<br /> +Not waste it; and aware that human life<br /> +Is but a loan to be repaid with use,<br /> +When He shall call His debtors to account,<br /> +From whom are all our blessings; business finds<br /> +Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve,<br /> +At least neglect not, or leave unemployed,<br /> +The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack<br /> +Too oft, and much impeded in its work<br /> +By causes not to be divulged in vain,<br /> +To its just point—the service of mankind.<br /> +He that attends to his interior self,<br /> +That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind<br /> +That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks<br /> +A social, not a dissipated life,<br /> +Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve<br /> +No unimportant, though a silent task.<br /> +A life all turbulence and noise may seem,<br /> +To him that leads it, wise and to be praised;<br /> +But wisdom is a pearl with most success<br /> +Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.<br /> +He that is ever occupied in storms,<br /> +Or dives not for it or brings up instead,<br /> +Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The morning finds the +self-sequestered man<br /> +Fresh for his task, intend what task he may.<br /> +Whether inclement seasons recommend<br /> +His warm but simple home, where he enjoys,<br /> +With her who shares his pleasures and his heart,<br /> +Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph<br /> +Which neatly she prepares; then to his book<br /> +Well chosen, and not sullenly perused<br /> +In selfish silence, but imparted oft<br /> +As aught occurs that she may smile to hear,<br /> +Or turn to nourishment digested well.<br /> +Or if the garden with its many cares,<br /> +All well repaid, demand him, he attends<br /> +The welcome call, conscious how much the hand<br /> +Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye,<br /> +Oft loitering lazily if not o’erseen,<br /> +Or misapplying his unskilful strength.<br /> +Nor does he govern only or direct,<br /> +But much performs himself; no works indeed<br /> +That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil,<br /> +Servile employ—but such as may amuse,<br /> +Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.<br /> +Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees<br /> +That meet, no barren interval between,<br /> +With pleasure more than even their fruits afford,<br /> +Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.<br /> +These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge,<br /> +No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,<br /> +None but his steel approach them. What is weak,<br /> +Distempered, or has lost prolific powers,<br /> +Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand<br /> +Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft<br /> +And succulent that feeds its giant growth,<br /> +But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs<br /> +Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick<br /> +With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left<br /> +That may disgrace his art, or disappoint<br /> +Large expectation, he disposes neat<br /> +At measured distances, that air and sun<br /> +Admitted freely may afford their aid,<br /> +And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.<br /> +Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence,<br /> +And hence even Winter fills his withered hand<br /> +With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own,<br /> +Fair recompense of labour well bestowed<br /> +And wise precaution, which a clime so rude<br /> +Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child<br /> +Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods<br /> +Discovering much the temper of her sire.<br /> +For oft, as if in her the stream of mild<br /> +Maternal nature had reversed its course,<br /> +She brings her infants forth with many smiles,<br /> +But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.<br /> +He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies<br /> +Her want of care, screening and keeping warm<br /> +The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep<br /> +His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft<br /> +As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,<br /> +The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev’ry beam,<br /> +And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.</p> +<p class="poetry"> To raise the prickly and +green-coated gourd,<br /> +So grateful to the palate, and when rare<br /> +So coveted, else base and disesteemed—<br /> +Food for the vulgar merely—is an art<br /> +That toiling ages have but just matured,<br /> +And at this moment unessayed in song.<br /> +Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since,<br /> +Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard,<br /> +And these the Grecian in ennobling strains;<br /> +And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye<br /> +The solitary Shilling. Pardon then,<br /> +Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame!<br /> +The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers<br /> +Presuming an attempt not less sublime,<br /> +Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste<br /> +Of critic appetite, no sordid fare,<br /> +A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce.</p> +<p class="poetry">The stable yields a stercoraceous heap<br /> +Impregnated with quick fermenting salts,<br /> +And potent to resist the freezing blast.<br /> +For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf<br /> +Deciduous, and when now November dark<br /> +Checks vegetation in the torpid plant<br /> +Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins.<br /> +Warily therefore, and with prudent heed<br /> +He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds<br /> +The agglomerated pile, his frame may front<br /> +The sun’s meridian disk, and at the back<br /> +Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge<br /> +Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread<br /> +Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe<br /> +The ascending damps; then leisurely impose,<br /> +And lightly, shaking it with agile hand<br /> +From the full fork, the saturated straw.<br /> +What longest binds the closest, forms secure<br /> +The shapely side, that as it rises takes<br /> +By just degrees an overhanging breadth,<br /> +Sheltering the base with its projected eaves.<br /> +The uplifted frame compact at every joint,<br /> +And overlaid with clear translucent glass,<br /> +He settles next upon the sloping mount,<br /> +Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure<br /> +From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls.<br /> +He shuts it close, and the first labour ends.<br /> +Thrice must the voluble and restless earth<br /> +Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth<br /> +Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass<br /> +Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold!<br /> +A pestilent and most corrosive steam,<br /> +Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast,<br /> +And fast condensed upon the dewy sash,<br /> +Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged<br /> +And drenched conservatory breathes abroad,<br /> +In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank,<br /> +And purified, rejoices to have lost<br /> +Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage<br /> +The impatient fervour which it first conceives<br /> +Within its reeking bosom, threatening death<br /> +To his young hopes, requires discreet delay.<br /> +Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft<br /> +The way to glory by miscarriage foul,<br /> +Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch<br /> +The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat,<br /> +Friendly to vital motion, may afford<br /> +Soft fermentation, and invite the seed.<br /> +The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth<br /> +And glossy, he commits to pots of size<br /> +Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared<br /> +And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long,<br /> +And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds:<br /> +These on the warm and genial earth that hides<br /> +The smoking manure, and o’erspreads it all,<br /> +He places lightly, and, as time subdues<br /> +The rage of fermentation, plunges deep<br /> +In the soft medium, till they stand immersed.<br /> +Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick<br /> +And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first<br /> +Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon,<br /> +If fanned by balmy and nutritious air<br /> +Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green.<br /> +Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves,<br /> +Cautious he pinches from the second stalk<br /> +A pimple, that portends a future sprout,<br /> +And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed<br /> +The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish,<br /> +Prolific all, and harbingers of more.<br /> +The crowded roots demand enlargement now<br /> +And transplantation in an ampler space.<br /> +Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply<br /> +Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers,<br /> +Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.<br /> +These have their sexes, and when summer shines<br /> +The bee transports the fertilising meal<br /> +From flower to flower, and even the breathing air<br /> +Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use.<br /> +Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art<br /> +Then acts in nature’s office, brings to pass<br /> +The glad espousals and insures the crop.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Grudge not, ye rich (since +luxury must have<br /> +His dainties, and the world’s more numerous half<br /> +Lives by contriving delicates for you),<br /> +Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,<br /> +The vigilance, the labour, and the skill<br /> +That day and night are exercised, and hang<br /> +Upon the ticklish balance of suspense,<br /> +That ye may garnish your profuse regales<br /> +With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns.<br /> +Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart<br /> +The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam,<br /> +Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies<br /> +Minute as dust and numberless, oft work<br /> +Dire disappointment that admits no cure,<br /> +And which no care can obviate. It were long,<br /> +Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts<br /> +Which he, that fights a season so severe,<br /> +Devises, while he guards his tender trust,<br /> +And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise<br /> +Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song<br /> +Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit<br /> +Of too much labour, worthless when produced.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Who loves a garden, loves a +greenhouse too.<br /> +Unconscious of a less propitious clime<br /> +There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,<br /> +While the winds whistle and the snows descend.<br /> +The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf<br /> +Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast<br /> +Of Portugal and Western India there,<br /> +The ruddier orange and the paler lime,<br /> +Peep through their polished foliage at the storm,<br /> +And seem to smile at what they need not fear.<br /> +The amomum there with intermingling flowers<br /> +And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts<br /> +Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau,<br /> +Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long,<br /> +All plants, of every leaf, that can endure<br /> +The winter’s frown if screened from his shrewd bite,<br /> +Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,<br /> +Levantine regions these; the Azores send<br /> +Their jessamine; her jessamine remote<br /> +Caffraria: foreigners from many lands,<br /> +They form one social shade, as if convened<br /> +By magic summons of the Orphean lyre.<br /> +Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass<br /> +But by a master’s hand, disposing well<br /> +The gay diversities of leaf and flower,<br /> +Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms,<br /> +And dress the regular yet various scene.<br /> +Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van<br /> +The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still<br /> +Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.<br /> +So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome,<br /> +A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage;<br /> +And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he,<br /> +The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose<br /> +Some note of Nature’s music from his lips,<br /> +And covetous of Shakespeare’s beauty, seen<br /> +In every flash of his far-beaming eye.<br /> +Nor taste alone and well-contrived display<br /> +Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace<br /> +Of their complete effect. Much yet remains<br /> +Unsung, and many cares are yet behind<br /> +And more laborious; cares on which depends<br /> +Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored.<br /> +The soil must be renewed, which often washed<br /> +Loses its treasure of salubrious salts,<br /> +And disappoints the roots; the slender roots,<br /> +Close interwoven where they meet the vase,<br /> +Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch<br /> +Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf<br /> +Must be detached, and where it strews the floor<br /> +Swept with a woman’s neatness, breeding else<br /> +Contagion, and disseminating death.<br /> +Discharge but these kind offices (and who<br /> +Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?)<br /> +Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased,<br /> +The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf,<br /> +Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad<br /> +Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So manifold, all pleasing in +their kind,<br /> +All healthful, are the employs of rural life,<br /> +Reiterated as the wheel of time<br /> +Runs round, still ending, and beginning still.<br /> +Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll<br /> +That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears<br /> +A flowery island from the dark green lawn<br /> +Emerging, must be deemed a labour due<br /> +To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.<br /> +Here also grateful mixture of well-matched<br /> +And sorted hues (each giving each relief,<br /> +And by contrasted beauty shining more)<br /> +Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,<br /> +May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home,<br /> +But elegance, chief grace the garden shows<br /> +And most attractive, is the fair result<br /> +Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.<br /> +Without it, all is Gothic as the scene<br /> +To which the insipid citizen resorts,<br /> +Near yonder heath; where industry misspent,<br /> +But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task,<br /> +Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons<br /> +Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil,<br /> +And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.<br /> +He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed<br /> +Sightly and in just order, ere he gives<br /> +The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,<br /> +Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene<br /> +Shall break into its preconceived display,<br /> +Each for itself, and all as with one voice<br /> +Conspiring, may attest his bright design.<br /> +Nor even then, dismissing as performed<br /> +His pleasant work, may he suppose it done.<br /> +Few self-supported flowers endure the wind<br /> +Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid<br /> +Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied<br /> +Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age,<br /> +For interest sake, the living to the dead.<br /> +Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused<br /> +And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair;<br /> +Like virtue, thriving most where little seen.<br /> +Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub<br /> +With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,<br /> +Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon<br /> +And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well<br /> +The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.<br /> +All hate the rank society of weeds,<br /> +Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust<br /> +The impoverished earth; an overbearing race,<br /> +That, like the multitude made faction-mad,<br /> +Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh blest seclusion from a +jarring world,<br /> +Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat<br /> +Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore<br /> +Lost innocence, or cancel follies past;<br /> +But it has peace, and much secures the mind<br /> +From all assaults of evil; proving still<br /> +A faithful barrier, not o’erleaped with ease<br /> +By vicious custom raging uncontrolled<br /> +Abroad and desolating public life.<br /> +When fierce temptation, seconded within<br /> +By traitor appetite, and armed with darts<br /> +Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast,<br /> +To combat may be glorious, and success<br /> +Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe.<br /> +Had I the choice of sublunary good,<br /> +What could I wish that I possess not here?<br /> +Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace,<br /> +No loose or wanton though a wandering muse,<br /> +And constant occupation without care.<br /> +Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss;<br /> +Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds<br /> +And profligate abusers of a world<br /> +Created fair so much in vain for them,<br /> +Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,<br /> +Allured by my report; but sure no less<br /> +That self-condemned they must neglect the prize,<br /> +And what they will not taste, must yet approve.<br /> +What we admire we praise; and when we praise<br /> +Advance it into notice, that, its worth<br /> +Acknowledged, others may admire it too.<br /> +I therefore recommend, though at the risk<br /> +Of popular disgust, yet boldly still,<br /> +The cause of piety and sacred truth<br /> +And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained<br /> +Should best secure them and promote them most;<br /> +Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive<br /> +Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed.<br /> +Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles,<br /> +And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol.<br /> +Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called,<br /> +Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth,<br /> +To grace the full pavilion. His design<br /> +Was but to boast his own peculiar good,<br /> +Which all might view with envy, none partake.<br /> +My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets,<br /> +And she that sweetens all my bitters, too,<br /> +Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form<br /> +And lineaments divine I trace a hand<br /> +That errs not, and find raptures still renewed,<br /> +Is free to all men—universal prize.<br /> +Strange that so fair a creature should yet want<br /> +Admirers, and be destined to divide<br /> +With meaner objects even the few she finds.<br /> +Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers,<br /> +She loses all her influence. Cities then<br /> +Attract us, and neglected Nature pines,<br /> +Abandoned, as unworthy of our love.<br /> +But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed<br /> +By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt,<br /> +And groves, if unharmonious yet secure<br /> +From clamour and whose very silence charms,<br /> +To be preferred to smoke—to the eclipse<br /> +That Metropolitan volcanoes make,<br /> +Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long,<br /> +And to the stir of commerce, driving slow,<br /> +And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels?<br /> +They would be, were not madness in the head<br /> +And folly in the heart; were England now<br /> +What England was, plain, hospitable, kind,<br /> +And undebauched. But we have bid farewell<br /> +To all the virtues of those better days,<br /> +And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once<br /> +Knew their own masters, and laborious hands<br /> +That had survived the father, served the son.<br /> +Now the legitimate and rightful lord<br /> +Is but a transient guest, newly arrived<br /> +And soon to be supplanted. He that saw<br /> +His patrimonial timber cast its leaf,<br /> +Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price<br /> +To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again.<br /> +Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile,<br /> +Then advertised, and auctioneered away.<br /> +The country starves, and they that feed the o’er-charged<br +/> +And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues,<br /> +By a just judgment strip and starve themselves.<br /> +The wings that waft our riches out of sight<br /> +Grow on the gamester’s elbows, and the alert<br /> +And nimble motion of those restless joints,<br /> +That never tire, soon fans them all away.<br /> +Improvement too, the idol of the age,<br /> +Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes—<br /> +The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.<br /> +Down falls the venerable pile, the abode<br /> +Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race,<br /> +But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,<br /> +But in a distant spot; where more exposed<br /> +It may enjoy the advantage of the North<br /> +And aguish East, till time shall have transformed<br /> +Those naked acres to a sheltering grove.<br /> +He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,<br /> +Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise,<br /> +And streams, as if created for his use,<br /> +Pursue the track of his directed wand<br /> +Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,<br /> +Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades,<br /> +Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles.<br /> +’Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems,<br /> +Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,<br /> +A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.<br /> +Drained to the last poor item of his wealth,<br /> +He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan<br /> +That he has touched and retouched, many a day<br /> +Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams,<br /> +Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven<br /> +He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy.<br /> +And now perhaps the glorious hour is come,<br /> +When having no stake left, no pledge to endear<br /> +Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause<br /> +A moment’s operation on his love,<br /> +He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal<br /> +To serve his country. Ministerial grace<br /> +Deals him out money from the public chest,<br /> +Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse<br /> +Supplies his need with an usurious loan,<br /> +To be refunded duly, when his vote,<br /> +Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price.<br /> +Oh, innocent compared with arts like these,<br /> +Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball<br /> +Sent through the traveller’s temples! He that +finds<br /> +One drop of heaven’s sweet mercy in his cup,<br /> +Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content,<br /> +So he may wrap himself in honest rags<br /> +At his last gasp; but could not for a world<br /> +Fish up his dirty and dependent bread<br /> +From pools and ditches of the commonwealth,<br /> +Sordid and sickening at his own success.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Ambition, avarice, penury +incurred<br /> +By endless riot, vanity, the lust<br /> +Of pleasure and variety, despatch,<br /> +As duly as the swallows disappear,<br /> +The world of wandering knights and squires to town;<br /> +London engulfs them all. The shark is there,<br /> +And the shark’s prey; the spendthrift, and the leech<br /> +That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he<br /> +That with bare-headed and obsequious bows<br /> +Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail<br /> +And groat per diem if his patron frown.<br /> +The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp<br /> +Were charactered on every statesman’s door,<br /> +‘<span class="smcap">Battered and bankrupt fortunes mended +here</span>.’<br /> +These are the charms that sully and eclipse<br /> +The charms of nature. ’Tis the cruel gripe<br /> +That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts,<br /> +The hope of better things, the chance to win,<br /> +The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused,<br /> +That, at the sound of Winter’s hoary wing,<br /> +Unpeople all our counties of such herds<br /> +Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose<br /> +And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast<br /> +And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh thou resort and mart of +all the earth,<br /> +Chequered with all complexions of mankind,<br /> +And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see<br /> +Much that I love, and more that I admire,<br /> +And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair<br /> +That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh<br /> +And I can weep, can hope, and can despond,<br /> +Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!<br /> +Ten righteous would have saved a city once,<br /> +And thou hast many righteous.—Well for thee—<br /> +That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else,<br /> +And therefore more obnoxious at this hour<br /> +Than Sodom in her day had power to be,<br /> +For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain.</p> +<h3>BOOK IV.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE WINTER EVENING.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hark</span>! ’tis the +twanging horn o’er yonder bridge,<br /> +That with its wearisome but needful length<br /> +Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon<br /> +Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—<br /> +He comes, the herald of a noisy world,<br /> +With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,<br /> +News from all nations lumbering at his back.<br /> +True to his charge the close-packed load behind,<br /> +Yet careless what he brings, his one concern<br /> +Is to conduct it to the destined inn,<br /> +And, having dropped the expected bag—pass on.<br /> +He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,<br /> +Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief<br /> +Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;<br /> +To him indifferent whether grief or joy.<br /> +Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,<br /> +Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet<br /> +With tears that trickled down the writer’s cheeks,<br /> +Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,<br /> +Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,<br /> +Or nymphs responsive, equally affect<br /> +His horse and him, unconscious of them all.<br /> +But oh, the important budget! ushered in<br /> +With such heart-shaking music, who can say<br /> +What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?<br /> +Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,<br /> +Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?<br /> +Is India free? and does she wear her plumed<br /> +And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,<br /> +Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,<br /> +The popular harangue, the tart reply,<br /> +The logic and the wisdom and the wit<br /> +And the loud laugh—I long to know them all;<br /> +I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,<br /> +And give them voice and utterance once again.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Now stir the fire, and close +the shutters fast,<br /> +Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,<br /> +And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn<br /> +Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,<br /> +That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,<br /> +So let us welcome peaceful evening in.<br /> +Not such his evening, who with shining face<br /> +Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed<br /> +And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,<br /> +Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage;<br /> +Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb<br /> +And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath<br /> +Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,<br /> +Or placemen all tranquillity and smiles.<br /> +This folio of four pages, happy work!<br /> +Which not even critics criticise, that holds<br /> +Inquisitive attention while I read<br /> +Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,<br /> +Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break,<br /> +What is it but a map of busy life,<br /> +Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?<br /> +Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge<br /> +That tempts ambition. On the summit, see,<br /> +The seals of office glitter in his eyes;<br /> +He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels,<br /> +Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,<br /> +And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down<br /> +And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.<br /> +Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft<br /> +Meanders, lubricate the course they take;<br /> +The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved<br /> +To engross a moment’s notice, and yet begs,<br /> +Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,<br /> +However trivial all that he conceives.<br /> +Sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise,<br /> +The dearth of information and good sense<br /> +That it foretells us, always comes to pass.<br /> +Cataracts of declamation thunder here,<br /> +There forests of no meaning spread the page<br /> +In which all comprehension wanders lost;<br /> +While fields of pleasantry amuse us there,<br /> +With merry descants on a nation’s woes.<br /> +The rest appears a wilderness of strange<br /> +But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks<br /> +And lilies for the brows of faded age,<br /> +Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,<br /> +Heaven, earth, and ocean plundered of their sweets.<br /> +Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,<br /> +Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs,<br /> +Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,<br /> +And Katterfelto with his hair on end<br /> +At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Tis pleasant through +the loopholes of retreat<br /> +To peep at such a world; to see the stir<br /> +Of the great Babel and not feel the crowd;<br /> +To hear the roar she sends through all her gates<br /> +At a safe distance, where the dying sound<br /> +Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.<br /> +Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease<br /> +The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced<br /> +To some secure and more than mortal height,<br /> +That liberates and exempts me from them all.<br /> +It turns submitted to my view, turns round<br /> +With all its generations; I behold<br /> +The tumult and am still. The sound of war<br /> +Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;<br /> +Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride<br /> +And avarice that makes man a wolf to man;<br /> +Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats<br /> +By which he speaks the language of his heart,<br /> +And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.<br /> +He travels and expatiates, as the bee<br /> +From flower to flower so he from land to land;<br /> +The manners, customs, policy of all<br /> +Pay contribution to the store he gleans,<br /> +He sucks intelligence in every clime,<br /> +And spreads the honey of his deep research<br /> +At his return—a rich repast for me.<br /> +He travels and I too. I tread his deck,<br /> +Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes<br /> +Discover countries, with a kindred heart<br /> +Suffer his woes and share in his escapes;<br /> +While fancy, like the finger of a clock,<br /> +Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh Winter, ruler of the +inverted year,<br /> +Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,<br /> +Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks<br /> +Fringed with a beard made white with other snows<br /> +Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,<br /> +A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne<br /> +A sliding car indebted to no wheels,<br /> +But urged by storms along its slippery way,<br /> +I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem’st,<br /> +And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold’st the sun<br /> +A prisoner in the yet undawning East,<br /> +Shortening his journey between morn and noon,<br /> +And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,<br /> +Down to the rosy west; but kindly still<br /> +Compensating his loss with added hours<br /> +Of social converse and instructive ease,<br /> +And gathering at short notice in one group<br /> +The family dispersed, and fixing thought<br /> +Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.<br /> +I crown thee king of intimate delights,<br /> +Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,<br /> +And all the comforts that the lowly roof<br /> +Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours<br /> +Of long uninterrupted evening know.<br /> +No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;<br /> +No powdered pert proficients in the art<br /> +Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors<br /> +Till the street rings; no stationary steeds<br /> +Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound<br /> +The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:<br /> +But here the needle plies its busy task,<br /> +The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,<br /> +Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,<br /> +Unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs<br /> +And curly tendrils, gracefully disposed,<br /> +Follow the nimble finger of the fair;<br /> +A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow<br /> +With most success when all besides decay.<br /> +The poet’s or historian’s page, by one<br /> +Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;<br /> +The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds<br /> +The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;<br /> +And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,<br /> +And in the charming strife triumphant still,<br /> +Beguile the night, and set a keener edge<br /> +On female industry; the threaded steel<br /> +Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.<br /> +The volume closed, the customary rites<br /> +Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal,<br /> +Such as the mistress of the world once found<br /> +Delicious, when her patriots of high note,<br /> +Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,<br /> +And under an old oak’s domestic shade,<br /> +Enjoyed—spare feast!—a radish and an egg.<br /> +Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,<br /> +Nor such as with a frown forbids the play<br /> +Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth;<br /> +Nor do we madly, like an impious world,<br /> +Who deem religion frenzy, and the God<br /> +That made them an intruder on their joys,<br /> +Start at His awful name, or deem His praise<br /> +A jarring note; themes of a graver tone<br /> +Exciting oft our gratitude and love,<br /> +While we retrace with memory’s pointing wand<br /> +That calls the past to our exact review,<br /> +The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare,<br /> +The disappointed foe, deliverance found<br /> +Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored,<br /> +Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:—<br /> +Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed<br /> +The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,<br /> +More to be prized and coveted than yours,<br /> +As more illumined and with nobler truths,<br /> +That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Is Winter hideous in a garb +like this?<br /> +Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,<br /> +The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng<br /> +To thaw him into feeling, or the smart<br /> +And snappish dialogue that flippant wits<br /> +Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?<br /> +The self-complacent actor, when he views<br /> +(Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)<br /> +The slope of faces from the floor to the roof,<br /> +As if one master-spring controlled them all,<br /> +Relaxed into an universal grin,<br /> +Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy<br /> +Half so refined or so sincere as ours.<br /> +Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks<br /> +That idleness has ever yet contrived<br /> +To fill the void of an unfurnished brain,<br /> +To palliate dulness and give time a shove.<br /> +Time, as he passes us, has a dove’s wing,<br /> +Unsoiled and swift and of a silken sound.<br /> +But the world’s time is time in masquerade.<br /> +Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged<br /> +With motley plumes, and, where the peacock shows<br /> +His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red<br /> +With spots quadrangular of diamond form,<br /> +Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,<br /> +And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.<br /> +What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,<br /> +Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast<br /> +Well does the work of his destructive scythe.<br /> +Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds<br /> +To his true worth, most pleased when idle most,<br /> +Whose only happy are their wasted hours.<br /> +Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore<br /> +The back-string and the bib, assume the dress<br /> +Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school<br /> +Of card-devoted time, and night by night,<br /> +Placed at some vacant corner of the board,<br /> +Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.<br /> +But truce with censure. Roving as I rove,<br /> +Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?<br /> +As he that travels far, oft turns aside<br /> +To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower,<br /> +Which seen delights him not; then coming home,<br /> +Describes and prints it, that the world may know<br /> +How far he went for what was nothing worth;<br /> +So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread<br /> +With colours mixed for a far different use,<br /> +Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing<br /> +That fancy finds in her excursive flights.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Come, Evening, once again, +season of peace,<br /> +Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!<br /> +Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,<br /> +With matron-step slow moving, while the night<br /> +Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed<br /> +In letting fall the curtain of repose<br /> +On bird and beast, the other charged for man<br /> +With sweet oblivion of the cares of day;<br /> +Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,<br /> +Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems,<br /> +A star or two just twinkling on thy brow<br /> +Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine<br /> +No less than hers, not worn indeed on high<br /> +With ostentatious pageantry, but set<br /> +With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,<br /> +Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.<br /> +Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,<br /> +Or make me so. Composure is thy gift;<br /> +And whether I devote thy gentle hours<br /> +To books, to music, or to poet’s toil,<br /> +To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,<br /> +Or twining silken threads round ivory reels<br /> +When they command whom man was born to please,<br /> +I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Just when our drawing-rooms +begin to blaze<br /> +With lights, by clear reflection multiplied<br /> +From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,<br /> +Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk<br /> +Whole without stooping, towering crest and all,<br /> +My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps<br /> +The glowing hearth may satisfy a while<br /> +With faint illumination, that uplifts<br /> +The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits<br /> +Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.<br /> +Not undelightful is an hour to me<br /> +So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom<br /> +Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,<br /> +The mind contemplative, with some new theme<br /> +Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.<br /> +Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers<br /> +That never feel a stupor, know no pause,<br /> +Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess.<br /> +Fearless, a soul that does not always think.<br /> +Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild<br /> +Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,<br /> +Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed<br /> +In the red cinders, while with poring eye<br /> +I gazed, myself creating what I saw.<br /> +Nor less amused have I quiescent watched<br /> +The sooty films that play upon the bars<br /> +Pendulous, and foreboding in the view<br /> +Of superstition, prophesying still,<br /> +Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.<br /> +’Tis thus the understanding takes repose<br /> +In indolent vacuity of thought,<br /> +And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face<br /> +Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask<br /> +Of deep deliberation, as the man<br /> +Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost.<br /> +Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour<br /> +At evening, till at length the freezing blast<br /> +That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home<br /> +The recollected powers, and, snapping short<br /> +The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves<br /> +Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.<br /> +How calm is my recess! and how the frost<br /> +Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear<br /> +The silence and the warmth enjoyed within!<br /> +I saw the woods and fields at close of day<br /> +A variegated show; the meadows green<br /> +Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved<br /> +The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,<br /> +Upturned so lately by the forceful share;<br /> +I saw far off the weedy fallows smile<br /> +With verdure not unprofitable, grazed<br /> +By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each<br /> +His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves<br /> +That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue,<br /> +Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.<br /> +To-morrow brings a change, a total change,<br /> +Which even now, though silently performed<br /> +And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face<br /> +Of universal nature undergoes.<br /> +Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes,<br /> +Descending and with never-ceasing lapse<br /> +Softly alighting upon all below,<br /> +Assimilate all objects. Earth receives<br /> +Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green<br /> +And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast,<br /> +Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.</p> +<p class="poetry"> In such a world, so thorny, +and where none<br /> +Finds happiness unblighted, or if found,<br /> +Without some thistly sorrow at its side,<br /> +It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin<br /> +Against the law of love, to measure lots<br /> +With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus<br /> +We may with patience bear our moderate ills,<br /> +And sympathise with others, suffering more.<br /> +Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks<br /> +In ponderous boots beside his reeking team;<br /> +The wain goes heavily, impeded sore<br /> +By congregating loads adhering close<br /> +To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace,<br /> +Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.<br /> +The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,<br /> +While every breath, by respiration strong<br /> +Forced downward, is consolidated soon<br /> +Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear<br /> +The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,<br /> +With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth<br /> +Presented bare against the storm, plods on;<br /> +One hand secures his hat, save when with both<br /> +He brandishes his pliant length of whip,<br /> +Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.<br /> +Oh happy, and, in my account, denied<br /> +That sensibility of pain with which<br /> +Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou!<br /> +Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed<br /> +The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired;<br /> +The learned finger never need explore<br /> +Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East,<br /> +That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone<br /> +Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.<br /> +Thy days roll on exempt from household care,<br /> +Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts,<br /> +That drag the dull companion to and fro,<br /> +Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.<br /> +Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest,<br /> +Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great,<br /> +With needless hurry whirled from place to place,<br /> +Humane as they would seem, not always show.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Poor, yet industrious, +modest, quiet, neat,<br /> +Such claim compassion in a night like this,<br /> +And have a friend in every feeling heart.<br /> +Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long<br /> +They brave the season, and yet find at eve,<br /> +Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool.<br /> +The frugal housewife trembles when she lights<br /> +Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,<br /> +But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys;<br /> +The few small embers left she nurses well.<br /> +And while her infant race with outspread hands<br /> +And crowded knees sit cowering o’er the sparks,<br /> +Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed.<br /> +The man feels least, as more inured than she<br /> +To winter, and the current in his veins<br /> +More briskly moved by his severer toil;<br /> +Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs.<br /> +The taper soon extinguished, which I saw<br /> +Dangled along at the cold finger’s end<br /> +Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf<br /> +Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce<br /> +Of sav’ry cheese, or butter costlier still,<br /> +Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas,<br /> +Where penury is felt the thought is chained,<br /> +And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.<br /> +With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care<br /> +Ingenious parsimony takes, but just<br /> +Saves the small inventory, bed and stool,<br /> +Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale.<br /> +They live, and live without extorted alms<br /> +From grudging hands, but other boast have none<br /> +To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg,<br /> +Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.<br /> +I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,<br /> +For ye are worthy; choosing rather far<br /> +A dry but independent crust, hard-earned<br /> +And eaten with a sigh, than to endure<br /> +The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs<br /> +Of knaves in office, partial in their work<br /> +Of distribution; liberal of their aid<br /> +To clamorous importunity in rags,<br /> +But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush<br /> +To wear a tattered garb however coarse,<br /> +Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;<br /> +These ask with painful shyness, and, refused<br /> +Because deserving, silently retire.<br /> +But be ye of good courage! Time itself<br /> +Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase,<br /> +And all your numerous progeny, well trained,<br /> +But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,<br /> +And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want<br /> +What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,<br /> +Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.<br /> +I mean the man, who when the distant poor<br /> +Need help, denies them nothing but his name.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But poverty with most, who +whimper forth<br /> +Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe,<br /> +The effect of laziness or sottish waste.<br /> +Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad<br /> +For plunder; much solicitous how best<br /> +He may compensate for a day of sloth,<br /> +By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong,<br /> +Woe to the gardener’s pale, the farmer’s hedge<br /> +Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes<br /> +Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength<br /> +Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame<br /> +To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil—<br /> +An ass’s burden,—and when laden most<br /> +And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away.<br /> +Nor does the boarded hovel better guard<br /> +The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots<br /> +From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave<br /> +Unwrenched the door, however well secured,<br /> +Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps<br /> +In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch<br /> +He gives the princely bird with all his wives<br /> +To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,<br /> +And loudly wondering at the sudden change.<br /> +Nor this to feed his own. ’Twere some excuse<br /> +Did pity of their sufferings warp aside<br /> +His principle, and tempt him into sin<br /> +For their support, so destitute; but they<br /> +Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more<br /> +Exposed than others, with less scruple made<br /> +His victims, robbed of their defenceless all.<br /> +Cruel is all he does. ’Tis quenchless thirst<br /> +Of ruinous ebriety that prompts<br /> +His every action, and imbrutes the man.<br /> +Oh for a law to noose the villain’s neck<br /> +Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood<br /> +He gave them in his children’s veins, and hates<br /> +And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Pass where we may, through +city, or through town,<br /> +Village or hamlet of this merry land,<br /> +Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace<br /> +Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff<br /> +Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes<br /> +That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.<br /> +There sit involved and lost in curling clouds<br /> +Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,<br /> +The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there<br /> +Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil;<br /> +Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,<br /> +And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike,<br /> +All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams<br /> +Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed<br /> +Its wasted tones and harmony unheard;<br /> +Fierce the dispute, whate’er the theme; while she,<br /> +Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,<br /> +Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand<br /> +Her undecisive scales. In this she lays<br /> +A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride,<br /> +And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.<br /> +Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound<br /> +The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised<br /> +As ornamental, musical, polite,<br /> +Like those which modern senators employ,<br /> +Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame.<br /> +Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,<br /> +Once simple, are initiated in arts<br /> +Which some may practise with politer grace,<br /> +But none with readier skill! ’Tis here they learn<br +/> +The road that leads from competence and peace<br /> +To indigence and rapine; till at last<br /> +Society, grown weary of the load,<br /> +Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out.<br /> +But censure profits little. Vain the attempt<br /> +To advertise in verse a public pest,<br /> +That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds<br /> +His hungry acres, stinks and is of use.<br /> +The excise is fattened with the rich result<br /> +Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks,<br /> +For ever dribbling out their base contents,<br /> +Touched by the Midas finger of the state,<br /> +Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away.<br /> +Drink and be mad then; ’tis your country bids!<br /> +Gloriously drunk, obey the important call,<br /> +Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;—<br /> +Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Would I had fallen upon those +happier days<br /> +That poets celebrate; those golden times<br /> +And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings,<br /> +And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.<br /> +Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts<br /> +That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems,<br /> +From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves;<br /> +The footsteps of simplicity, impressed<br /> +Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing),<br /> +Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane<br /> +And manners profligate were rarely found,<br /> +Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed.<br /> +Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams<br /> +Sat for the picture; and the poet’s hand,<br /> +Imparting substance to an empty shade,<br /> +Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.<br /> +Grant it: I still must envy them an age<br /> +That favoured such a dream, in days like these<br /> +Impossible, when virtue is so scarce<br /> +That to suppose a scene where she presides<br /> +Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.<br /> +No. We are polished now. The rural lass,<br /> +Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,<br /> +Her artless manners and her neat attire,<br /> +So dignified, that she was hardly less<br /> +Than the fair shepherdess of old romance,<br /> +Is seen no more. The character is lost.<br /> +Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft<br /> +And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised<br /> +And magnified beyond all human size,<br /> +Indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s hand<br /> +For more than half the tresses it sustains;<br /> +Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form<br /> +Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed<br /> +(But that the basket dangling on her arm<br /> +Interprets her more truly) of a rank<br /> +Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs;<br /> +Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels,<br /> +No longer blushing for her awkward load,<br /> +Her train and her umbrella all her care.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The town has tinged the +country; and the stain<br /> +Appears a spot upon a vestal’s robe,<br /> +The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs<br /> +Down into scenes still rural, but alas,<br /> +Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now.<br /> +Time was when in the pastoral retreat<br /> +The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch<br /> +To invade another’s right, or guard their own.<br /> +Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared<br /> +By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale<br /> +Of midnight murder was a wonder heard<br /> +With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes<br /> +But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,<br /> +And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep,<br /> +See that your polished arms be primed with care,<br /> +And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad,<br /> +And the first larum of the cock’s shrill throat<br /> +May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear<br /> +To horrid sounds of hostile feet within.<br /> +Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk<br /> +Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once<br /> +Of other tenants than melodious birds,<br /> +Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.<br /> +Lamented change! to which full many a cause<br /> +Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.<br /> +The course of human things from good to ill,<br /> +From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.<br /> +Increase of power begets increase of wealth;<br /> +Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;<br /> +Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague<br /> +That seizes first the opulent, descends<br /> +To the next rank contagious, and in time<br /> +Taints downward all the graduated scale<br /> +Of order, from the chariot to the plough.<br /> +The rich, and they that have an arm to check<br /> +The licence of the lowest in degree,<br /> +Desert their office; and themselves, intent<br /> +On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus<br /> +To all the violence of lawless hands<br /> +Resign the scenes their presence might protect.<br /> +Authority itself not seldom sleeps,<br /> +Though resident, and witness of the wrong.<br /> +The plump convivial parson often bears<br /> +The magisterial sword in vain, and lays<br /> +His reverence and his worship both to rest<br /> +On the same cushion of habitual sloth.<br /> +Perhaps timidity restrains his arm,<br /> +When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,<br /> +Himself enslaved by terror of the band,<br /> +The audacious convict whom he dares not bind.<br /> +Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,<br /> +He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove<br /> +Less dainty than becomes his grave outside<br /> +In lucrative concerns. Examine well<br /> +His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean—<br /> +But here and there an ugly smutch appears.<br /> +Foh! ’twas a bribe that left it. He has touched<br /> +Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here<br /> +Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,<br /> +Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But faster far and more than +all the rest<br /> +A noble cause, which none who bears a spark<br /> +Of public virtue ever wished removed,<br /> +Works the deplored and mischievous effect.<br /> +’Tis universal soldiership has stabbed<br /> +The heart of merit in the meaner class.<br /> +Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage<br /> +Of those that bear them, in whatever cause,<br /> +Seem most at variance with all moral good,<br /> +And incompatible with serious thought.<br /> +The clown, the child of nature, without guile,<br /> +Blest with an infant’s ignorance of all<br /> +But his own simple pleasures, now and then<br /> +A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair,<br /> +Is balloted, and trembles at the news.<br /> +Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears<br /> +A Bible-oath to be whate’er they please,<br /> +To do he knows not what. The task performed,<br /> +That instant he becomes the serjeant’s care,<br /> +His pupil, and his torment, and his jest;<br /> +His awkward gait, his introverted toes,<br /> +Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,<br /> +Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees,<br /> +Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff,<br /> +He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,<br /> +Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well.<br /> +He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk,<br /> +He steps right onward, martial in his air,<br /> +His form and movement; is as smart above<br /> +As meal and larded locks can make him: wears<br /> +His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace,<br /> +And, his three years of heroship expired,<br /> +Returns indignant to the slighted plough.<br /> +He hates the field in which no fife or drum<br /> +Attends him, drives his cattle to a march,<br /> +And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.<br /> +’Twere well if his exterior change were all—<br /> +But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost<br /> +His ignorance and harmless manners too.<br /> +To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home<br /> +By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach,<br /> +The great proficiency he made abroad,<br /> +To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends,<br /> +To break some maiden’s and his mother’s heart,<br /> +To be a pest where he was useful once,<br /> +Are his sole aim, and all his glory now!<br /> +Man in society is like a flower<br /> +Blown in its native bed. ’Tis there alone<br /> +His faculties expanded in full bloom<br /> +Shine out, there only reach their proper use.<br /> +But man associated and leagued with man<br /> +By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond<br /> +For interest sake, or swarming into clans<br /> +Beneath one head for purposes of war,<br /> +Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound<br /> +And bundled close to fill some crowded vase,<br /> +Fades rapidly, and by compression marred<br /> +Contracts defilement not to be endured.<br /> +Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues,<br /> +And burghers, men immaculate perhaps<br /> +In all their private functions, once combined,<br /> +Become a loathsome body, only fit<br /> +For dissolution, hurtful to the main.<br /> +Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin<br /> +Against the charities of domestic life,<br /> +Incorporated, seem at once to lose<br /> +Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard<br /> +For mercy and the common rights of man,<br /> +Build factories with blood, conducting trade<br /> +At the sword’s point, and dyeing the white robe<br /> +Of innocent commercial justice red.<br /> +Hence too the field of glory, as the world<br /> +Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,<br /> +With all the majesty of thundering pomp,<br /> +Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,<br /> +Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught<br /> +On principle, where foppery atones<br /> +For folly, gallantry for every vice.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But slighted as it is, and by +the great<br /> +Abandoned, and, which still I more regret,<br /> +Infected with the manners and the modes<br /> +It knew not once, the country wins me still.<br /> +I never framed a wish or formed a plan<br /> +That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,<br /> +But there I laid the scene. There early strayed<br /> +My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice<br /> +Had found me, or the hope of being free.<br /> +My very dreams were rural, rural too<br /> +The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,<br /> +Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells<br /> +Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers.<br /> +No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned<br /> +To Nature’s praises. Heroes and their feats<br /> +Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe<br /> +Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang<br /> +The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.<br /> +Then Milton had indeed a poet’s charms:<br /> +New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed<br /> +The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue<br /> +To speak its excellence; I danced for joy.<br /> +I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age<br /> +As twice seven years, his beauties had then first<br /> +Engaged my wonder, and admiring still,<br /> +And still admiring, with regret supposed<br /> +The joy half lost because not sooner found.<br /> +Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved,<br /> +Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit<br /> +Determined, and possessing it at last<br /> +With transports such as favoured lovers feel,<br /> +I studied, prized, and wished that I had known,<br /> +Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed<br /> +By modern lights from an erroneous taste,<br /> +I cannot but lament thy splendid wit<br /> +Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.<br /> +I still revere thee, courtly though retired,<br /> +Though stretched at ease in Chertsey’s silent bowers,<br /> +Not unemployed, and finding rich amends<br /> +For a lost world in solitude and verse.<br /> +’Tis born with all. The love of Nature’s +works<br /> +Is an ingredient in the compound, man,<br /> +Infused at the creation of the kind.<br /> +And though the Almighty Maker has throughout<br /> +Discriminated each from each, by strokes<br /> +And touches of His hand, with so much art<br /> +Diversified, that two were never found<br /> +Twins at all points—yet this obtains in all,<br /> +That all discern a beauty in His works,<br /> +And all can taste them: minds that have been formed<br /> +And tutored, with a relish more exact,<br /> +But none without some relish, none unmoved.<br /> +It is a flame that dies not even there,<br /> +Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds,<br /> +Nor habits of luxurious city life,<br /> +Whatever else they smother of true worth<br /> +In human bosoms, quench it or abate.<br /> +The villas, with which London stands begirt<br /> +Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads,<br /> +Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,<br /> +The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer<br /> +The citizen, and brace his languid frame!<br /> +Even in the stifling bosom of the town,<br /> +A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms<br /> +That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled<br /> +That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,<br /> +Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well<br /> +He cultivates. These serve him with a hint<br /> +That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green<br /> +Is still the livery she delights to wear,<br /> +Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.<br /> +What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,<br /> +The prouder sashes fronted with a range<br /> +Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,<br /> +The Frenchman’s darling? are they not all proofs<br /> +That man, immured in cities, still retains<br /> +His inborn inextinguishable thirst<br /> +Of rural scenes, compensating his loss<br /> +By supplemental shifts, the best he may?<br /> +The most unfurnished with the means of life,<br /> +And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds<br /> +To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air,<br /> +Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head<br /> +Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick<br /> +And watered duly. There the pitcher stands<br /> +A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;<br /> +Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets<br /> +The country, with what ardour he contrives<br /> +A peep at nature, when he can no more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Hail, therefore, patroness of +health and ease<br /> +And contemplation, heart-consoling joys<br /> +And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode<br /> +Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life!<br /> +Address himself who will to the pursuit<br /> +Of honours, or emolument, or fame,<br /> +I shall not add myself to such a chase,<br /> +Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.<br /> +Some must be great. Great offices will have<br /> +Great talents. And God gives to every man<br /> +The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,<br /> +That lifts him into life, and lets him fall<br /> +Just in the niche he was ordained to fill.<br /> +To the deliverer of an injured land<br /> +He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart<br /> +To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;<br /> +To monarchs dignity, to judges sense;<br /> +To artists ingenuity and skill;<br /> +To me an unambitious mind, content<br /> +In the low vale of life, that early felt<br /> +A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long<br /> +Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.</p> +<h3>BOOK V.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE WINTER MORNING WALK.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Tis</span> morning; +and the sun, with ruddy orb<br /> +Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,<br /> +That crowd away before the driving wind,<br /> +More ardent as the disk emerges more,<br /> +Resemble most some city in a blaze,<br /> +Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray<br /> +Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,<br /> +And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue,<br /> +From every herb and every spiry blade<br /> +Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field,<br /> +Mine, spindling into longitude immense,<br /> +In spite of gravity, and sage remark<br /> +That I myself am but a fleeting shade,<br /> +Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance<br /> +I view the muscular proportioned limb<br /> +Transformed to a lean shank; the shapeless pair,<br /> +As they designed to mock me, at my side<br /> +Take step for step, and, as I near approach<br /> +The cottage, walk along the plastered wall,<br /> +Preposterous sight, the legs without the man.<br /> +The verdure of the plain lies buried deep<br /> +Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents<br /> +And coarser grass upspearing o’er the rest,<br /> +Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine<br /> +Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad,<br /> +And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb.<br /> +The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence<br /> +Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep<br /> +In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait<br /> +Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man,<br /> +Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek,<br /> +And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay.<br /> +He from the stack carves out the accustomed load,<br /> +Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft<br /> +His broad keen knife into the solid mass:<br /> +Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands,<br /> +With such undeviating and even force<br /> +He severs it away: no needless care,<br /> +Lest storms should overset the leaning pile<br /> +Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.<br /> +Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned<br /> +The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe<br /> +And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,<br /> +From morn to eve his solitary task.<br /> +Shaggy and lean and shrewd, with pointed ears<br /> +And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur,<br /> +His dog attends him. Close behind his heel<br /> +Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk,<br /> +Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow<br /> +With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;<br /> +Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy.<br /> +Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl<br /> +Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,<br /> +But now and then, with pressure of his thumb,<br /> +To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube,<br /> +That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud<br /> +Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.<br /> +Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale,<br /> +Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam<br /> +Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side,<br /> +Come trooping at the housewife’s well-known call<br /> +The feathered tribes domestic; half on wing,<br /> +And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,<br /> +Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge.<br /> +The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves<br /> +To seize the fair occasion; well they eye<br /> +The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved<br /> +To escape the impending famine, often scared<br /> +As oft return, a pert, voracious kind.<br /> +Clean riddance quickly made, one only care<br /> +Remains to each, the search of sunny nook,<br /> +Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned<br /> +To sad necessity the cock foregoes<br /> +His wonted strut, and, wading at their head<br /> +With well-considered steps, seems to resent<br /> +His altered gait, and stateliness retrenched.<br /> +How find the myriads, that in summer cheer<br /> +The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,<br /> +Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?<br /> +Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe<br /> +Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs<br /> +Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns<br /> +That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose),<br /> +Afford the smaller minstrel no supply.<br /> +The long-protracted rigour of the year<br /> +Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes<br /> +Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,<br /> +As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die.<br /> +The very rooks and daws forsake the fields,<br /> +Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now<br /> +Repays their labour more; and perched aloft<br /> +By the way-side, or stalking in the path,<br /> +Lean pensioners upon the traveller’s track,<br /> +Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them,<br /> +Of voided pulse, or half-digested grain.<br /> +The streams are lost amid the splendid blank,<br /> +O’erwhelming all distinction. On the flood<br /> +Indurated and fixed the snowy weight<br /> +Lies undissolved, while silently beneath<br /> +And unperceived the current steals away;<br /> +Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps<br /> +The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel,<br /> +And wantons in the pebbly gulf below.<br /> +No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force<br /> +Can but arrest the light and smoky mist<br /> +That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide.<br /> +And see where it has hung the embroidered banks<br /> +With forms so various, that no powers of art,<br /> +The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene!<br /> +Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high<br /> +(Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof<br /> +Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees<br /> +And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops<br /> +That trickle down the branches, fast congealed,<br /> +Shoot into pillars of pellucid length<br /> +And prop the pile they but adorned before.<br /> +Here grotto within grotto safe defies<br /> +The sunbeam. There imbossed and fretted wild,<br /> +The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes<br /> +Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain<br /> +The likeness of some object seen before.<br /> +Thus nature works as if to mock at art,<br /> +And in defiance of her rival powers;<br /> +By these fortuitous and random strokes<br /> +Performing such inimitable feats,<br /> +As she with all her rules can never reach.<br /> +Less worthy of applause though more admired,<br /> +Because a novelty, the work of man,<br /> +Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,<br /> +Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,<br /> +The wonder of the North. No forest fell<br /> +When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores<br /> +To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods,<br /> +And make thy marble of the glassy wave.<br /> +In such a palace Aristaeus found<br /> +Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale<br /> +Of his lost bees to her maternal ear.<br /> +In such a palace poetry might place<br /> +The armoury of winter, where his troops,<br /> +The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet,<br /> +Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail,<br /> +And snow that often blinds the traveller’s course,<br /> +And wraps him in an unexpected tomb.<br /> +Silently as a dream the fabric rose.<br /> +No sound of hammer or of saw was there.<br /> +Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts<br /> +Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked<br /> +Than water interfused to make them one.<br /> +Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues,<br /> +Illumined every side. A watery light<br /> +Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed<br /> +Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen<br /> +From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene.<br /> +So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth<br /> +And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound<br /> +Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within<br /> +That royal residence might well befit,<br /> +For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths<br /> +Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth,<br /> +Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none<br /> +Where all was vitreous, but in order due<br /> +Convivial table and commodious seat<br /> +(What seemed at least commodious seat) were there,<br /> +Sofa and couch and high-built throne august.<br /> +The same lubricity was found in all,<br /> +And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene<br /> +Of evanescent glory, once a stream,<br /> +And soon to slide into a stream again.<br /> +Alas, ’twas but a mortifying stroke<br /> +Of undesigned severity, that glanced<br /> +(Made by a monarch) on her own estate,<br /> +On human grandeur and the courts of kings<br /> +’Twas transient in its nature, as in show<br /> +’Twas durable; as worthless, as it seemed<br /> +Intrinsically precious; to the foot<br /> +Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Great princes have great +playthings. Some have played<br /> +At hewing mountains into men, and some<br /> +At building human wonders mountain high.<br /> +Some have amused the dull sad years of life<br /> +(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad)<br /> +With schemes of monumental fame, and sought<br /> +By pyramids and mausoleum pomp,<br /> +Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones.<br /> +Some seek diversion in the tented field,<br /> +And make the sorrows of mankind their sport.<br /> +But war’s a game which, were their subjects wise,<br /> +Kings should not play at. Nations would do well<br /> +To extort their truncheons from the puny hands<br /> +Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds<br /> +Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil,<br /> +Because men suffer it, their toy the world.</p> +<p class="poetry"> When Babel was confounded, +and the great<br /> +Confederacy of projectors wild and vain<br /> +Was split into diversity of tongues,<br /> +Then, as a shepherd separates his flock,<br /> +These to the upland, to the valley those,<br /> +God drave asunder and assigned their lot<br /> +To all the nations. Ample was the boon<br /> +He gave them, in its distribution fair<br /> +And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace.<br /> +Peace was a while their care. They ploughed and sowed,<br +/> +And reaped their plenty without grudge or strife,<br /> +But violence can never longer sleep<br /> +Than human passions please. In every heart<br /> +Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war,<br /> +Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze.<br /> +Cain had already shed a brother’s blood:<br /> +The Deluge washed it out; but left unquenched<br /> +The seeds of murder in the breast of man.<br /> +Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line<br /> +Of his descending progeny was found<br /> +The first artificer of death; the shrewd<br /> +Contriver who first sweated at the forge,<br /> +And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel<br /> +To a keen edge, and made it bright for war.<br /> +Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times,<br /> +The sword and falchion their inventor claim,<br /> +And the first smith was the first murderer’s son.<br /> +His art survived the waters; and ere long,<br /> +When man was multiplied and spread abroad<br /> +In tribes and clans, and had begun to call<br /> +These meadows and that range of hills his own,<br /> +The tasted sweets of property begat<br /> +Desire of more; and industry in some<br /> +To improve and cultivate their just demesne,<br /> +Made others covet what they saw so fair.<br /> +Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil,<br /> +And those in self-defence. Savage at first<br /> +The onset, and irregular. At length<br /> +One eminent above the rest, for strength,<br /> +For stratagem, or courage, or for all,<br /> +Was chosen leader. Him they served in war,<br /> +And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds<br /> +Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare?<br /> +Or who so worthy to control themselves<br /> +As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes?<br /> +Thus war, affording field for the display<br /> +Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace,<br /> +Which have their exigencies too, and call<br /> +For skill in government, at length made king.<br /> +King was a name too proud for man to wear<br /> +With modesty and meekness, and the crown,<br /> +So dazzling in their eyes who set it on,<br /> +Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound.<br /> +It is the abject property of most,<br /> +That being parcel of the common mass,<br /> +And destitute of means to raise themselves,<br /> +They sink and settle lower than they need.<br /> +They know not what it is to feel within<br /> +A comprehensive faculty, that grasps<br /> +Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields,<br /> +Almost without an effort, plans too vast<br /> +For their conception, which they cannot move.<br /> +Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk<br /> +With gazing, when they see an able man<br /> +Step forth to notice; and besotted thus<br /> +Build him a pedestal and say—Stand there,<br /> +And be our admiration and our praise.<br /> +They roll themselves before him in the dust,<br /> +Then most deserving in their own account<br /> +When most extravagant in his applause,<br /> +As if exalting him they raised themselves.<br /> +Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound<br /> +And sober judgment that he is but man,<br /> +They demi-deify and fume him so<br /> +That in due season he forgets it too.<br /> +Inflated and astrut with self-conceit<br /> +He gulps the windy diet, and ere long,<br /> +Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks<br /> +The world was made in vain if not for him.<br /> +Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born<br /> +To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears,<br /> +And sweating in his service. His caprice<br /> +Becomes the soul that animates them all.<br /> +He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives,<br /> +Spent in the purchase of renown for him<br /> +An easy reckoning, and they think the same.<br /> +Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings<br /> +Were burnished into heroes, and became<br /> +The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp;<br /> +Storks among frogs, that have but croaked and died.<br /> +Strange that such folly, as lifts bloated man<br /> +To eminence fit only for a god,<br /> +Should ever drivel out of human lips,<br /> +Even in the cradled weakness of the world!<br /> +Still stranger much, that when at length mankind<br /> +Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth,<br /> +And could discriminate and argue well<br /> +On subjects more mysterious, they were yet<br /> +Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear<br /> +And quake before the gods themselves had made.<br /> +But above measure strange, that neither proof<br /> +Of sad experience, nor examples set<br /> +By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed,<br /> +Can even now, when they are grown mature<br /> +In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps<br /> +Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest!<br /> +Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone<br /> +To reverence what is ancient, and can plead<br /> +A course of long observance for its use,<br /> +That even servitude, the worst of ills,<br /> +Because delivered down from sire to son,<br /> +Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing.<br /> +But is it fit, or can it bear the shock<br /> +Of rational discussion, that a man,<br /> +Compounded and made up like other men<br /> +Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust<br /> +And folly in as ample measure meet,<br /> +As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules,<br /> +Should be a despot absolute, and boast<br /> +Himself the only freeman of his land?<br /> +Should when he pleases, and on whom he will,<br /> +Wage war, with any or with no pretence<br /> +Of provocation given, or wrong sustained,<br /> +And force the beggarly last doit, by means<br /> +That his own humour dictates, from the clutch<br /> +Of poverty, that thus he may procure<br /> +His thousands, weary of penurious life,<br /> +A splendid opportunity to die?<br /> +Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old<br /> +Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees<br /> +In politic convention) put your trust<br /> +I’ th’ shadow of a bramble, and recline<br /> +In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch,<br /> +Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway,<br /> +Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs<br /> +Your self-denying zeal that holds it good<br /> +To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang<br /> +His thorns with streamers of continual praise?<br /> +We too are friends to loyalty; we love<br /> +The king who loves the law, respects his bounds.<br /> +And reigns content within them; him we serve<br /> +Freely and with delight, who leaves us free;<br /> +But recollecting still that he is man,<br /> +We trust him not too far. King though he be,<br /> +And king in England, too, he may be weak<br /> +And vain enough to be ambitious still,<br /> +May exercise amiss his proper powers,<br /> +Or covet more than freemen choose to grant:<br /> +Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours,<br /> +To administer, to guard, to adorn the state,<br /> +But not to warp or change it. We are his,<br /> +To serve him nobly in the common cause<br /> +True to the death, but not to be his slaves.<br /> +Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love<br /> +Of kings, between your loyalty and ours.<br /> +We love the man; the paltry pageant you:<br /> +We the chief patron of the commonwealth;<br /> +You the regardless author of its woes:<br /> +We, for the sake of liberty, a king;<br /> +You chains and bondage for a tyrant’s sake.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our love is principle, and has its root<br /> +In reason, is judicious, manly, free;<br /> +Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,<br /> +And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.<br /> +Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,<br /> +Sterling, and worthy of a wise man’s wish,<br /> +I would not be a king to be beloved<br /> +Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise,<br /> +Where love is more attachment to the throne,<br /> +Not to the man who fills it as he ought.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Whose freedom is by +sufferance, and at will<br /> +Of a superior, he is never free.<br /> +Who lives, and is not weary of a life<br /> +Exposed to manacles, deserves them well.<br /> +The state that strives for liberty, though foiled<br /> +And forced to abandon what she bravely sought,<br /> +Deserves at least applause for her attempt,<br /> +And pity for her loss. But that’s a cause<br /> +Not often unsuccessful; power usurped<br /> +Is weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong,<br /> +’Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight.<br /> +But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought<br /> +Of freedom, in that hope itself possess<br /> +All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength,<br /> +The scorn of danger, and united hearts,<br /> +The surest presage of the good they seek. <a +name="citation127"></a><a href="#footnote127" +class="citation">[127]</a><br /> + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more<br /> +To France than all her losses and defeats,<br /> +Old or of later date, by sea or land,<br /> +Her house of bondage worse than that of old<br /> +Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastille!<br /> +Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts,<br /> +Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,<br /> +That monarchs have supplied from age to age<br /> +With music such as suits their sovereign ears,<br /> +The sighs and groans of miserable men!<br /> +There’s not an English heart that would not leap<br /> +To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know<br /> +That even our enemies, so oft employed<br /> +In forging chains for us, themselves were free.<br /> +For he that values liberty, confines<br /> +His zeal for her predominance within<br /> +No narrow bounds; her cause engages him<br /> +Wherever pleaded. ’Tis the cause of man.<br /> +There dwell the most forlorn of humankind,<br /> +Immured though unaccused, condemned untried,<br /> +Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape.<br /> +There, like the visionary emblem seen<br /> +By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,<br /> +And filleted about with hoops of brass,<br /> +Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone.<br /> +To count the hour bell and expect no change;<br /> +And ever as the sullen sound is heard,<br /> +Still to reflect that though a joyless note<br /> +To him whose moments all have one dull pace,<br /> +Ten thousand rovers in the world at large<br /> +Account it music; that it summons some<br /> +To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball;<br /> +The wearied hireling finds it a release<br /> +From labour, and the lover, that has chid<br /> +Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke<br /> +Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight;—<br /> +To fly for refuge from distracting thought<br /> +To such amusements as ingenious woe<br /> +Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;—<br /> +To read engraven on the mouldy walls,<br /> +In staggering types, his predecessor’s tale,<br /> +A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;—<br /> +To turn purveyor to an overgorged<br /> +And bloated spider, till the pampered pest<br /> +Is made familiar, watches his approach,<br /> +Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;—<br /> +To wear out time in numbering to and fro<br /> +The studs that thick emboss his iron door,<br /> +Then downward and then upward, then aslant<br /> +And then alternate, with a sickly hope<br /> +By dint of change to give his tasteless task<br /> +Some relish, till the sum, exactly found<br /> +In all directions, he begins again:—<br /> +Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around<br /> +With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel<br /> +And beg for exile, or the pangs of death?<br /> +That man should thus encroach on fellow-man,<br /> +Abridge him of his just and native rights,<br /> +Eradicate him, tear him from his hold<br /> +Upon the endearments of domestic life<br /> +And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,<br /> +And doom him for perhaps a heedless word<br /> +To barrenness and solitude and tears,<br /> +Moves indignation; makes the name of king<br /> +(Of king whom such prerogative can please)<br /> +As dreadful as the Manichean god,<br /> +Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.</p> +<p class="poetry"> ’Tis liberty alone that +gives the flower<br /> +Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,<br /> +And we are weeds without it. All constraint,<br /> +Except what wisdom lays on evil men,<br /> +Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes<br /> +Their progress in the road of science; blinds<br /> +The eyesight of discovery, and begets,<br /> +In those that suffer it, a sordid mind<br /> +Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit<br /> +To be the tenant of man’s noble form.<br /> +Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,<br /> +With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed<br /> +By public exigence, till annual food<br /> +Fails for the craving hunger of the state,<br /> +Thee I account still happy, and the chief<br /> +Among the nations, seeing thou art free,<br /> +My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude,<br /> +Replete with vapours, and disposes much<br /> +All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine;<br /> +Thine unadulterate manners are less soft<br /> +And plausible than social life requires.<br /> +And thou hast need of discipline and art<br /> +To give thee what politer France receives<br /> +From Nature’s bounty—that humane address<br /> +And sweetness, without which no pleasure is<br /> +In converse, either starved by cold reserve,<br /> +Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl;<br /> +Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake<br /> +Of that one feature, can be well content,<br /> +Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,<br /> +To seek no sublunary rest beside.<br /> +But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure<br /> +Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home,<br /> +Where I am free by birthright, not at all.<br /> +Then what were left of roughness in the grain<br /> +Of British natures, wanting its excuse<br /> +That it belongs to freemen, would disgust<br /> +And shock me. I should then with double pain<br /> +Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;<br /> +And, if I must bewail the blessing lost<br /> +For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,<br /> +I would at least bewail it under skies<br /> +Milder, among a people less austere,<br /> +In scenes which, having never known me free,<br /> +Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.<br /> +Do I forebode impossible events,<br /> +And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may,<br /> +But the age of virtuous politics is past,<br /> +And we are deep in that of cold pretence.<br /> +Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere,<br /> +And we too wise to trust them. He that takes<br /> +Deep in his soft credulity the stamp<br /> +Designed by loud declaimers on the part<br /> +Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,<br /> +Incurs derision for his easy faith<br /> +And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough.<br /> +For when was public virtue to be found,<br /> +Where private was not? Can he love the whole<br /> +Who loves no part? he be a nation’s friend<br /> +Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there?<br /> +Can he be strenuous in his country’s cause,<br /> +Who slights the charities for whose dear sake<br /> +That country, if at all, must be beloved?<br /> +—’Tis therefore sober and good men are sad<br /> +For England’s glory, seeing it wax pale<br /> +And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts<br /> +So loose to private duty, that no brain,<br /> +Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes,<br /> +Can dream them trusty to the general weal.<br /> +Such were not they of old whose tempered blades<br /> +Dispersed the shackles of usurped control,<br /> +And hewed them link from link. Then Albion’s sons<br +/> +Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart<br /> +Beat high within them at a mother’s wrongs,<br /> +And shining each in his domestic sphere,<br /> +Shone brighter still once called to public view.<br /> +’Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot<br /> +Forbids their interference, looking on,<br /> +Anticipate perforce some dire event;<br /> +And seeing the old castle of the state,<br /> +That promised once more firmness, so assailed<br /> +That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,<br /> +Stand motionless expectants of its fall.<br /> +All has its date below. The fatal hour<br /> +Was registered in heaven ere time began.<br /> +We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works<br /> +Die too. The deep foundations that we lay,<br /> +Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains.<br /> +We build with what we deem eternal rock;<br /> +A distant age asks where the fabric stood;<br /> +And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain,<br /> +The undiscoverable secret sleeps.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But there is yet a liberty +unsung<br /> +By poets, and by senators unpraised,<br /> +Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power<br /> +Of earth and hell confederate take away;<br /> +A liberty, which persecution, fraud,<br /> +Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind,<br /> +Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more:<br /> +’Tis liberty of heart, derived from heaven,<br /> +Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind,<br /> +And sealed with the same token. It is held<br /> +By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure<br /> +By the unimpeachable and awful oath<br /> +And promise of a God. His other gifts<br /> +All bear the royal stamp that speaks them His,<br /> +And are august, but this transcends them all.<br /> +His other works, this visible display<br /> +Of all-creating energy and might,<br /> +Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the Word<br /> +That, finding an interminable space<br /> +Unoccupied, has filled the void so well,<br /> +And made so sparkling what was dark before.<br /> +But these are not His glory. Man, ’tis true,<br /> +Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene,<br /> +Might well suppose the Artificer Divine<br /> +Meant it eternal, had He not Himself<br /> +Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is,<br /> +And still designing a more glorious far,<br /> +Doomed it, as insufficient for His praise.<br /> +These, therefore, are occasional, and pass;<br /> +Formed for the confutation of the fool<br /> +Whose lying heart disputes against a God;<br /> +That office served, they must be swept away.<br /> +Not so the labours of His love; they shine<br /> +In other heavens than these that we behold,<br /> +And fade not. There is Paradise that fears<br /> +No forfeiture, and of its fruits He sends<br /> +Large prelibation oft to saints below.<br /> +Of these the first in order, and the pledge<br /> +And confident assurance of the rest,<br /> +Is liberty; a flight into His arms<br /> +Ere yet mortality’s fine threads give way,<br /> +A clear escape from tyrannising lust,<br /> +And fill immunity from penal woe.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Chains are the portion of +revolted man,<br /> +Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves<br /> +The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul,<br /> +Opprobrious residence, he finds them all.<br /> +Propense his heart to idols, he is held<br /> +In silly dotage on created things<br /> +Careless of their Creator. And that low<br /> +And sordid gravitation of his powers<br /> +To a vile clod, so draws him with such force<br /> +Resistless from the centre he should seek,<br /> +That he at last forgets it. All his hopes<br /> +Tend downward, his ambition is to sink,<br /> +To reach a depth profounder still, and still<br /> +Profounder, in the fathomless abyss<br /> +Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death.<br /> +But ere he gain the comfortless repose<br /> +He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul,<br /> +In heaven renouncing exile, he endures<br /> +What does he not? from lusts opposed in vain,<br /> +And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees<br /> +The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace,<br /> +Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all<br /> +That can ennoble man, and make frail life,<br /> +Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,<br /> +Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins<br /> +Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes<br /> +Ages of hopeless misery; future death,<br /> +And death still future; not a hasty stroke,<br /> +Like that which sends him to the dusty grave,<br /> +But unrepealable enduring death.<br /> +Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears:<br /> +What none can prove a forgery, may be true;<br /> +What none but bad men wish exploded, must.<br /> +That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud<br /> +Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst<br /> +Of laughter his compunctions are sincere,<br /> +And he abhors the jest by which he shines.<br /> +Remorse begets reform. His master-lust<br /> +Falls first before his resolute rebuke,<br /> +And seems dethroned and vanquished. Peace ensues,<br /> +But spurious and short-lived, the puny child<br /> +Of self-congratulating Pride, begot<br /> +On fancied Innocence. Again he falls,<br /> +And fights again; but finds his best essay,<br /> +A presage ominous, portending still<br /> +Its own dishonour by a worse relapse,<br /> +Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foiled<br /> +So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt,<br /> +Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now<br /> +Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause,<br /> +Perversely, which of late she so condemned;<br /> +With shallow shifts and old devices, worn<br /> +And tattered in the service of debauch,<br /> +Covering his shame from his offended sight.</p> +<p class="poetry"> “Hath God indeed given +appetites to man,<br /> +And stored the earth so plenteously with means<br /> +To gratify the hunger of His wish,<br /> +And doth He reprobate and will He damn<br /> +The use of His own bounty? making first<br /> +So frail a kind, and then enacting laws<br /> +So strict, that less than perfect must despair?<br /> +Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth,<br /> +Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man.<br /> +Do they themselves, who undertake for hire<br /> +The teacher’s office, and dispense at large<br /> +Their weekly dole of edifying strains,<br /> +Attend to their own music? have they faith<br /> +In what, with such solemnity of tone<br /> +And gesture, they propound to our belief?<br /> +Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice<br /> +Is but an instrument on which the priest<br /> +May play what tune he pleases. In the deed,<br /> +The unequivocal authentic deed,<br /> +We find sound argument, we read the heart.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> Such reasonings (if that name +must needs belong<br /> +To excuses in which reason has no part)<br /> +Serve to compose a spirit well inclined<br /> +To live on terms of amity with vice,<br /> +And sin without disturbance. Often urged<br /> +(As often as, libidinous discourse<br /> +Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes<br /> +Of theological and grave import),<br /> +They gain at last his unreserved assent,<br /> +Till, hardened his heart’s temper in the forge<br /> +Of lust and on the anvil of despair,<br /> +He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves,<br /> +Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;<br /> +Vain tampering has but fostered his disease,<br /> +’Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death.<br /> +Haste now, philosopher, and set him free.<br /> +Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear<br /> +Of rectitude and fitness: moral truth<br /> +How lovely, and the moral sense how sure,<br /> +Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps<br /> +Directly to the <span class="GutSmall">FIRST AND ONLY +FAIR</span>.<br /> +Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers<br /> +Of rant and rhapsody in virtue’s praise,<br /> +Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand,<br /> +And with poetic trappings grace thy prose<br /> +Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.—<br /> +Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass<br /> +Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm<br /> +The eclipse that intercepts truth’s heavenly beam,<br /> +And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul.<br /> +The still small voice is wanted. He must speak,<br /> +Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect,<br /> +Who calls for things that are not, and they come.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Grace makes the slave a +freeman. ’Tis a change<br /> +That turns to ridicule the turgid speech<br /> +And stately tone of moralists, who boast,<br /> +As if, like him of fabulous renown,<br /> +They had indeed ability to smooth<br /> +The shag of savage nature, and were each<br /> +An Orpheus and omnipotent in song.<br /> +But transformation of apostate man<br /> +From fool to wise, from earthly to divine,<br /> +Is work for Him that made him. He alone,<br /> +And He, by means in philosophic eyes<br /> +Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves<br /> +The wonder; humanising what is brute<br /> +In the lost kind, extracting from the lips<br /> +Of asps their venom, overpowering strength<br /> +By weakness, and hostility by love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Patriots have toiled, and in +their country’s cause<br /> +Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve,<br /> +Receive proud recompense. We give in charge<br /> +Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse,<br /> +Proud of the treasure, marches with it down<br /> +To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn,<br /> +Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass,<br /> +To guard them, and to immortalise her trust.<br /> +But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,<br /> +To those who, posted at the shrine of truth,<br /> +Have fallen in her defence. A patriot’s blood<br /> +Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed,<br /> +And for a time ensure to his loved land,<br /> +The sweets of liberty and equal laws;<br /> +But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,<br /> +And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed<br /> +In confirmation of the noblest claim,<br /> +Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,<br /> +To walk with God, to be divinely free,<br /> +To soar, and to anticipate the skies!<br /> +Yet few remember them. They lived unknown,<br /> +Till persecution dragged them into fame<br /> +And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew<br /> +—No marble tells us whither. With their names<br /> +No bard embalms and sanctifies his song,<br /> +And history, so warm on meaner themes,<br /> +Is cold on this. She execrates indeed<br /> +The tyranny that doomed them to the fire,<br /> +But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He is the freeman whom the +truth makes free,<br /> +And all are slaves beside. There’s not a chain<br /> +That hellish foes confederate for his harm<br /> +Can wind around him, but he casts it off<br /> +With as much ease as Samson his green withes.<br /> +He looks abroad into the varied field<br /> +Of Nature, and, though poor perhaps compared<br /> +With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,<br /> +Calls the delightful scenery all his own.<br /> +His are the mountains, and the valleys his,<br /> +And the resplendent river’s. His to enjoy<br /> +With a propriety that none can feel,<br /> +But who, with filial confidence inspired,<br /> +Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,<br /> +And smiling say—My Father made them all!<br /> +Are they not his by a peculiar right,<br /> +And by an emphasis of interest his,<br /> +Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy,<br /> +Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind<br /> +With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love<br /> +That planned, and built, and still upholds a world<br /> +So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man?<br /> +Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reap<br /> +The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good<br /> +In senseless riot; but ye will not find<br /> +In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,<br /> +A liberty like his, who, unimpeached<br /> +Of usurpation, and to no man’s wrong,<br /> +Appropriates nature as his Father’s work,<br /> +And has a richer use of yours, than you.<br /> +He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth<br /> +Of no mean city, planned or e’er the hills<br /> +Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea<br /> +With all his roaring multitude of waves.<br /> +His freedom is the same in every state;<br /> +And no condition of this changeful life<br /> +So manifold in cares, whose every day<br /> +Brings its own evil with it, makes it less.<br /> +For he has wings that neither sickness, pain,<br /> +Nor penury, can cripple or confine.<br /> +No nook so narrow but he spreads them there<br /> +With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds<br /> +His body bound, but knows not what a range<br /> +His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain;<br /> +And that to bind him is a vain attempt,<br /> +Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Acquaint thyself with God if +thou wouldst taste<br /> +His works. Admitted once to His embrace,<br /> +Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before;<br /> +Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart,<br /> +Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight<br /> +Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought.<br /> +Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone,<br /> +And eyes intent upon the scanty herb<br /> +It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow,<br /> +Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread<br /> +Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away<br /> +From inland regions to the distant main.<br /> +Man views it and admires, but rests content<br /> +With what he views. The landscape has his praise,<br /> +But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed<br /> +The paradise he sees, he finds it such,<br /> +And such well pleased to find it, asks no more.<br /> +Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven,<br /> +And in the school of sacred wisdom taught<br /> +To read His wonders, in whose thought the world,<br /> +Fair as it is, existed ere it was.<br /> +Nor for its own sake merely, but for His<br /> +Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise;<br /> +Praise that from earth resulting as it ought<br /> +To earth’s acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once<br /> +Its only just proprietor in Him.<br /> +The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed<br /> +New faculties or learns at least to employ<br /> +More worthily the powers she owned before;<br /> +Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze<br /> +Of ignorance, till then she overlooked,<br /> +A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms<br /> +Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute<br /> +The unambiguous footsteps of the God<br /> +Who gives its lustre to an insect’s wing<br /> +And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds.<br /> +Much conversant with heaven, she often holds<br /> +With those fair ministers of light to man<br /> +That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp<br /> +Sweet conference; inquires what strains were they<br /> +With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste<br /> +To gratulate the new-created earth,<br /> +Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God<br /> +Shouted for joy.—“Tell me, ye shining hosts<br /> +That navigate a sea that knows no storms,<br /> +Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud,<br /> +If from your elevation, whence ye view<br /> +Distinctly scenes invisible to man<br /> +And systems of whose birth no tidings yet<br /> +Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race<br /> +Favoured as ours, transgressors from the womb<br /> +And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise<br /> +And to possess a brighter heaven than yours?<br /> +As one who, long detained on foreign shores,<br /> +Pants to return, and when he sees afar<br /> +His country’s weather-bleached and battered rocks,<br /> +From the green wave emerging, darts an eye<br /> +Radiant with joy towards the happy land;<br /> +So I with animated hopes behold,<br /> +And many an aching wish, your beamy fires,<br /> +That show like beacons in the blue abyss,<br /> +Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home<br /> +From toilsome life to never-ending rest.<br /> +Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires<br /> +That give assurance of their own success,<br /> +And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So reads he Nature whom the +lamp of truth<br /> +Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word!<br /> +Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost<br /> +With intellect bemazed in endless doubt,<br /> +But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built,<br /> +With means that were not till by Thee employed,<br /> +Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength<br /> +Been less, or less benevolent than strong.<br /> +They are Thy witnesses, who speak Thy power<br /> +And goodness infinite, but speak in ears<br /> +That hear not, or receive not their report.<br /> +In vain Thy creatures testify of Thee<br /> +Till Thou proclaim Thyself. Theirs is indeed<br /> +A teaching voice; but ’tis the praise of Thine<br /> +That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn,<br /> +And with the boon gives talents for its use.<br /> +Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain<br /> +Possess the heart, and fables, false as hell,<br /> +Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death<br /> +The uninformed and heedless souls of men.<br /> +We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind,<br /> +The glory of Thy work, which yet appears<br /> +Perfect and unimpeachable of blame,<br /> +Challenging human scrutiny, and proved<br /> +Then skilful most when most severely judged.<br /> +But chance is not; or is not where Thou reign’st:<br /> +Thy providence forbids that fickle power<br /> +(If power she be that works but to confound)<br /> +To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws.<br /> +Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can,<br /> +Instruction, and inventing to ourselves<br /> +Gods such as guilt makes welcome—gods that sleep,<br /> +Or disregard our follies, or that sit<br /> +Amused spectators of this bustling stage.<br /> +Thee we reject, unable to abide<br /> +Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure,<br /> +Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause<br /> +For which we shunned and hated Thee before.<br /> +Then we are free: then liberty, like day,<br /> +Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven<br /> +Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.<br /> +A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not<br /> +Till Thou hast touched them; ’tis the voice of song,<br /> +A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works,<br /> +Which he that hears it with a shout repeats,<br /> +And adds his rapture to the general praise.<br /> +In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide<br /> +Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile<br /> +The Author of her beauties, who, retired<br /> +Behind His own creation, works unseen<br /> +By the impure, and hears His power denied.<br /> +Thou art the source and centre of all minds,<br /> +Their only point of rest, eternal Word!<br /> +From Thee departing, they are lost and rove<br /> +At random, without honour, hope, or peace.<br /> +From Thee is all that soothes the life of man,<br /> +His high endeavour, and his glad success,<br /> +His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.<br /> +But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good,<br /> +Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown!<br /> +Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor,<br /> +And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.</p> +<h3>BOOK VI.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is in souls a +sympathy with sounds,<br /> +And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased<br /> +With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;<br /> +Some chord in unison with what we hear<br /> +Is touched within us, and the heart replies.<br /> +How soft the music of those village bells<br /> +Falling at intervals upon the ear<br /> +In cadence sweet, now dying all away,<br /> +Now pealing loud again, and louder still,<br /> +Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on.<br /> +With easy force it opens all the cells<br /> +Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard<br /> +A kindred melody, the scene recurs,<br /> +And with it all its pleasures and its pains.<br /> +Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,<br /> +That in a few short moments I retrace<br /> +(As in a map the voyager his course)<br /> +The windings of my way through many years.<br /> +Short as in retrospect the journey seems,<br /> +It seemed not always short; the rugged path,<br /> +And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,<br /> +Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.<br /> +Yet feeling present evils, while the past<br /> +Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,<br /> +How readily we wish time spent revoked,<br /> +That we might try the ground again, where once<br /> +(Through inexperience as we now perceive)<br /> +We missed that happiness we might have found.<br /> +Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend<br /> +A father, whose authority, in show<br /> +When most severe, and mustering all its force,<br /> +Was but the graver countenance of love;<br /> +Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,<br /> +And utter now and then an awful voice,<br /> +But had a blessing in its darkest frown,<br /> +Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.<br /> +We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand<br /> +That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured<br /> +By every gilded folly, we renounced<br /> +His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent<br /> +That converse which we now in vain regret.<br /> +How gladly would the man recall to life<br /> +The boy’s neglected sire! a mother too,<br /> +That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,<br /> +Might he demand them at the gates of death.<br /> +Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed<br /> +The playful humour; he could now endure<br /> +(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)<br /> +And feel a parent’s presence no restraint.<br /> +But not to understand a treasure’s worth<br /> +Till time has stolen away the slighted good,<br /> +Is cause of half the poverty we feel,<br /> +And makes the world the wilderness it is.<br /> +The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss,<br /> +And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold,<br /> +Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The night was winter in his +roughest mood,<br /> +The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon<br /> +Upon the southern side of the slant hills,<br /> +And where the woods fence off the northern blast,<br /> +The season smiles, resigning all its rage,<br /> +And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue<br /> +Without a cloud, and white without a speck<br /> +The dazzling splendour of the scene below.<br /> +Again the harmony comes o’er the vale,<br /> +And through the trees I view the embattled tower<br /> +Whence all the music. I again perceive<br /> +The soothing influence of the wafted strains,<br /> +And settle in soft musings, as I tread<br /> +The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,<br /> +Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.<br /> +The roof, though movable through all its length,<br /> +As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,<br /> +And, intercepting in their silent fall<br /> +The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.<br /> +No noise is here, or none that hinders thought:<br /> +The redbreast warbles still, but is content<br /> +With slender notes and more than half suppressed.<br /> +Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light<br /> +From spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakes<br /> +From many a twig the pendant drops of ice,<br /> +That tinkle in the withered leaves below.<br /> +Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,<br /> +Charms more than silence. Meditation here<br /> +May think down hours to moments. Here the heart<br /> +May give an useful lesson to the head,<br /> +And learning wiser grow without his books.<br /> +Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,<br /> +Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells<br /> +In heads replete with thoughts of other men;<br /> +Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.<br /> +Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,<br /> +The mere materials with which wisdom builds,<br /> +Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,<br /> +Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.<br /> +Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,<br /> +Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.<br /> +Books are not seldom talismans and spells<br /> +By which the magic art of shrewder wits<br /> +Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled.<br /> +Some to the fascination of a name<br /> +Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style<br /> +Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds<br /> +Of error, leads them by a tune entranced.<br /> +While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear<br /> +The insupportable fatigue of thought,<br /> +And swallowing therefore without pause or choice<br /> +The total grist unsifted, husks and all.<br /> +But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course<br /> +Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,<br /> +And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,<br /> +And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time<br /> +Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,<br /> +Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,<br /> +Not shy as in the world, and to be won<br /> +By slow solicitation, seize at once<br /> +The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.</p> +<p class="poetry"> What prodigies can power +divine perform<br /> +More grand than it produces year by year,<br /> +And all in sight of inattentive man?<br /> +Familiar with the effect we slight the cause,<br /> +And in the constancy of Nature’s course,<br /> +The regular return of genial months,<br /> +And renovation of a faded world,<br /> +See nought to wonder at. Should God again,<br /> +As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race<br /> +Of the undeviating and punctual sun,<br /> +How would the world admire! but speaks it less<br /> +An agency divine, to make him know<br /> +His moment when to sink and when to rise<br /> +Age after age, than to arrest his course?<br /> +All we behold is miracle: but, seen<br /> +So duly, all is miracle in vain.<br /> +Where now the vital energy that moved,<br /> +While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph<br /> +Through the imperceptible meandering veins<br /> +Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch<br /> +Of unprolific winter has impressed<br /> +A cold stagnation on the intestine tide.<br /> +But let the months go round, a few short months,<br /> +And all shall be restored. These naked shoots,<br /> +Barren as lances, among which the wind<br /> +Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,<br /> +Shall put their graceful foliage on again,<br /> +And more aspiring and with ampler spread<br /> +Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.<br /> +Then, each in its peculiar honours clad,<br /> +Shall publish even to the distant eye<br /> +Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich<br /> +In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure;<br /> +The scented and the scentless rose; this red<br /> +And of a humbler growth, the other tall,<br /> +And throwing up into the darkest gloom<br /> +Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew,<br /> +Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf<br /> +That the wind severs from the broken wave;<br /> +The lilac various in array, now white,<br /> +Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set<br /> +With purple spikes pyramidal, as if<br /> +Studious of ornament, yet unresolved<br /> +Which hue she most approved, she chose them all;<br /> +Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan,<br /> +But well compensating their sickly looks<br /> +With never-cloying odours, early and late;<br /> +Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm<br /> +Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods,<br /> +That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too,<br /> +Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset<br /> +With blushing wreaths investing every spray;<br /> +Althæa with the purple eye; the broom,<br /> +Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed<br /> +Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all<br /> +The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,<br /> +The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf<br /> +Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more<br /> +The bright profusion of her scattered stars.—<br /> +These have been, and these shall be in their day,<br /> +And all this uniform uncoloured scene<br /> +Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,<br /> +And flush into variety again.<br /> +From dearth to plenty, and from death to life,<br /> +Is Nature’s progress when she lectures man<br /> +In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes<br /> +The grand transition, that there lives and works<br /> +A soul in all things, and that soul is God.<br /> +The beauties of the wilderness are His,<br /> +That make so gay the solitary place<br /> +Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms<br /> +That cultivation glories in, are His.<br /> +He sets the bright procession on its way,<br /> +And marshals all the order of the year.<br /> +He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass,<br /> +And blunts his pointed fury. In its case,<br /> +Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ<br /> +Uninjured, with inimitable art,<br /> +And, ere one flowery season fades and dies,<br /> +Designs the blooming wonders of the next.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Some say that in the origin +of things,<br /> +When all creation started into birth,<br /> +The infant elements received a law<br /> +From which they swerve not since; that under force<br /> +Of that controlling ordinance they move,<br /> +And need not His immediate hand, who first<br /> +Prescribed their course, to regulate it now.<br /> +Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God<br /> +The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare<br /> +The great Artificer of all that moves<br /> +The stress of a continual act, the pain<br /> +Of unremitted vigilance and care,<br /> +As too laborious and severe a task.<br /> +So man the moth is not afraid, it seems,<br /> +To span Omnipotence, and measure might<br /> +That knows no measure, by the scanty rule<br /> +And standard of his own, that is to-day,<br /> +And is not ere to-morrow’s sun go down.<br /> +But how should matter occupy a charge<br /> +Dull as it is, and satisfy a law<br /> +So vast in its demands, unless impelled<br /> +To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force,<br /> +And under pressure of some conscious cause?<br /> +The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused<br /> +Sustains and is the life of all that lives.<br /> +Nature is but a name for an effect<br /> +Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire<br /> +By which the mighty process is maintained,<br /> +Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight<br /> +Slow-circling ages are as transient days;<br /> +Whose work is without labour, whose designs<br /> +No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts,<br /> +And whose beneficence no charge exhausts.<br /> +Him blind antiquity profaned, not served,<br /> +With self-taught rites and under various names<br /> +Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan,<br /> +And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth<br /> +With tutelary goddesses and gods<br /> +That were not, and commending as they would<br /> +To each some province, garden, field, or grove.<br /> +But all are under One. One spirit—His<br /> +Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows—<br /> +Rules universal nature. Not a flower<br /> +But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain,<br /> +Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires<br /> +Their balmy odours and imparts their hues,<br /> +And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes,<br /> +In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,<br /> +The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth.<br /> +Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds<br /> +Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,<br /> +Or what he views of beautiful or grand<br /> +In nature, from the broad majestic oak<br /> +To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,<br /> +Prompts with remembrance of a present God.<br /> +His presence, who made all so fair, perceived,<br /> +Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene<br /> +Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please.<br /> +Though winter had been none had man been true,<br /> +And earth be punished for its tenant’s sake,<br /> +Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky,<br /> +So soon succeeding such an angry night,<br /> +And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream,<br /> +Recovering fast its liquid music, prove.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Who then, that has a mind +well strung and tuned<br /> +To contemplation, and within his reach<br /> +A scene so friendly to his favourite task,<br /> +Would waste attention at the chequered board,<br /> +His host of wooden warriors to and fro<br /> +Marching and counter-marching, with an eye<br /> +As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged<br /> +And furrowed into storms, and with a hand<br /> +Trembling, as if eternity were hung<br /> +In balance on his conduct of a pin?<br /> +Nor envies he aught more their idle sport,<br /> +Who pant with application misapplied<br /> +To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls<br /> +Across the velvet level, feel a joy<br /> +Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds<br /> +Its destined goal of difficult access.<br /> +Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon<br /> +To Miss, the Mercer’s plague, from shop to shop<br /> +Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks<br /> +The polished counter, and approving none,<br /> +Or promising with smiles to call again.<br /> +Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced,<br /> +And soothed into a dream that he discerns<br /> +The difference of a Guido from a daub,<br /> +Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there<br /> +As duly as the Langford of the show,<br /> +With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand,<br /> +And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant<br /> +And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease,<br /> +Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls<br /> +He notes it in his book, then raps his box,<br /> +Swears ’tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate<br /> +That he has let it pass—but never bids.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Here unmolested, through +whatever sign<br /> +The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist,<br /> +Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me,<br /> +Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy.<br /> +Even in the spring and play-time of the year<br /> +That calls the unwonted villager abroad<br /> +With all her little ones, a sportive train,<br /> +To gather king-cups in the yellow mead,<br /> +And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick<br /> +A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook,<br /> +These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,<br /> +Grown so familiar with her frequent guest,<br /> +Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed<br /> +Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends<br /> +His long love-ditty for my near approach.<br /> +Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm<br /> +That age or injury has hollowed deep,<br /> +Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves<br /> +He has outslept the winter, ventures forth<br /> +To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,<br /> +The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play.<br /> +He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,<br /> +Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush,<br /> +And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,<br /> +With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,<br /> +And anger insignificantly fierce.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The heart is hard in nature, +and unfit<br /> +For human fellowship, as being void<br /> +Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike<br /> +To love and friendship both, that is not pleased<br /> +With sight of animals enjoying life,<br /> +Nor feels their happiness augment his own.<br /> +The bounding fawn that darts across the glade<br /> +When none pursues, through mere delight of heart,<br /> +And spirits buoyant with excess of glee;<br /> +The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet,<br /> +That skims the spacious meadow at full speed,<br /> +Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels<br /> +Starts to the voluntary race again;<br /> +The very kine that gambol at high noon,<br /> +The total herd receiving first from one,<br /> +That leads the dance, a summons to be gay,<br /> +Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth<br /> +Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent<br /> +To give such act and utterance as they may<br /> +To ecstasy too big to be suppressed—<br /> +These, and a thousand images of bliss,<br /> +With which kind nature graces every scene<br /> +Where cruel man defeats not her design,<br /> +Impart to the benevolent, who wish<br /> +All that are capable of pleasure pleased,<br /> +A far superior happiness to theirs,<br /> +The comfort of a reasonable joy.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Man scarce had risen, +obedient to His call<br /> +Who formed him from the dust, his future grave,<br /> +When he was crowned as never king was since.<br /> +God set His diadem upon his head,<br /> +And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood<br /> +The new-made monarch, while before him passed,<br /> +All happy and all perfect in their kind,<br /> +The creatures, summoned from their various haunts<br /> +To see their sovereign, and confess his sway.<br /> +Vast was his empire, absolute his power,<br /> +Or bounded only by a law whose force<br /> +’Twas his sublimest privilege to feel<br /> +And own, the law of universal love.<br /> +He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy.<br /> +No cruel purpose lurked within his heart,<br /> +And no distrust of his intent in theirs.<br /> +So Eden was a scene of harmless sport,<br /> +Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole<br /> +Begat a tranquil confidence in all,<br /> +And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear.<br /> +But sin marred all; and the revolt of man,<br /> +That source of evils not exhausted yet,<br /> +Was punished with revolt of his from him.<br /> +Garden of God, how terrible the change<br /> +Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart,<br /> +Each animal of every name, conceived<br /> +A jealousy and an instinctive fear,<br /> +And, conscious of some danger, either fled<br /> +Precipitate the loathed abode of man,<br /> +Or growled defiance in such angry sort,<br /> +As taught him too to tremble in his turn.<br /> +Thus harmony and family accord<br /> +Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour<br /> +The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled<br /> +To such gigantic and enormous growth,<br /> +Were sown in human nature’s fruitful soil.<br /> +Hence date the persecution and the pain<br /> +That man inflicts on all inferior kinds,<br /> +Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport,<br /> +To gratify the frenzy of his wrath,<br /> +Or his base gluttony, are causes good<br /> +And just in his account, why bird and beast<br /> +Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed<br /> +With blood of their inhabitants impaled.<br /> +Earth groans beneath the burden of a war<br /> +Waged with defenceless innocence, while he,<br /> +Not satisfied to prey on all around,<br /> +Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs<br /> +Needless, and first torments ere he devours.<br /> +Now happiest they that occupy the scenes<br /> +The most remote from his abhorred resort,<br /> +Whom once as delegate of God on earth<br /> +They feared, and as His perfect image loved.<br /> +The wilderness is theirs with all its caves,<br /> +Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains<br /> +Unvisited by man. There they are free,<br /> +And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled,<br /> +Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play.<br /> +Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude<br /> +Within the confines of their wild domain;<br /> +The lion tells him, “I am monarch here;”<br /> +And if he spares him, spares him on the terms<br /> +Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn<br /> +To rend a victim trembling at his foot.<br /> +In measure, as by force of instinct drawn,<br /> +Or by necessity constrained, they live<br /> +Dependent upon man, those in his fields,<br /> +These at his crib, and some beneath his roof;<br /> +They prove too often at how dear a rate<br /> +He sells protection. Witness, at his foot<br /> +The spaniel dying for some venial fault,<br /> +Under dissection of the knotted scourge;<br /> +Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells<br /> +Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs<br /> +To madness, while the savage at his heels<br /> +Laughs at the frantic sufferer’s fury spent<br /> +Upon the guiltless passenger o’erthrown.<br /> +He too is witness, noblest of the train<br /> +That wait on man, the flight-performing horse:<br /> +With unsuspecting readiness he takes<br /> +His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day,<br /> +With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life,<br /> +To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies.<br /> +So little mercy shows who needs so much!<br /> +Does law, so jealous in the cause of man,<br /> +Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None.<br /> +He lives, and o’er his brimming beaker boasts<br /> +(As if barbarity were high desert)<br /> +The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise<br /> +Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose<br /> +The honours of his matchless horse his own.<br /> +But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth,<br /> +Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt,<br /> +Have each their record, with a curse annexed.<br /> +Man may dismiss compassion from his heart,<br /> +But God will never. When He charged the Jew<br /> +To assist his foe’s down-fallen beast to rise,<br /> +And when the bush-exploring boy that seized<br /> +The young, to let the parent bird go free,<br /> +Proved He not plainly that His meaner works<br /> +Are yet His care, and have an interest all,<br /> +All, in the universal Father’s love?<br /> +On Noah, and in him on all mankind,<br /> +The charter was conferred by which we hold<br /> +The flesh of animals in fee, and claim,<br /> +O’er all we feed on, power of life and death.<br /> +But read the instrument, and mark it well;<br /> +The oppression of a tyrannous control<br /> +Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield<br /> +Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin,<br /> +Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The Governor of all, Himself +to all<br /> +So bountiful, in whose attentive ear<br /> +The unfledged raven and the lion’s whelp<br /> +Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs<br /> +Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed,<br /> +Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite<br /> +The injurious trampler upon nature’s law,<br /> +That claims forbearance even for a brute.<br /> +He hates the hardness of a Balaam’s heart,<br /> +And, prophet as he was, he might not strike<br /> +The blameless animal, without rebuke,<br /> +On which he rode. Her opportune offence<br /> +Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died.<br /> +He sees that human equity is slack<br /> +To interfere, though in so just a cause,<br /> +And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb<br /> +And helpless victims with a sense so keen<br /> +Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength,<br /> +And such sagacity to take revenge,<br /> +That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man.<br /> +An ancient, not a legendary tale,<br /> +By one of sound intelligence rehearsed,<br /> +(If such, who plead for Providence may seem<br /> +In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Where England, stretched +towards the setting sun,<br /> +Narrow and long, o’erlooks the western wave,<br /> +Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he<br /> +Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent,<br /> +Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce.<br /> +He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went,<br /> +To join a traveller of far different note—<br /> +Evander, famed for piety, for years<br /> +Deserving honour, but for wisdom more.<br /> +Fame had not left the venerable man<br /> +A stranger to the manners of the youth,<br /> +Whose face, too, was familiar to his view.<br /> +Their way was on the margin of the land,<br /> +O’er the green summit of the rocks whose base<br /> +Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high.<br /> +The charity that warmed his heart was moved<br /> +At sight of the man-monster. With a smile<br /> +Gentle and affable, and full of grace,<br /> +As fearful of offending whom he wished<br /> +Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths<br /> +Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed,<br /> +But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet.<br /> +“And dost thou dream,” the impenetrable man<br /> +Exclaimed, “that me the lullabies of age,<br /> +And fantasies of dotards such as thou,<br /> +Can cheat, or move a moment’s fear in me?<br /> +Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave<br /> +Need no such aids as superstition lends<br /> +To steel their hearts against the dread of death.”<br /> +He spoke, and to the precipice at hand<br /> +Pushed with a madman’s fury. Fancy shrinks,<br /> +And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought<br /> +Of such a gulf as he designed his grave.<br /> +But though the felon on his back could dare<br /> +The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed<br /> +Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round,<br /> +Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge,<br /> +Baffled his rider, saved against his will.<br /> +The frenzy of the brain may be redressed<br /> +By medicine well applied, but without grace<br /> +The heart’s insanity admits no cure.<br /> +Enraged the more by what might have reformed<br /> +His horrible intent, again he sought<br /> +Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed,<br /> +With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood.<br /> +But still in vain. The Providence that meant<br /> +A longer date to the far nobler beast,<br /> +Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake.<br /> +And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere,<br /> +Incurable obduracy evinced,<br /> +His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned<br /> +So cheaply the renown of that attempt,<br /> +With looks of some complacence he resumed<br /> +His road, deriding much the blank amaze<br /> +Of good Evander, still where he was left<br /> +Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread.<br /> +So on they fared; discourse on other themes<br /> +Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past,<br /> +And tamer far for so much fury shown<br /> +(As is the course of rash and fiery men)<br /> +The rude companion smiled as if transformed.<br /> +But ’twas a transient calm. A storm was near,<br /> +An unsuspected storm. His hour was come.<br /> +The impious challenger of power divine<br /> +Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath,<br /> +Is never with impunity defied.<br /> +His horse, as he had caught his master’s mood,<br /> +Snorting, and starting into sudden rage,<br /> +Unbidden, and not now to be controlled,<br /> +Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood.<br /> +At once the shock unseated him; he flew<br /> +Sheer o’er the craggy barrier, and, immersed<br /> +Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,<br /> +The death he had deserved, and died alone.<br /> +So God wrought double justice; made the fool<br /> +The victim of his own tremendous choice,<br /> +And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.</p> +<p class="poetry"> I would not enter on my list +of friends<br /> +(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,<br /> +Yet wanting sensibility) the man<br /> +Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.<br /> +An inadvertent step may crush the snail<br /> +That crawls at evening in the public path;<br /> +But he that has humanity, forewarned,<br /> +Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.<br /> +The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,<br /> +And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes<br /> +A visitor unwelcome into scenes<br /> +Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,<br /> +The chamber, or refectory, may die.<br /> +A necessary act incurs no blame.<br /> +Not so when, held within their proper bounds<br /> +And guiltless of offence, they range the air,<br /> +Or take their pastime in the spacious field.<br /> +There they are privileged; and he that hunts<br /> +Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,<br /> +Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm,<br /> +Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.<br /> +The sum is this: if man’s convenience, health,<br /> +Or safety interfere, his rights and claims<br /> +Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.<br /> +Else they are all—the meanest things that are—<br /> +As free to live and to enjoy that life,<br /> +As God was free to form them at the first,<br /> +Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all.<br /> +Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons<br /> +To love it too. The spring-time of our years<br /> +Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most<br /> +By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand<br /> +To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,<br /> +If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth,<br /> +Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.<br /> +Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule<br /> +And righteous limitation of its act,<br /> +By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;<br /> +And he that shows none, being ripe in years,<br /> +And conscious of the outrage he commits,<br /> +Shall seek it and not find it in his turn.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Distinguished much by reason, +and still more<br /> +By our capacity of grace divine,<br /> +From creatures that exist but for our sake,<br /> +Which having served us, perish, we are held<br /> +Accountable, and God, some future day,<br /> +Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse<br /> +Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust.<br /> +Superior as we are, they yet depend<br /> +Not more on human help, than we on theirs.<br /> +Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given<br /> +In aid of our defects. In some are found<br /> +Such teachable and apprehensive parts,<br /> +That man’s attainments in his own concerns,<br /> +Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,<br /> +Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind.<br /> +Some show that nice sagacity of smell,<br /> +And read with such discernment, in the port<br /> +And figure of the man, his secret aim,<br /> +That oft we owe our safety to a skill<br /> +We could not teach, and must despair to learn.<br /> +But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop<br /> +To quadruped instructors, many a good<br /> +And useful quality, and virtue too,<br /> +Rarely exemplified among ourselves;<br /> +Attachment never to be weaned, or changed<br /> +By any change of fortune, proof alike<br /> +Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;<br /> +Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat<br /> +Can move or warp; and gratitude for small<br /> +And trivial favours, lasting as the life,<br /> +And glistening even in the dying eye.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Man praises man. Desert +in arts or arms<br /> +Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit<br /> +Patiently present at a sacred song,<br /> +Commemoration-mad; content to hear<br /> +(Oh wonderful effect of music’s power!)<br /> +Messiah’s eulogy, for Handel’s sake.<br /> +But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve—<br /> +(For was it less? What heathen would have dared<br /> +To strip Jove’s statue of his oaken wreath<br /> +And hang it up in honour of a man?)<br /> +Much less might serve, when all that we design<br /> +Is but to gratify an itching ear,<br /> +And give the day to a musician’s praise.<br /> +Remember Handel! who, that was not born<br /> +Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,<br /> +Or can, the more than Homer of his age?<br /> +Yes—we remember him; and, while we praise<br /> +A talent so divine, remember too<br /> +That His most holy Book from whom it came<br /> +Was never meant, was never used before<br /> +To buckram out the memory of a man.<br /> +But hush!—the muse perhaps is too severe,<br /> +And with a gravity beyond the size<br /> +And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed<br /> +Less impious than absurd, and owing more<br /> +To want of judgment than to wrong design.<br /> +So in the chapel of old Ely House,<br /> +When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,<br /> +Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,<br /> +The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,<br /> +And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,<br /> +Sung to the praise and glory of King George.<br /> +—Man praises man; and Garrick’s memory next,<br /> +When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made<br /> +The idol of our worship while he lived<br /> +The god of our idolatry once more,<br /> +Shall have its altar; and the world shall go<br /> +In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.<br /> +The theatre, too small, shall suffocate<br /> +Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits<br /> +Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return<br /> +Ungratified. For there some noble lord<br /> +Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard’s bunch,<br /> +Or wrap himself in Hamlet’s inky cloak,<br /> +And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,<br /> +To show the world how Garrick did not act,<br /> +For Garrick was a worshipper himself;<br /> +He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites<br /> +And solemn ceremonial of the day,<br /> +And called the world to worship on the banks<br /> +Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof<br /> +That piety has still in human hearts<br /> +Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.<br /> +The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths,<br /> +The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance,<br /> +The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs,<br /> +And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree<br /> +Supplied such relics as devotion holds<br /> +Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.<br /> +So ’twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned,<br /> +And mirth without offence. No few returned<br /> +Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed.<br /> +—Man praises man. The rabble all alive,<br /> +From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,<br /> +Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,<br /> +A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes;<br /> +Some shout him, and some hang upon his car<br /> +To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave<br /> +Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy<br /> +While others not so satisfied unhorse<br /> +The gilded equipage, and, turning loose<br /> +His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.<br /> +Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state?<br /> +No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.<br /> +Enchanting novelty, that moon at full<br /> +That finds out every crevice of the head<br /> +That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs<br /> +Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,<br /> +And his own cattle must suffice him soon.<br /> +Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,<br /> +And dedicate a tribute, in its use<br /> +And just direction sacred, to a thing<br /> +Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there.<br /> +Encomium in old time was poet’s work;<br /> +But, poets having lavishly long since<br /> +Exhausted all materials of the art,<br /> +The task now falls into the public hand;<br /> +And I, contented with a humble theme,<br /> +Have poured my stream of panegyric down<br /> +The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds<br /> +Among her lovely works, with a secure<br /> +And unambitious course, reflecting clear<br /> +If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes.<br /> +And I am recompensed, and deem the toil<br /> +Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine<br /> +May stand between an animal and woe,<br /> +And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.</p> +<p class="poetry"> The groans of Nature in this +nether world,<br /> +Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end.<br /> +Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,<br /> +Whose fire was kindled at the prophets’ lamp,<br /> +The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes.<br /> +Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh<br /> +Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course<br /> +Over a sinful world; and what remains<br /> +Of this tempestuous state of human things,<br /> +Is merely as the working of a sea<br /> +Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest.<br /> +For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds<br /> +The dust that waits upon His sultry march,<br /> +When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot,<br /> +Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend<br /> +Propitious, in His chariot paved with love,<br /> +And what His storms have blasted and defaced<br /> +For man’s revolt, shall with a smile repair.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Sweet is the harp of +prophecy; too sweet<br /> +Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch;<br /> +Nor can the wonders it records be sung<br /> +To meaner music, and not suffer loss.<br /> +But when a poet, or when one like me,<br /> +Happy to rove among poetic flowers,<br /> +Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last<br /> +On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,<br /> +Such is the impulse and the spur he feels<br /> +To give it praise proportioned to its worth,<br /> +That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems<br /> +The labour, were a task more arduous still.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh scenes surpassing fable, +and yet true,<br /> +Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,<br /> +Though but in distant prospect, and not feel<br /> +His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?<br /> +Rivers of gladness water all the earth,<br /> +And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach<br /> +Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field<br /> +Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean,<br /> +Or fertile only in its own disgrace,<br /> +Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.<br /> +The various seasons woven into one,<br /> +And that one season an eternal spring,<br /> +The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,<br /> +For there is none to covet, all are full.<br /> +The lion and the libbard and the bear<br /> +Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon<br /> +Together, or all gambol in the shade<br /> +Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.<br /> +Antipathies are none. No foe to man<br /> +Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees,<br /> +And smiles to see, her infant’s playful hand<br /> +Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm,<br /> +To stroke his azure neck, or to receive<br /> +The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.<br /> +All creatures worship man, and all mankind<br /> +One Lord, one Father. Error has no place;<br /> +That creeping pestilence is driven away,<br /> +The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart<br /> +No passion touches a discordant string,<br /> +But all is harmony and love. Disease<br /> +Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood<br /> +Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.<br /> +One song employs all nations; and all cry,<br /> +“Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!”<br /> +The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks<br /> +Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops<br /> +From distant mountains catch the flying joy,<br /> +Till nation after nation taught the strain,<br /> +Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.<br /> +Behold the measure of the promise filled,<br /> +See Salem built, the labour of a God!<br /> +Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;<br /> +All kingdoms and all princes of the earth<br /> +Flock to that light; the glory of all lands<br /> +Flows into her, unbounded is her joy<br /> +And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,<br /> +Nebaioth, <a name="citation170"></a><a href="#footnote170" +class="citation">[170]</a> and the flocks of Kedar there;<br /> +The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,<br /> +And Saba’s spicy groves pay tribute there.<br /> +Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls,<br /> +And in her streets, and in her spacious courts<br /> +Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there<br /> +Kneels with the native of the farthest West,<br /> +And Æthiopia spreads abroad the hand,<br /> +And worships. Her report has travelled forth<br /> +Into all lands. From every clime they come<br /> +To see thy beauty and to share thy joy,<br /> +O Sion! an assembly such as earth<br /> +Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thus heavenward all things +tend. For all were once<br /> +Perfect, and all must be at length restored.<br /> +So God has greatly purposed; who would else<br /> +In His dishonoured works Himself endure<br /> +Dishonour, and be wronged without redress.<br /> +Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world,<br /> +Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see<br /> +(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)<br /> +A world that does not dread and hate His laws,<br /> +And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair<br /> +The creature is that God pronounces good,<br /> +How pleasant in itself what pleases Him.<br /> +Here every drop of honey hides a sting;<br /> +Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers,<br /> +And even the joy, that haply some poor heart<br /> +Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,<br /> +Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint<br /> +From touch of human lips, at best impure.<br /> +Oh for a world in principle as chaste<br /> +As this is gross and selfish! over which<br /> +Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,<br /> +That govern all things here, shouldering aside<br /> +The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her<br /> +To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife<br /> +In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men,<br /> +Where violence shall never lift the sword,<br /> +Nor cunning justify the proud man’s wrong,<br /> +Leaving the poor no remedy but tears;<br /> +Where he that fills an office, shall esteem<br /> +The occasion it presents of doing good<br /> +More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak<br /> +Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts,<br /> +And equity, not jealous more to guard<br /> +A worthless form, than to decide aright;<br /> +Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,<br /> +Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace)<br /> +With lean performance ape the work of love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Come then, and added to Thy +many crowns<br /> +Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,<br /> +Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine<br /> +By ancient covenant, ere nature’s birth,<br /> +And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since,<br /> +And overpaid its value with Thy blood.<br /> +Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts<br /> +Thy title is engraven with a pen<br /> +Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.<br /> +Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay<br /> +Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see<br /> +The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired,<br /> +Would creep into the bowels of the hills,<br /> +And flee for safety to the falling rocks.<br /> +The very spirit of the world is tired<br /> +Of its own taunting question, asked so long,<br /> +“Where is the promise of your Lord’s +approach?”<br /> +The infidel has shot his bolts away,<br /> +Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,<br /> +He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled,<br /> +And aims them at the shield of truth again.<br /> +The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,<br /> +That hides divinity from mortal eyes;<br /> +And all the mysteries to faith proposed,<br /> +Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,<br /> +As useless, to the moles and to the bats.<br /> +They now are deemed the faithful and are praised,<br /> +Who, constant only in rejecting Thee,<br /> +Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr’s zeal,<br /> +And quit their office for their error’s sake.<br /> +Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these<br /> +Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel,<br /> +Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man!<br /> +So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare,<br /> +The world takes little thought; who will may preach,<br /> +And what they will. All pastors are alike<br /> +To wandering sheep resolved to follow none.<br /> +Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain;<br /> +For these they live, they sacrifice to these,<br /> +And in their service wage perpetual war<br /> +With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts,<br /> +And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth<br /> +To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce,<br /> +High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.<br /> +Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down<br /> +The features of the last degenerate times,<br /> +Exhibit every lineament of these.<br /> +Come then, and added to Thy many crowns<br /> +Receive yet one as radiant as the rest,<br /> +Due to Thy last and most effectual work,<br /> +Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world.</p> +<p class="poetry"> He is the happy man, whose +life even now<br /> +Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;<br /> +Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,<br /> +Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,<br /> +Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit<br /> +Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,<br /> +Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one<br /> +Content indeed to sojourn while he must<br /> +Below the skies, but having there his home.<br /> +The world o’erlooks him in her busy search<br /> +Of objects more illustrious in her view;<br /> +And occupied as earnestly as she,<br /> +Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world.<br /> +She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;<br /> +He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.<br /> +He cannot skim the ground like summer birds<br /> +Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems<br /> +Her honours, her emoluments, her joys;<br /> +Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,<br /> +Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth<br /> +She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,<br /> +And shows him glories yet to be revealed.<br /> +Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,<br /> +And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams<br /> +Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird<br /> +That flutters least is longest on the wing.<br /> +Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,<br /> +Or what achievements of immortal fame<br /> +He purposes, and he shall answer—None.<br /> +His warfare is within. There unfatigued<br /> +His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,<br /> +And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself,<br /> +And never-withering wreaths, compared with which<br /> +The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds.<br /> +Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,<br /> +That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks,<br /> +Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see,<br /> +Deems him a cipher in the works of God,<br /> +Receives advantage from his noiseless hours<br /> +Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes<br /> +Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring<br /> +And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes<br /> +When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint<br /> +Walks forth to meditate at eventide,<br /> +And think on her who thinks not for herself.<br /> +Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns<br /> +Of little worth, and idler in the best,<br /> +If, author of no mischief and some good,<br /> +He seeks his proper happiness by means<br /> +That may advance, but cannot hinder thine.<br /> +Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,<br /> +Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,<br /> +Account him an encumbrance on the state,<br /> +Receiving benefits, and rendering none.<br /> +His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere<br /> +Shine with his fair example, and though small<br /> +His influence, if that influence all be spent<br /> +In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,<br /> +In aiding helpless indigence, in works<br /> +From which at least a grateful few derive<br /> +Some taste of comfort in a world of woe,<br /> +Then let the supercilious great confess<br /> +He serves his country; recompenses well<br /> +The state beneath the shadow of whose vine<br /> +He sits secure, and in the scale of life<br /> +Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place.<br /> +The man whose virtues are more felt than seen,<br /> +Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise;<br /> +But he may boast, what few that win it can,<br /> +That if his country stand not by his skill,<br /> +At least his follies have not wrought her fall.<br /> +Polite refinement offers him in vain<br /> +Her golden tube, through which a sensual world<br /> +Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,<br /> +The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.<br /> +Not that he peevishly rejects a mode<br /> +Because that world adopts it. If it bear<br /> +The stamp and clear impression of good sense,<br /> +And be not costly more than of true worth,<br /> +He puts it on, and for decorum sake<br /> +Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she.<br /> +She judges of refinement by the eye,<br /> +He by the test of conscience, and a heart<br /> +Not soon deceived; aware that what is base<br /> +No polish can make sterling, and that vice,<br /> +Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed,<br /> +Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers,<br /> +Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far<br /> +For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.<br /> +So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,<br /> +More golden than that age of fabled gold<br /> +Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care,<br /> +Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved<br /> +Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So glide my life away! and so +at last,<br /> +My share of duties decently fulfilled,<br /> +May some disease, not tardy to perform<br /> +Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke,<br /> +Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat<br /> +Beneath the turf that I have often trod.<br /> +It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called<br /> +To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,<br /> +I played awhile, obedient to the fair,<br /> +With that light task, but soon to please her more,<br /> +Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,<br /> +Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;<br /> +Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, ’tis true,<br /> +Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,<br /> +But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some<br /> +To palates that can taste immortal truth;<br /> +Insipid else, and sure to be despised.<br /> +But all is in His hand whose praise I seek,<br /> +In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,<br /> +If He regard not, though divine the theme.<br /> +’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime<br /> +And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre,<br /> +To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;<br /> +Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,<br /> +Whose approbation—prosper even mine.</p> +<h2>THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN;</h2> +<p style="text-align: center" class="gutsumm"><span +class="GutSmall">SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE +INTENDED,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">John Gilpin</span> was a +citizen<br /> + Of credit and renown,<br /> +A train-band captain eke was he<br /> + Of famous London town.</p> +<p class="poetry">John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,<br +/> + “Though wedded we have been<br /> +These twice ten tedious years, yet we<br /> + No holiday have seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">“To-morrow is our wedding-day,<br /> + And we will then repair<br /> +Unto ‘The Bell’ at Edmonton,<br /> + All in a chaise and pair.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My sister and my sister’s +child,<br /> + Myself and children three,<br /> +Will fill the chaise; so you must ride<br /> + On horseback after we.”</p> +<p class="poetry">He soon replied, “I do admire<br /> + Of womankind but one,<br /> +And you are she, my dearest dear,<br /> + Therefore it shall be done.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am a linen-draper bold,<br /> + As all the world doth know,<br /> +And my good friend the Calender<br /> + Will lend his horse to go.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Quoth Mistress Gilpin, “That’s well +said;<br /> + And, for that wine is dear,<br /> +We will be furnished with our own,<br /> + Which is both bright and clear.”</p> +<p class="poetry">John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;<br /> + O’erjoyed was he to find<br /> +That though on pleasure she was bent,<br /> + She had a frugal mind.</p> +<p class="poetry">The morning came, the chaise was brought,<br /> + But yet was not allowed<br /> +To drive up to the door, lest all<br /> + Should say that she was proud.</p> +<p class="poetry">So three doors off the chaise was stayed,<br /> + Where they did all get in;<br /> +Six precious souls, and all agog<br /> + To dash through thick and thin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,<br +/> + Were never folk so glad;<br /> +The stones did rattle underneath<br /> + As if Cheapside were mad.</p> +<p class="poetry">John Gilpin at his horse’s side<br /> + Seized fast the flowing mane,<br /> +And up he got, in haste to ride,<br /> + But soon came down again;</p> +<p class="poetry">For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,<br /> + His journey to begin,<br /> +When, turning round his head, he saw<br /> + Three customers come in.</p> +<p class="poetry">So down he came; for loss of time,<br /> + Although it grieved him sore,<br /> +Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,<br /> + Would trouble him much more.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twas long before the customers<br /> + Were suited to their mind.<br /> +When Betty, screaming, came down stairs,<br /> + “The wine is left behind!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Good lack!” quoth he; “yet +bring it me,<br /> + My leathern belt likewise,<br /> +In which I bear my trusty sword,<br /> + When I do exercise.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)<br /> + Had two stone bottles found,<br /> +To hold the liquor that she loved,<br /> + And keep it safe and sound.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each bottle had a curling ear,<br /> + Through which the belt he drew,<br /> +And hung a bottle on each side,<br /> + To make his balance true.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then over all, that he might be<br /> + Equipped from top to toe,<br /> +His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,<br /> + He manfully did throw.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now see him mounted once again<br /> + Upon his nimble steed,<br /> +Full slowly pacing o’er the stones<br /> + With caution and good heed!</p> +<p class="poetry">But, finding soon a smoother road<br /> + Beneath his well-shod feet,<br /> +The snorting beast began to trot,<br /> + Which galled him in his seat.</p> +<p class="poetry">So, “Fair and softly,” John he +cried,<br /> + But John he cried in vain;<br /> +That trot became a gallop soon,<br /> + In spite of curb and rein.</p> +<p class="poetry">So stooping down, as needs he must<br /> + Who cannot sit upright,<br /> +He grasped the mane with both his hands,<br /> + And eke with all his might.</p> +<p class="poetry">His horse, who never in that sort<br /> + Had handled been before,<br /> +What thing upon his back had got<br /> + Did wonder more and more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away went Gilpin, neck or naught;<br /> + Away went hat and wig;<br /> +He little dreamt, when he set out,<br /> + Of running such a rig.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,<br /> + Like streamer long and gay,<br /> +Till, loop and button failing both,<br /> + At last it flew away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then might all people well discern<br /> + The bottles he had slung;<br /> +A bottle swinging at each side,<br /> + As hath been said or sung.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dogs did bark, the children screamed,<br /> + Up flew the windows all;<br /> +And every soul cried out, “Well done!”<br /> + As loud as he could bawl.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away went Gilpin—who but he?<br /> + His fame soon spread around—<br /> +He carries weight! he rides a race!<br /> + ’Tis for a thousand pound!</p> +<p class="poetry">And still, as fast as he drew near,<br /> + ’Twas wonderful to view<br /> +How in a trice the turnpike men<br /> + Their gates wide open threw.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now, as he went bowing down<br /> + His reeking head full low,<br /> +The bottles twain behind his back<br /> + Were shattered at a blow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Down ran the wine into the road,<br /> + Most piteous to be seen,<br /> +Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke<br /> + As they had basted been.</p> +<p class="poetry">But still he seemed to carry weight,<br /> + With leathern girdle braced;<br /> +For all might see the bottle-necks<br /> + Still dangling at his waist.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus all through merry Islington<br /> + These gambols he did play,<br /> +And till he came unto the Wash<br /> + Of Edmonton so gay.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there he threw the wash about<br /> + On both sides of the way,<br /> +Just like unto a trundling mop,<br /> + Or a wild goose at play.</p> +<p class="poetry">At Edmonton, his loving wife<br /> + From the bal-cony spied<br /> +Her tender husband, wondering much<br /> + To see how he did ride.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Stop, stop, John +Gilpin!—here’s the house!”<br /> + They all at once did cry;<br /> +“The dinner waits, and we are tired.”<br /> + Said Gilpin, “So am I!”</p> +<p class="poetry">But yet his horse was not a whit<br /> + Inclined to tarry there;<br /> +For why?—his owner had a house<br /> + Full ten miles off, at Ware.</p> +<p class="poetry">So like an arrow swift he flew,<br /> + Shot by an archer strong;<br /> +So did he fly—which brings me to<br /> + The middle of my song.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away went Gilpin, out of breath,<br /> + And sore against his will,<br /> +Till at his friend the Calender’s<br /> + His horse at last stood still.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Calender, amazed to see<br /> + His neighbour in such trim,<br /> +Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,<br /> + And thus accosted him:—</p> +<p class="poetry">“What news? what news? your tidings +tell:<br /> + Tell me you must and shall—<br /> +Say why bareheaded you are come,<br /> + Or why you come at all.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,<br /> + And loved a timely joke;<br /> +And thus unto the Calender<br /> + In merry guise he spoke:</p> +<p class="poetry">“I came because your horse would come;<br +/> + And if I well forebode,<br /> +My hat and wig will soon be here;<br /> + They are upon the road.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The Calender, right glad to find<br /> + His friend in merry pin,<br /> +Returned him not a single word,<br /> + But to the house went in;</p> +<p class="poetry">Whence straight he came with hat and wig,<br /> + A wig that flowed behind,<br /> +A hat not much the worse for wear,<br /> + Each comely in its kind.</p> +<p class="poetry">He held them up, and, in his turn,<br /> + Thus showed his ready wit,—<br /> +“My head is twice as big as yours;<br /> + They therefore needs must fit.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But let me scrape the dirt away<br /> + That hangs upon your face;<br /> +And stop and eat, for well you may<br /> + Be in a hungry case.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Says John, “It is my wedding-day,<br /> + And all the world would stare,<br /> +If wife should dine at Edmonton,<br /> + And I should dine at Ware.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So turning to his horse, he said,<br /> + “I am in haste to dine;<br /> +’Twas for your pleasure you came here,<br /> + You shall go back for mine.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!<br /> + For which he paid full dear;<br /> +For while he spake, a braying ass<br /> + Did sing most loud and clear;</p> +<p class="poetry">Whereat his horse did snort as he<br /> + Had heard a lion roar,<br /> +And galloped off with all his might,<br /> + As he had done before.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away went Gilpin, and away<br /> + Went Gilpin’s hat and wig;<br /> +He lost them sooner than at first,<br /> + For why?—they were too big.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw<br /> + Her husband posting down<br /> +Into the country far away,<br /> + She pulled out half-a-crown.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus unto the youth she said,<br /> + That drove them to “The Bell,”<br /> +“This shall be yours when you bring back<br /> + My husband safe and well.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The youth did ride, and soon did meet<br /> + John coming back amain,<br /> +Whom in a trice he tried to stop<br /> + By catching at his rein;</p> +<p class="poetry">But not performing what he meant,<br /> + And gladly would have done,<br /> +The frighted steed he frighted more,<br /> + And made him faster run.</p> +<p class="poetry">Away went Gilpin, and away<br /> + Went postboy at his heels,<br /> +The postboy’s horse right glad to miss<br /> + The lumbering of the wheels.</p> +<p class="poetry">Six gentlemen upon the road<br /> + Thus seeing Gilpin fly,<br /> +With postboy scampering in the rear,<br /> + They raised the hue and cry:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Stop thief! stop thief!—a +highwayman!”<br /> + Not one of them was mute;<br /> +And all and each that passed that way<br /> + Did join in the pursuit.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now the turnpike gates again<br /> + Flew open in short space,<br /> +The tollmen thinking, as before,<br /> + That Gilpin rode a race.</p> +<p class="poetry">And so he did, and won it too,<br /> + For he got first to town;<br /> +Nor stopped till where he had got up<br /> + He did again get down.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now let us sing, “Long live the king,<br +/> + And Gilpin, long live he;<br /> +And when he next doth ride abroad,<br /> + May I be there to see!”</p> +<h2>AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear +Joseph</span>,—five and twenty years ago—<br /> +Alas, how time escapes!—’tis even so—<br /> +With frequent intercourse, and always sweet<br /> +And always friendly, we were wont to cheat<br /> +A tedious hour—and now we never meet.<br /> +As some grave gentleman in Terence says<br /> +(’Twas therefore much the same in ancient days),<br /> +“Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings—<br /> +Strange fluctuation of all human things!”<br /> +True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,<br /> +But distance only cannot change the heart:<br /> +And were I called to prove the assertion true,<br /> +One proof should serve—a reference to you.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Whence comes it, then, that +in the wane of life,<br /> +Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife,<br /> +We find the friends we fancied we had won,<br /> +Though numerous once, reduced to few or none?<br /> +Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?<br /> +No. Gold they seemed, but they were never such.<br /> +Horatio’s servant once, with bow and cringe,<br /> +Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge,<br /> +Dreading a negative, and overawed<br /> +Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad.<br /> +“Go, fellow!—whither?”—turning short +about—<br /> +“Nay. Stay at home; you’re always going +out.”—<br /> +“’Tis but a step, sir; just at the street’s +end.”<br /> +“For what?”—“An please you, sir, to see a +friend.”<br /> +“A friend!” Horatio cried, and seemed to start;<br /> +“Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart—<br /> +And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw<br /> +I’ll see him too—the first I ever saw.”</p> +<p class="poetry"> I knew the man, and knew his +nature mild,<br /> +And was his plaything often when a child;<br /> +But somewhat at that moment pinched him close,<br /> +Else he was seldom bitter or morose.<br /> +Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed,<br /> +His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;<br /> +Perhaps ’twas mere good-humour gave it birth,<br /> +The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.<br /> +Howe’er it was, his language in my mind<br /> +Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.</p> +<p class="poetry"> But not to moralise too much, +and strain<br /> +To prove an evil of which all complain<br /> +(I hate long arguments, verbosely spun),<br /> +One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.<br /> +Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man.<br /> +No matter where, in China or Japan,<br /> +Decreed that whosoever should offend<br /> +Against the well-known duties of a friend,<br /> +Convicted once, should ever after wear<br /> +But half a coat, and show his bosom bare;<br /> +The punishment importing this, no doubt,<br /> +That all was naught within and all found out.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Oh happy Britain! we have not +to fear<br /> +Such hard and arbitrary measure here;<br /> +Else could a law, like that which I relate,<br /> +Once have the sanction of our triple state,<br /> +Some few that I have known in days of old<br /> +Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold.<br /> +While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,<br /> +Might traverse England safely to and fro,<br /> +An honest man, close buttoned to the chin,<br /> +Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.</p> +<h2>TO MARY.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> twentieth year +is well-nigh past<br /> +Since first our sky was overcast,<br /> +Ah, would that this might be the last!<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy spirits have a fainter flow,<br /> +I see thee daily weaker grow—<br /> +’Twas my distress that brought thee low,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy needles, once a shining store,<br /> +For my sake restless heretofore,<br /> +Now rust disused, and shine no more,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil<br /> +The same kind office for me still,<br /> +Thy sight now seconds not thy will,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">But well thou playedst the housewife’s +part,<br /> +And all thy threads with magic art<br /> +Have wound themselves about this heart,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy indistinct expressions seem<br /> +Like language uttered in a dream;<br /> +Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,<br /> +Are still more lovely in my sight<br /> +Than golden beams of orient light,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">For could I view nor them nor thee,<br /> +What sight worth seeing could I see?<br /> +The sun would rise in vain for me,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Partakers of thy sad decline,<br /> +Thy hands their little force resign;<br /> +Yet gently prest, press gently mine,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st,<br +/> +That now at every step thou mov’st<br /> +Upheld by two, yet still thou lov’st,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">And still to love, though prest with ill,<br /> +In wintry age to feel no chill,<br /> +With me, is to be lovely still,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">But ah! by constant heed I know,<br /> +How oft the sadness that I show,<br /> +Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<p class="poetry">And should my future lot be cast<br /> +With much resemblance of the past,<br /> +Thy worn-out heart will break at last,<br /> + My Mary!</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote127"></a><a href="#citation127" +class="footnote">[127]</a> The author hopes that he shall +not be censured for unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a +subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable +to stigmatise such sentiments as no better than empty +declamation. But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to +modern times.—C.</p> +<p><a name="footnote170"></a><a href="#citation170" +class="footnote">[170]</a> Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of +Ishmael, and progenitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture +here alluded to may be reasonably considered as representatives +of the Gentiles at large.—C.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3698-h.htm or 3698-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/6/9/3698 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Task and Other Poems + +Author: William Cowper + +Posting Date: April 30, 2009 [EBook #3698] +Release Date: January, 2003 +First Posted: July 24, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler. + + + + + + + + + +THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + +WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + INTRODUCTION + THE TASK + BOOK I. THE SOFA + BOOK II. THE TIMEPIECE + BOOK III. THE GARDEN. + BOOK IV. THE WINTER EVENING. + BOOK V. THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + BOOK VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. + AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + TO MARY. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + +After the publication of his "Table Talk" and other poems in March, +1782, William Cowper, in his quiet retirement at Olney, under Mrs. +Unwin's care, found a new friend in Lady Austen. She was a baronet's +widow who had a sister married to a clergyman near Olney, with whom +Cowper was slightly acquainted. In the summer of 1781, when his first +volume was being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the +street at Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. Their +coming was the beginning of a cordial friendship. Lady Austen, without +being less earnest, had a liveliness that satisfied Cowper's sense of +fun to an extent that stirred at last some jealousy in Mrs. Unwin. +"She had lived much in France," Cowper said, "was very sensible, and +had infinite vivacity." + +The Vicar of Olney was in difficulties, with his affairs in the hands +of trustees. The duties of his office were entirely discharged by a +curate, and the vicarage was to let. Lady Austen, in 1782, rented it, +to be near her new friends. There was only a wall between the garden +of the house occupied by Cowper and Mrs. Unwin and the vicarage garden. +A door was made in the wall, and there was a close companionship of +three. When Lady Austen did not spend her evenings with Mrs. Unwin and +Cowper, Mrs. Unwin and Cowper spent their evenings with Lady Austen. +They read, talked, Lady Austen played and sang, and they all called one +another by their Christian names, William, Mary (Mrs. Unwin), and Anna +(Lady Austen). In a poetical epistle to Lady Austen, written in +December, 1781, Cowper closes a reference to the strength of their +friendship with the evidence it gave,-- + + "That Solomon has wisely spoken,-- + 'A threefold cord is not soon broken.'" + +One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was low-spirited, Lady +Austen told him in lively fashion the story upon which he founded the +ballad of "John Gilpin." Its original hero is said to have been a Mr. +Bayer, who had a draper's shop in London, at the corner of Cheapside. +Cowper was so much tickled by it, that he lay awake part of the night +rhyming and laughing, and by the next evening the ballad was complete. +It was sent to Mrs. Unwin's son, who sent it to the Public Advertiser, +where for the next two or three years it lay buried in the "Poets' +Corner," and attracted no particular attention. + +In the summer of 1783, when one of the three friends had been reading +blank verse aloud to the other two, Lady Austen, from her seat upon the +sofa, urged upon Cowper, as she had urged before, that blank verse was +to be preferred to the rhymed couplets in which his first book had been +written, and that he should write a poem in blank verse. "I will," he +said, "if you will give me a subject." "Oh," she answered, "you can +write upon anything. Write on this sofa." He playfully accepted that +as "the task" set him, and began his poem called "The Task," which was +finished in the summer of the next year, 1784. But before "The Task" +was finished, Mrs. Unwin's jealousy obliged Cowper to give up his new +friend--whom he had made a point of calling upon every morning at +eleven--and prevent her return to summer quarters in the vicarage. + +Two miles from Olney was Weston Underwood with a park, to which its +owner gave Cowper the use of a key. In 1782 a younger brother, John +Throckmorton, came with his wife to live at Weston, and continued +Cowper's privilege. The Throckmortons were Roman Catholics, but in +May, 1784, Mr. Unwin was tempted by an invitation to see a balloon +ascent from their park. Their kindness as hosts won upon Cowper; they +sought and had his more intimate friendship, till in his correspondence +he playfully abused the first syllable of their name and called them +Mr. and Mrs. Frog. + +Cowper's "Task" went to its publisher and printing was begun, when +suddenly "John Gilpin," after a long sleep in the Public Advertiser, +rode triumphant through the town. A favourite actor of the day was +giving recitations at Freemason's Hall. A man of letters, Richard +Sharp, who had read and liked "John Gilpin," pointed out to the actor +how well it would suit his purpose. The actor was John Henderson, +whose Hamlet, Shylock, Richard III., and Falstaff were the most popular +of his day. He died suddenly in 1785, at the age of thirty-eight, and +it was thus in the last year of his life that his power of recitation +drew "John Gilpin" from obscurity and made it the nine days' wonder of +the town. Pictures of John Gilpin abounded in all forms. He figured +on pocket-handkerchiefs. When the publisher asked for a few more pages +to his volume of "The Task," Cowper gave him as makeweights an "Epistle +to Joseph Hill," his "Tirocinium," and, a little doubtfully, "John +Gilpin." So the book was published in June, 1785; was sought by many +because it was by the author of "John Gilpin," and at once won +recognition. The preceding volume had not made Cowper famous. "The +Task" at once gave him his place among the poets. + +Cowper's "Task" is to this day, except Wordsworth's "Excursion," the +best purely didactic poem in the English language. The "Sofa" stands +only as a point of departure:--it suits a gouty limb; but as the poet +is not gouty, he is up and off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin +in the country about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural +sounds, taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy +winter weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage, and draws from +it comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk +to the park at Weston Underwood, the prospect from the hilltop, touches +upon his privilege in having a key of the gate, describes the avenues +of trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher's +flail then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is after +toil. He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness of Nature free +to all, that brings health to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. +Spleen vexes votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the +innocent. So thought flows on, and touches in its course the vital +questions of a troubled time. "The Task" appeared four years before +the outbreak of the French Revolution, and is in many passages not less +significant of rising storms than the "Excursion" is significant of +what came with the breaking of the clouds. + +H. M. + + + +THE TASK. + + + +BOOK I. + +THE SOFA. + +["The history of the following production is briefly this:--A lady, +fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and +gave him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, +connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought +to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at +length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious +affair--a volume.] + + + I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang + Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe + The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, + Escaped with pain from that advent'rous flight, + Now seek repose upon a humbler theme: + The theme though humble, yet august and proud + The occasion--for the Fair commands the song. + + Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, + Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. + As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, + Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: + The hardy chief upon the rugged rock + Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank + Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, + Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. + Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next + The birthday of invention; weak at first, + Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. + Joint-stools were then created; on three legs + Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm + A massy slab, in fashion square or round. + On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, + And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms; + And such in ancient halls and mansions drear + May still be seen, but perforated sore + And drilled in holes the solid oak is found, + By worms voracious eating through and through. + + At length a generation more refined + Improved the simple plan, made three legs four, + Gave them a twisted form vermicular, + And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed, + Induced a splendid cover green and blue, + Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought + And woven close, or needlework sublime. + There might ye see the peony spread wide, + The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, + Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, + And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. + + Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright + With Nature's varnish; severed into stripes + That interlaced each other, these supplied, + Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced + The new machine, and it became a chair. + But restless was the chair; the back erect + Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease; + The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part + That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down, + Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. + These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed + In modest mediocrity, content + With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides + Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, + With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, + Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed: + If cushion might be called, what harder seemed + Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed. + No want of timber then was felt or feared + In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood + Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight. + But elbows still were wanting; these, some say, + An alderman of Cripplegate contrived, + And some ascribe the invention to a priest + Burly and big, and studious of his ease. + But rude at first, and not with easy slope + Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs, + And bruised the side, and elevated high + Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. + Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires + Complained, though incommodiously pent in, + And ill at ease behind. The ladies first + Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. + Ingenious fancy, never better pleased + Than when employed to accommodate the fair, + Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised + The soft settee; one elbow at each end, + And in the midst an elbow, it received, + United yet divided, twain at once. + So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; + And so two citizens who take the air, + Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one. + But relaxation of the languid frame + By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs, + Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow + The growth of what is excellent, so hard + To attain perfection in this nether world. + Thus first necessity invented stools, + Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, + And luxury the accomplished Sofa last. + + The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, + Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he + Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour + To sleep within the carriage more secure, + His legs depending at the open door. + Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, + The tedious rector drawling o'er his head, + And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep + Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, + Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour + To slumber in the carriage more secure, + Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, + Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet, + Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. + + Oh, may I live exempted (while I live + Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) + From pangs arthritic that infest the toe + Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits + The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, + Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: + For I have loved the rural walk through lanes + Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep, + And skirted thick with intertexture firm + Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk + O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, + E'er since a truant boy I passed my bounds + To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. + And still remember, nor without regret + Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared, + How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, + Still hungering penniless and far from home, + I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, + Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss + The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. + Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite + Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved + By culinary arts unsavoury deems. + No Sofa then awaited my return, + No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs + His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil + Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, + As life declines, speed rapidly away, + And not a year but pilfers as he goes + Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, + A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees + Their length and colour from the locks they spare; + The elastic spring of an unwearied foot + That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, + That play of lungs inhaling and again + Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes + Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, + Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired + My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-- + Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. + Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + How oft upon yon eminence, our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene! + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow-moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms + That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; + While far beyond and overthwart the stream + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds + Exhilarate the spirit, and restore + The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, + That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood + Of ancient growth, make music not unlike + The dash of ocean on his winding shore, + And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, + Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, + And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. + Nor less composure waits upon the roar + Of distant floods, or on the softer voice + Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip + Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall + Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length + In matted grass, that with a livelier green + Betrays the secret of their silent course. + Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, + But animated Nature sweeter still + To soothe and satisfy the human ear. + Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one + The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes + Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, + But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime + In still repeated circles, screaming loud, + The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl + That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. + Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, + Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, + And only there, please highly for their sake. + + Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought + Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! + Fearless of humid air and gathering rains + Forth steps the man--an emblem of myself! + More delicate his timorous mate retires. + When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, + Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, + Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, + The task of new discoveries falls on me. + At such a season and with such a charge + Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown, + A cottage, whither oft we since repair: + 'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close + Environed with a ring of branching elms + That overhang the thatch, itself unseen + Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset + With foliage of such dark redundant growth, + I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT'S NEST. + And hidden as it is, and far remote + From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear + In village or in town, the bay of curs + Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, + And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained, + Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. + Here, I have said, at least I should possess + The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge + The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. + Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat + Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. + Its elevated site forbids the wretch + To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; + He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, + And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, + Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits + Dependent on the baker's punctual call, + To hear his creaking panniers at the door, + Angry and sad and his last crust consumed. + So farewell envy of the PEASANT'S NEST. + If solitude make scant the means of life, + Society for me! Thou seeming sweet, + Be still a pleasing object in my view, + My visit still, but never mine abode. + + Not distant far, a length of colonnade + Invites us; monument of ancient taste, + Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate. + Our fathers knew the value of a screen + From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks + And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon + The gloom and coolness of declining day. + We bear our shades about us; self-deprived + Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, + And range an Indian waste without a tree. + Thanks to Benevolus--he spares me yet + These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, + And, though himself so polished, still reprieves + The obsolete prolixity of shade. + + Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) + A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge + We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip + Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. + Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme + We mount again, and feel at every step + Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, + Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. + He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, + Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark + Toils much to earn a monumental pile, + That may record the mischiefs he has done. + + The summit gained, behold the proud alcove + That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures + The grand retreat from injuries impressed + By rural carvers, who with knives deface + The panels, leaving an obscure rude name + In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. + So strong the zeal to immortalise himself + Beats in the breast of man, that even a few + Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred + Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, + And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, + And posted on this speculative height + Exults in its command. The sheepfold here + Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. + At first, progressive as a stream, they seek + The middle field; but scattered by degrees, + Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. + There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps + The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, + The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, + The boorish driver leaning o'er his team, + Vociferous, and impatient of delay. + Nor less attractive is the woodland scene + Diversified with trees of every growth, + Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks + Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, + Within the twilight of their distant shades; + There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood + Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs. + No tree in all the grove but has its charms, + Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, + And of a wannish gray; the willow such, + And poplar that with silver lines his leaf, + And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; + Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, + Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. + Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, + The maple, and the beech of oily nuts + Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve + Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass + The sycamore, capricious in attire, + Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet + Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. + O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map + Of hill and valley interposed between), + The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, + Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, + As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. + + Hence the declivity is sharp and short, + And such the re-ascent; between them weeps + A little Naiad her impoverished urn, + All summer long, which winter fills again. + The folded gates would bar my progress now, + But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, + Communicative of the good he owns, + Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye + Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. + Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? + By short transition we have lost his glare, + And stepped at once into a cooler clime. + Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn + Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice + That yet a remnant of your race survives. + How airy and how light the graceful arch, + Yet awful as the consecrated roof + Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath, + The chequered earth seems restless as a flood + Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light + Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, + Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, + And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves + Play wanton, every moment, every spot. + + And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, + We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, + With curvature of slow and easy sweep-- + Deception innocent--give ample space + To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; + Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms + We may discern the thresher at his task. + Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, + That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls + Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff, + The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist + Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. + Come hither, ye that press your beds of down + And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread + Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse, + But softened into mercy; made the pledge + Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. + + By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. + Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel + That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, + Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads + An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. + Its own revolvency upholds the world. + Winds from all quarters agitate the air, + And fit the limpid element for use, + Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams + All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed + By restless undulation: even the oak + Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: + He seems indeed indignant, and to feel + The impression of the blast with proud disdain, + Frowning as if in his unconscious arm + He held the thunder. But the monarch owes + His firm stability to what he scorns, + More fixed below, the more disturbed above. + The law, by which all creatures else are bound, + Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives + No mean advantage from a kindred cause, + From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. + The sedentary stretch their lazy length + When custom bids, but no refreshment find, + For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek + Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, + And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, + Reproach their owner with that love of rest + To which he forfeits even the rest he loves. + Not such the alert and active. Measure life + By its true worth, the comforts it affords, + And theirs alone seems worthy of the name + Good health, and, its associate in the most, + Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, + And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; + The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; + Even age itself seems privileged in them + With clear exemption from its own defects. + A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front + The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard + With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave + Sprightly, and old almost without decay. + + Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, + Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrine + Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. + The love of Nature and the scene she draws + Is Nature's dictate. Strange, there should be found + Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, + Renounce the odours of the open field + For the unscented fictions of the loom; + Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, + Prefer to the performance of a God + The inferior wonders of an artist's hand. + Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, + But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, + None more admires, the painter's magic skill, + Who shows me that which I shall never see, + Conveys a distant country into mine, + And throws Italian light on English walls. + But imitative strokes can do no more + Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense. + The air salubrious of her lofty hills, + The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, + And music of her woods--no works of man + May rival these; these all bespeak a power + Peculiar, and exclusively her own. + Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; + 'Tis free to all--'tis ev'ry day renewed, + Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. + He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long + In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey + To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank + And clammy of his dark abode have bred + Escapes at last to liberty and light; + His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, + His eye relumines its extinguished fires, + He walks, he leaps, he runs--is winged with joy, + And riots in the sweets of every breeze. + He does not scorn it, who has long endured + A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. + Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed + With acrid salts; his very heart athirst + To gaze at Nature in her green array. + Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed + With visions prompted by intense desire; + Fair fields appear below, such as he left + Far distant, such as he would die to find-- + He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. + + The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; + The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, + And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort, + And mar the face of beauty, when no cause + For such immeasurable woe appears, + These Flora banishes, and gives the fair + Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. + It is the constant revolution, stale + And tasteless, of the same repeated joys + That palls and satiates, and makes languid life + A pedlar's pack that bows the bearer down. + Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart + Recoils from its own choice--at the full feast + Is famished--finds no music in the song, + No smartness in the jest, and wonders why. + Yet thousands still desire to journey on, + Though halt and weary of the path they tread. + The paralytic, who can hold her cards + But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand + To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort + Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits + Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad + And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. + Others are dragged into the crowded room + Between supporters; and once seated, sit + Through downright inability to rise, + Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. + These speak a loud memento. Yet even these + Themselves love life, and cling to it as he, + That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. + They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, + Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. + Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread, + The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds + Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, + And their inveterate habits, all forbid. + + Whom call we gay? That honour has been long + The boast of mere pretenders to the name. + The innocent are gay--the lark is gay, + That dries his feathers saturate with dew + Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams + Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. + The peasant too, a witness of his song, + Himself a songster, is as gay as he. + But save me from the gaiety of those + Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; + And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes + Flash desperation, and betray their pangs + For property stripped off by cruel chance; + From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, + The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. + + The earth was made so various, that the mind + Of desultory man, studious of change, + And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. + Prospects however lovely may be seen + Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, + Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off + Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. + Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale, + Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, + Delight us, happy to renounce a while, + Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, + That such short absence may endear it more. + Then forests, or the savage rock may please, + That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts + Above the reach of man: his hoary head + Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, + Bound homeward, and in hope already there, + Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist + A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows, + And at his feet the baffled billows die. + The common overgrown with fern, and rough + With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed + And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, + And decks itself with ornaments of gold, + Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf + Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs + And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense + With luxury of unexpected sweets. + + There often wanders one, whom better days + Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed + With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound. + A serving-maid was she, and fell in love + With one who left her, went to sea and died. + Her fancy followed him through foaming waves + To distant shores, and she would sit and weep + At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, + Delusive most where warmest wishes are, + Would oft anticipate his glad return, + And dream of transports she was not to know. + She heard the doleful tidings of his death, + And never smiled again. And now she roams + The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, + And there, unless when charity forbids, + The livelong night. A tattered apron hides, + Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown + More tattered still; and both but ill conceal + A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. + She begs an idle pin of all she meets, + And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, + Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, + Though pinched with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed! + + I see a column of slow-rising smoke + O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. + A vagabond and useless tribe there eat + Their miserable meal. A kettle slung + Between two poles upon a stick transverse, + Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, + Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined + From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! + They pick their fuel out of every hedge, + Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched + The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide + Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, + The vellum of the pedigree they claim. + Great skill have they in palmistry, and more + To conjure clean away the gold they touch, + Conveying worthless dross into its place; + Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. + Strange! that a creature rational, and cast + In human mould, should brutalise by choice + His nature, and, though capable of arts + By which the world might profit and himself, + Self-banished from society, prefer + Such squalid sloth to honourable toil. + Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft + They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, + And vex their flesh with artificial sores, + Can change their whine into a mirthful note + When safe occasion offers, and with dance, + And music of the bladder and the bag, + Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. + Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy + The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; + And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, + Need other physic none to heal the effects + Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. + + Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd + By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure + Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside + His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn + The manners and the arts of civil life. + His wants, indeed, are many; but supply + Is obvious; placed within the easy reach + Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. + Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; + Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, + And terrible to sight, as when she springs + (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote + And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, + And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, + By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed, + And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. + War and the chase engross the savage whole; + War followed for revenge, or to supplant + The envied tenants of some happier spot; + The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! + His hard condition with severe constraint + Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth + Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns + Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, + Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. + Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, + And thus the rangers of the western world, + Where it advances far into the deep, + Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles + So lately found, although the constant sun + Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, + Can boast but little virtue; and inert + Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain + In manners, victims of luxurious ease. + These therefore I can pity, placed remote + From all that science traces, art invents, + Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed + In boundless oceans, never to be passed + By navigators uninformed as they, + Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again. + But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, + Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee + Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, + Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw + Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here + With what superior skill we can abuse + The gifts of Providence, and squander life. + The dream is past. And thou hast found again + Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams, + And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found + Their former charms? And, having seen our state, + Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp + Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, + And heard our music; are thy simple friends, + Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights + As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys + Lost nothing by comparison with ours? + Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude + And ignorant, except of outward show), + I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart + And spiritless, as never to regret + Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. + Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, + And asking of the surge that bathes the foot + If ever it has washed our distant shore. + I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, + A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad + At thought of her forlorn and abject state, + From which no power of thine can raise her up. + Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, + Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. + She tells me too that duly every morn + Thou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eye + Exploring far and wide the watery waste, + For sight of ship from England. Every speck + Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale + With conflict of contending hopes and fears. + But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, + And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared + To dream all night of what the day denied. + Alas, expect it not. We found no bait + To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, + Disinterested good, is not our trade. + We travel far, 'tis true, but not for naught; + And must be bribed to compass earth again + By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours. + + But though true worth and virtue, in the mild + And genial soil of cultivated life + Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, + Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay + And gain-devoted cities, thither flow, + As to a common and most noisome sewer, + The dregs and feculence of every land. + In cities, foul example on most minds + Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds + In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust, + And wantonness and gluttonous excess. + In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, + Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught + By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there, + Beyond the achievement of successful flight. + I do confess them nurseries of the arts, + In which they flourish most; where, in the beams + Of warm encouragement, and in the eye + Of public note, they reach their perfect size. + Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed + The fairest capital in all the world, + By riot and incontinence the worst. + There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes + A lucid mirror, in which nature sees + All her reflected features. Bacon there + Gives more than female beauty to a stone, + And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. + Nor does the chisel occupy alone + The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; + Each province of her art her equal care. + With nice incision of her guided steel + She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil + So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, + The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. + Where finds philosophy her eagle eye, + With which she gazes at yon burning disk + Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? + In London. Where her implements exact, + With which she calculates, computes, and scans + All distance, motion, magnitude, and now + Measures an atom, and now girds a world? + In London. Where has commerce such a mart, + So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, + As London, opulent, enlarged, and still + Increasing London? Babylon of old + Not more the glory of the earth, than she + A more accomplished world's chief glory now. + + She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two + That so much beauty would do well to purge; + And show this queen of cities, that so fair + May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. + It is not seemly, nor of good report, + That she is slack in discipline; more prompt + To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: + That she is rigid in denouncing death + On petty robbers, and indulges life + And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, + To peculators of the public gold: + That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts + Into his overgorged and bloated purse + The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. + Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, + That through profane and infidel contempt + Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul + And abrogate, as roundly as she may, + The total ordinance and will of God; + Advancing fashion to the post of truth, + And centring all authority in modes + And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites + Have dwindled into unrespected forms, + And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced. + + God made the country, and man made the town. + What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts + That can alone make sweet the bitter draught + That life holds out to all, should most abound + And least be threatened in the fields and groves? + Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about + In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue + But that of idleness, and taste no scenes + But such as art contrives, possess ye still + Your element; there only ye can shine, + There only minds like yours can do no harm. + Our groves were planted to console at noon + The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve + The moonbeam, sliding softly in between + The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, + Birds warbling all the music. We can spare + The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse + Our softer satellite. Your songs confound + Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs + Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. + There is a public mischief in your mirth; + It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, + Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, + Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done, + Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, + A mutilated structure, soon to fall. + + + +BOOK II. + +THE TIMEPIECE. + + Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick with every day's report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man. The natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + Not coloured like his own, and having power + To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. + Lands intersected by a narrow frith + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations, who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free, + They touch our country and their shackles fall. + That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain's power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + Sure there is need of social intercourse, + Benevolence and peace and mutual aid, + Between the nations, in a world that seems + To toll the death-bell to its own decease; + And by the voice of all its elements + To preach the general doom. When were the winds + Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? + When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap + Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? + Fires from beneath and meteors from above, + Portentous, unexampled, unexplained, + Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old + And crazy earth has had her shaking fits + More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. + Is it a time to wrangle, when the props + And pillars of our planet seem to fail, + And nature with a dim and sickly eye + To wait the close of all? But grant her end + More distant, and that prophecy demands + A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; + Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak + Displeasure in His breast who smites the earth + Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. + And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve + And stand exposed by common peccancy + To what no few have felt, there should be peace, + And brethren in calamity should love. + + Alas for Sicily, rude fragments now + Lie scattered where the shapely column stood. + Her palaces are dust. In all her streets + The voice of singing and the sprightly chord + Are silent. Revelry and dance and show + Suffer a syncope and solemn pause, + While God performs, upon the trembling stage + Of His own works, His dreadful part alone. + How does the earth receive Him?--With what signs + Of gratulation and delight, her King? + Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, + Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, + Disclosing paradise where'er He treads? + She quakes at His approach. Her hollow womb, + Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps + And fiery caverns roars beneath His foot. + The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke, + For He has touched them. From the extremest point + Of elevation down into the abyss, + His wrath is busy and His frown is felt. + The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise, + The rivers die into offensive pools, + And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross + And mortal nuisance into all the air. + What solid was, by transformation strange + Grows fluid, and the fixed and rooted earth + Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, + Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl + Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense + The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs + And agonies of human and of brute + Multitudes, fugitive on every side, + And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene + Migrates uplifted, and, with all its soil + Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out + A new possessor, and survives the change. + Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought + To an enormous and o'erbearing height, + Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice + Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore + Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, + Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, + Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng + That pressed the beach and hasty to depart + Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, + Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, + A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, + And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes + Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume + Life in the unproductive shades of death, + Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, + And, happy in their unforeseen release + From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy + The terrors of the day that sets them free. + Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, + Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, + That even a judgment, making way for thee, + Seems in their eyes a mercy, for thy sake. + + Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame + Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, + And, in the furious inquest that it makes + On God's behalf, lays waste His fairest works. + The very elements, though each be meant + The minister of man to serve his wants, + Conspire against him. With his breath he draws + A plague into his blood; and cannot use + Life's necessary means, but he must die. + Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds + Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, + And, needing none assistance of the storm, + Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. + The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, + Or make his house his grave; nor so content, + Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, + And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. + What then--were they the wicked above all, + And we the righteous, whose fast-anchored isle + Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff, + The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, + And none than we more guilty. But where all + Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts + Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose His mark, + May punish, if He please, the less, to warn + The more malignant. If He spared not them, + Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, + Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee! + + Happy the man who sees a God employed + In all the good and ill that chequer life! + Resolving all events, with their effects + And manifold results, into the will + And arbitration wise of the Supreme. + Did not His eye rule all things, and intend + The least of our concerns (since from the least + The greatest oft originate), could chance + Find place in His dominion, or dispose + One lawless particle to thwart His plan, + Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen + Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb + The smooth and equal course of His affairs. + This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed + In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; + And, having found His instrument, forgets + Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, + Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims + His hot displeasure against foolish men + That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven + In tempests, quits His grasp upon the winds + And gives them all their fury; bids a plague + Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, + And putrefy the breath of blooming health. + He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend + Blows mildew from between his shrivelled lips, + And taints the golden ear. He springs His mines, + And desolates a nation at a blast. + Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells + Of homogeneal and discordant springs + And principles; of causes how they work + By necessary laws their sure effects; + Of action and reaction. He has found + The source of the disease that nature feels, + And bids the world take heart and banish fear. + Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause + Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God + Still wrought by means since first He made the world, + And did He not of old employ His means + To drown it? What is His creation less + Than a capacious reservoir of means + Formed for His use, and ready at His will? + Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of Him, + Or ask of whomsoever He has taught, + And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still-- + My country! and while yet a nook is left, + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortune, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight; when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children. Praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen + Each in his field of glory; one in arms, + And one in council;--Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame. + They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still + Consulting England's happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet's force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float + Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck + With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, + That no rude savour maritime invade + The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft, + Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes, + That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds + May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. + True, we have lost an empire--let it pass. + True, we may thank the perfidy of France + That picked the jewel out of England's crown, + With all the cunning of an envious shrew. + And let that pass--'twas but a trick of state. + A brave man knows no malice, but at once + Forgets in peace the injuries of war, + And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. + And shamed as we have been, to the very beard + Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved + Too weak for those decisive blows that once + Insured us mastery there, we yet retain + Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast + At least superior jockeyship, and claim + The honours of the turf as all our own. + Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, + And show the shame ye might conceal at home, + In foreign eyes!--be grooms, and win the plate, + Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!-- + 'Tis generous to communicate your skill + To those that need it. Folly is soon learned, + And, under such preceptors, who can fail? + + There is a pleasure in poetic pains + Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, + The expedients and inventions multiform + To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms + Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- + To arrest the fleeting images that fill + The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, + And force them sit, till he has pencilled off + A faithful likeness of the forms he views; + Then to dispose his copies with such art + That each may find its most propitious light, + And shine by situation, hardly less + Than by the labour and the skill it cost, + Are occupations of the poet's mind + So pleasing, and that steal away the thought + With such address from themes of sad import, + That, lost in his own musings, happy man! + He feels the anxieties of life, denied + Their wonted entertainment, all retire. + Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, + Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. + Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps + Aware of nothing arduous in a task + They never undertook, they little note + His dangers or escapes, and haply find + There least amusement where he found the most. + But is amusement all? studious of song + And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, + I would not trifle merely, though the world + Be loudest in their praise who do no more. + Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? + It may correct a foible, may chastise + The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, + Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; + But where are its sublimer trophies found? + What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed + By rigour, or whom laughed into reform? + Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed. + Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, + Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, + That fear no discipline of human hands. + + The pulpit therefore--and I name it, filled + With solemn awe, that bids me well beware + With what intent I touch that holy thing-- + The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, + Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, + Spent all his force, and made no proselyte-- + I say the pulpit, in the sober use + Of its legitimate peculiar powers, + Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, + The most important and effectual guard, + Support, and ornament of virtue's cause. + There stands the messenger of truth; there stands + The legate of the skies; his theme divine, + His office sacred, his credentials clear. + By him, the violated Law speaks out + Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet + As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. + He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, + Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, + And, armed himself in panoply complete + Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms + Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule + Of holy discipline, to glorious war, + The sacramental host of God's elect. + Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were! + But hark--the Doctor's voice--fast wedged between + Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks + Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far + Than all invective is his bold harangue, + While through that public organ of report + He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, + Announces to the world his own and theirs, + He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, + And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, + And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer + The adagio and andante it demands. + He grinds divinity of other days + Down into modern use; transforms old print + To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes + Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.-- + Are there who purchase of the Doctor's ware? + Oh name it not in Gath!--it cannot be, + That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid. + He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, + Assuming thus a rank unknown before, + Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church. + + I venerate the man whose heart is warm, + Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, + Coincident, exhibit lucid proof + That he is honest in the sacred cause. + To such I render more than mere respect, + Whose actions say that they respect themselves. + But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, + In conversation frivolous, in dress + Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, + Frequent in park with lady at his side, + Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes, + But rare at home, and never at his books + Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; + Constant at routs, familiar with a round + Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; + Ambitions of preferment for its gold, + And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, + By infidelity and love o' the world, + To make God's work a sinecure; a slave + To his own pleasures and his patron's pride.-- + From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, + Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands + On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. + + Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, + Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, + Paul should himself direct me. I would trace + His master-strokes, and draw from his design. + I would express him simple, grave, sincere; + In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, + And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, + And natural in gesture; much impressed + Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, + And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds + May feel it too; affectionate in look + And tender in address, as well becomes + A messenger of grace to guilty men. + Behold the picture!--Is it like?--Like whom? + The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, + And then skip down again; pronounce a text, + Cry--Hem; and reading what they never wrote, + Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, + And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. + + In man or woman, but far most in man, + And most of all in man that ministers + And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe + All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; + Object of my implacable disgust. + What!--will a man play tricks, will he indulge + A silly fond conceit of his fair form + And just proportion, fashionable mien, + And pretty face, in presence of his God? + Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, + As with the diamond on his lily hand, + And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, + When I am hungry for the Bread of Life? + He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames + His noble office, and, instead of truth, + Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! + Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare + And start theatric, practised at the glass. + I seek divine simplicity in him + Who handles things divine; and all beside, + Though learned with labour, and though much admired + By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, + To me is odious as the nasal twang + Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, + Misled by custom, strain celestial themes + Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. + Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, + That task performed, relapse into themselves, + And having spoken wisely, at the close + Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye-- + Whoe'er was edified themselves were not. + Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke + An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; + Then with an air, most gracefully performed, + Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, + And lay it at its ease with gentle care, + With handkerchief in hand, depending low: + The better hand, more busy, gives the nose + Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye + With opera glass to watch the moving scene, + And recognise the slow-retiring fair. + Now this is fulsome, and offends me more + Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect + And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind + May be indifferent to her house of clay, + And slight the hovel as beneath her care. + But how a body so fantastic, trim, + And quaint in its deportment and attire, + Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt. + + He that negotiates between God and man, + As God's ambassador, the grand concerns + Of judgment and of mercy, should beware + Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful + To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; + To break a jest, when pity would inspire + Pathetic exhortation; and to address + The skittish fancy with facetious tales, + When sent with God's commission to the heart. + So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip + Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, + And I consent you take it for your text, + Your only one, till sides and benches fail. + No: he was serious in a serious cause, + And understood too well the weighty terms + That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop + To conquer those by jocular exploits, + Whom truth and soberness assailed in vain. + + Oh, popular applause! what heart of man + Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? + The wisest and the best feel urgent need + Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; + But swelled into a gust--who then, alas! + With all his canvas set, and inexpert, + And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? + Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald + Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean + And craving poverty, and in the bow + Respectful of the smutched artificer, + Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb + The bias of the purpose. How much more, + Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite, + In language soft as adoration breathes? + Ah, spare your idol! think him human still; + Charms he may have, but he has frailties too; + Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. + + All truth is from the sempiternal source + Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome + Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we + Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. + To them it flowed much mingled and defiled + With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams + Illusive of philosophy, so called, + But falsely. Sages after sages strove, + In vain, to filter off a crystal draught + Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced + The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred + Intoxication and delirium wild. + In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth + And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man? + Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is? + Where must he find his Maker? With what rites + Adore Him? Will He hear, accept, and bless? + Or does He sit regardless of His works? + Has man within him an immortal seed? + Or does the tomb take all? If he survive + His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? + Knots worthy of solution, which alone + A Deity could solve. Their answers vague, + And all at random, fabulous and dark, + Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, + Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak + To bind the roving appetite, and lead + Blind nature to a God not yet revealed. + 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, + Explains all mysteries, except her own, + And so illuminates the path of life, + That fools discover it, and stray no more. + Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, + My man of morals, nurtured in the shades + Of Academus, is this false or true? + Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? + If Christ, then why resort at every turn + To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short + Of man's occasions, when in Him reside + Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store? + How oft when Paul has served us with a text, + Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached! + Men that, if now alive, would sit content + And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, + Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, + Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. + + And thus it is. The pastor, either vain + By nature, or by flattery made so, taught + To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt + Absurdly, not his office, but himself; + Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, + Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, + Perverting often, by the stress of lewd + And loose example, whom he should instruct, + Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace + The noblest function, and discredits much + The brightest truths that man has ever seen. + For ghostly counsel, if it either fall + Below the exigence, or be not backed + With show of love, at least with hopeful proof + Of some sincerity on the giver's part; + Or be dishonoured in the exterior form + And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks + As move derision, or by foppish airs + And histrionic mummery, that let down + The pulpit to the level of the stage; + Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. + The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, + While prejudice in men of stronger minds + Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see. + A relaxation of religion's hold + Upon the roving and untutored heart + Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, + The laity run wild.--But do they now? + Note their extravagance, and be convinced. + + As nations, ignorant of God, contrive + A wooden one, so we, no longer taught + By monitors that Mother Church supplies, + Now make our own. Posterity will ask + (If e'er posterity sees verse of mine), + Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, + What was a monitor in George's days? + My very gentle reader, yet unborn, + Of whom I needs must augur better things, + Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world + Productive only of a race like us, + A monitor is wood--plank shaven thin. + We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced + And neatly fitted, it compresses hard + The prominent and most unsightly bones, + And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use + Sovereign and most effectual to secure + A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, + From rickets and distortion, else, our lot. + But thus admonished we can walk erect, + One proof at least of manhood; while the friend + Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. + Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, + And, by caprice as multiplied as his, + Just please us while the fashion is at full, + But change with every moon. The sycophant, + That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, + Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; + Finds one ill made, another obsolete, + This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; + And, making prize of all that he condemns, + With our expenditure defrays his own. + Variety's the very spice of life, + That gives it all its flavour. We have run + Through every change that fancy, at the loom + Exhausted, has had genius to supply, + And, studious of mutation still, discard + A real elegance, a little used, + For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. + We sacrifice to dress, till household joys + And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, + And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires, + And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, + Where peace and hospitality might reign. + What man that lives, and that knows how to live, + Would fail to exhibit at the public shows + A form as splendid as the proudest there, + Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? + A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough, + With reasonable forecast and despatch, + To ensure a side-box station at half-price. + You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, + His daily fare as delicate. Alas! + He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems + With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. + The rout is folly's circle which she draws + With magic wand. So potent is the spell, + That none decoyed into that fatal ring, + Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. + There we grow early gray, but never wise; + There form connections, and acquire no friend; + Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; + Waste youth in occupations only fit + For second childhood, and devote old age + To sports which only childhood could excuse. + There they are happiest who dissemble best + Their weariness; and they the most polite, + Who squander time and treasure with a smile, + Though at their own destruction. She that asks + Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, + And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) + Make just reprisals, and, with cringe and shrug + And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. + All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, + Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, + And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, + To her who, frugal only that her thrift + May feed excesses she can ill afford, + Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste + Alighting, turns the key in her own door, + And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, + Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. + Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, + On Fortune's velvet altar offering up + Their last poor pittance--Fortune, most severe + Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far + Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.-- + So fare we in this prison-house the world. + And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see + So many maniacs dancing in their chains. + They gaze upon the links that hold them fast + With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, + Then shake them in despair, and dance again. + + Now basket up the family of plagues + That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale + Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds + By forgery, by subterfuge of law, + By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen + As the necessities their authors feel; + Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat + At the right door. Profusion is its sire. + Profusion unrestrained, with all that's base + In character, has littered all the land, + And bred within the memory of no few + A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, + A people such as never was till now. + It is a hungry vice:--it eats up all + That gives society its beauty, strength, + Convenience, and security, and use; + Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped + And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws + Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot + Of union, and converts the sacred band + That holds mankind together to a scourge. + Profusion, deluging a state with lusts + Of grossest nature and of worst effects, + Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds, + And warps the consciences of public men + Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools + That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face + That would have shocked credulity herself, + Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;-- + Since all alike are selfish, why not they? + This does Profusion, and the accursed cause + Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. + + In colleges and halls, in ancient days, + When learning, virtue, piety, and truth + Were precious, and inculcated with care, + There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, + Not yet by time completely silvered o'er, + Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, + But strong for service still, and unimpaired. + His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile + Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard + Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. + The occupation dearest to his heart + Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke + The head of modest and ingenuous worth, + That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth + Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew + Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant; + The mind was well informed, the passions held + Subordinate, and diligence was choice. + If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, + That one among so many overleaped + The limits of control, his gentle eye + Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; + His frown was full of terror, and his voice + Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe + As left him not, till penitence had won + Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. + But Discipline, a faithful servant long, + Declined at length into the vale of years; + A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye + Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung + Grew tremulous, and moved derision more + Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth. + So colleges and halls neglected much + Their good old friend, and Discipline at length, + O'erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died. + Then study languished, emulation slept, + And virtue fled. The schools became a scene + Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, + His cap well lined with logic not his own, + With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, + Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. + Then compromise had place, and scrutiny + Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, + And he was competent whose purse was so. + A dissolution of all bonds ensued, + The curbs invented for the mulish mouth + Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts + Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates + Forgot their office, opening with a touch; + Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; + The tasselled cap and the spruce band a jest, + A mockery of the world. What need of these + For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, + Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen + With belted waist, and pointers at their heels, + Than in the bounds of duty? What was learned, + If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot, + And such expense as pinches parents blue + And mortifies the liberal hand of love, + Is squandered in pursuit of idle sports + And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, + That sits a stigma on his father's house, + And cleaves through life inseparably close + To him that wears it. What can after-games + Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, + The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, + Add to such erudition thus acquired, + Where science and where virtue are professed? + They may confirm his habits, rivet fast + His folly, but to spoil him is a task + That bids defiance to the united powers + Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. + Now, blame we most the nurselings, or the nurse? + The children crooked and twisted and deformed + Through want of care, or her whose winking eye + And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? + The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge, + She needs herself correction; needs to learn + That it is dangerous sporting with the world, + With things so sacred as a nation's trust; + The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. + + All are not such. I had a brother once-- + Peace to the memory of a man of worth, + A man of letters and of manners too-- + Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, + When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. + He graced a college in which order yet + Was sacred, and was honoured, loved, and wept, + By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. + Some minds are tempered happily, and mixt + With such ingredients of good sense and taste + Of what is excellent in man, they thirst + With such a zeal to be what they approve, + That no restraints can circumscribe them more + Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. + Nor can example hurt them. What they see + Of vice in others but enhancing more + The charms of virtue in their just esteem. + If such escape contagion, and emerge + Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad, + And give the world their talents and themselves, + Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth + Exposed their inexperience to the snare, + And left them to an undirected choice. + + See, then, the quiver broken and decayed, + In which are kept our arrows. Rusting there + In wild disorder and unfit for use, + What wonder if discharged into the world + They shame their shooters with a random flight, + Their points obtuse and feathers drunk with wine. + Well may the Church wage unsuccessful war + With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide + The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, + And stands an impudent and fearless mark. + + Have we not tracked the felon home, and found + His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns-- + Mourns, because every plague that can infest + Society, that saps and worms the base + Of the edifice that Policy has raised, + Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, + And suffocates the breath at every turn. + Profusion breeds them. And the cause itself + Of that calamitous mischief has been found, + Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts + Of the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraigned + Stand up unconscious and refute the charge. + So, when the Jewish leader stretched his arm + And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, + Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth + Polluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plains + Were covered with the pest. The streets were filled; + The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook, + Nor palaces nor even chambers 'scaped, + And the land stank, so numerous was the fry. + + + +BOOK III. + +THE GARDEN. + + As one who, long in thickets and in brakes + Entangled, winds now this way and now that + His devious course uncertain, seeking home; + Or, having long in miry ways been foiled + And sore discomfited, from slough to slough + Plunging, and half despairing of escape, + If chance at length he find a greensward smooth + And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, + He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, + And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; + So I, designing other themes, and called + To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, + To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams, + Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat + Of academic fame, howe'er deserved, + Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. + But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road + I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, + Courageous, and refreshed for future toil, + If toil await me, or if dangers new. + + Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect + Most part an empty ineffectual sound, + What chance that I, to fame so little known, + Nor conversant with men or manners much, + Should speak to purpose, or with better hope + Crack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far + For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes, + And charmed with rural beauty, to repose, + Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine + My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; + Or when rough winter rages, on the soft + And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air + Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth; + There, undisturbed by folly, and apprised + How great the danger of disturbing her, + To muse in silence, or at least confine + Remarks that gall so many to the few, + My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed + Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault + Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. + + Domestic happiness, thou only bliss + Of Paradise that has survived the fall! + Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, + Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm + Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets + Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect + Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. + Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms + She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, + Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. + Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, + That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist + And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm + Of Novelty, her fickle frail support; + For thou art meek and constant, hating change, + And finding in the calm of truth-tried love + Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. + Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made + Of honour, dignity, and fair renown, + Till prostitution elbows us aside + In all our crowded streets, and senates seem + Convened for purposes of empire less, + Than to release the adult'ress from her bond. + The adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse, + What provocation to the indignant heart + That feels for injured love! but I disdain + The nauseous task to paint her as she is, + Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame. + No; let her pass, and charioted along + In guilty splendour shake the public ways; + The frequency of crimes has washed them white, + And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch + Whom matrons now of character unsmirched + And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. + Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time + Not to be passed; and she that had renounced + Her sex's honour, was renounced herself + By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, + But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. + 'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif + Desirous to return, and not received; + But was a wholesome rigour in the main, + And taught the unblemished to preserve with care + That purity, whose loss was loss of all. + Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, + And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped, + And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained, + Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold + His country, or was slack when she required + His every nerve in action and at stretch, + Paid with the blood that he had basely spared + The price of his default. But now,--yes, now, + We are become so candid and so fair, + So liberal in construction, and so rich + In Christian charity (good-natured age!) + That they are safe, sinners of either sex, + Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred, + Well equipaged, is ticket good enough + To pass us readily through every door. + Hypocrisy, detest her as we may + (And no man's hatred ever wronged her yet), + May claim this merit still--that she admits + The worth of what she mimics with such care, + And thus gives virtue indirect applause; + But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, + Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts + And specious semblances have lost their use. + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by one who had himself + Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, + And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts + He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd + And never won. Dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay + As if created only, like the fly + That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, + To sport their season and be seen no more. + The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, + And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. + Some write a narrative of wars, and feats + Of heroes little known, and call the rant + A history; describe the man, of whom + His own coevals took but little note, + And paint his person, character, and views, + As they had known him from his mother's womb; + They disentangle from the puzzled skein, + In which obscurity has wrapped them up, + The threads of politic and shrewd design + That ran through all his purposes, and charge + His mind with meanings that he never had, + Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore + The solid earth, and from the strata there + Extract a register, by which we learn + That He who made it and revealed its date + To Moses, was mistaken in its age. + Some, more acute and more industrious still, + Contrive creation; travel nature up + To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, + And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt, + And planetary some; what gave them first + Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. + Great contest follows, and much learned dust + Involves the combatants, each claiming truth, + And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend + The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp + In playing tricks with nature, giving laws + To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. + Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums + Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight + Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, + That having wielded the elements, and built + A thousand systems, each in his own way, + They should go out in fume and be forgot? + Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are they + But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke-- + Eternity for bubbles proves at last + A senseless bargain. When I see such games + Played by the creatures of a Power who swears + That He will judge the earth, and call the fool + To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain, + And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, + And prove it in the infallible result + So hollow and so false--I feel my heart + Dissolve in pity, and account the learned, + If this be learning, most of all deceived. + Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps + While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. + Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, + From reveries so airy, from the toil + Of dropping buckets into empty wells, + And growing old in drawing nothing up! + + 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, + Terribly arched and aquiline his nose, + And overbuilt with most impending brows, + 'Twere well could you permit the world to live + As the world pleases. What's the world to you?-- + Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk + As sweet as charity from human breasts. + I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, + And exercise all functions of a man. + How then should I and any man that lives + Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, + Take of the crimson stream meandering there, + And catechise it well. Apply your glass, + Search it, and prove now if it be not blood + Congenial with thine own; and if it be, + What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose + Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, + To cut the link of brotherhood, by which + One common Maker bound me to the kind? + True; I am no proficient, I confess, + In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift + And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, + And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath; + I cannot analyse the air, nor catch + The parallax of yonder luminous point + That seems half quenched in the immense abyss: + Such powers I boast not--neither can I rest + A silent witness of the headlong rage, + Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, + Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. + + God never meant that man should scale the heavens + By strides of human wisdom. In His works, + Though wondrous, He commands us in His Word + To seek Him rather where His mercy shines. + The mind indeed, enlightened from above, + Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand cause + The grand effect; acknowledges with joy + His manner, and with rapture tastes His style. + But never yet did philosophic tube, + That brings the planets home into the eye + Of observation, and discovers, else + Not visible, His family of worlds, + Discover Him that rules them; such a veil + Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, + And dark in things divine. Full often too + Our wayward intellect, the more we learn + Of nature, overlooks her Author more; + From instrumental causes proud to draw + Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake: + But if His Word once teach us, shoot a ray + Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal + Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, + Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised + In the pure fountain of eternal love, + Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees + As meant to indicate a God to man, + Gives HIM His praise, and forfeits not her own. + Learning has borne such fruit in other days + On all her branches. Piety has found + Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer + Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. + Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! + Sagacious reader of the works of God, + And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine, + Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, + And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom + Our British Themis gloried with just cause, + Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, + And sound integrity not more, than famed + For sanctity of manners undefiled. + + All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades + Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind; + Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; + The man we celebrate must find a tomb, + And we that worship him, ignoble graves. + Nothing is proof against the general curse + Of vanity, that seizes all below. + The only amaranthine flower on earth + Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth. + But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question put + To truth itself, that deigned him no reply. + And wherefore? will not God impart His light + To them that ask it?--Freely--'tis His joy, + His glory, and His nature to impart. + But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, + Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. + What's that which brings contempt upon a book + And him that writes it, though the style be neat, + The method clear, and argument exact? + That makes a minister in holy things + The joy of many, and the dread of more, + His name a theme for praise and for reproach?-- + That, while it gives us worth in God's account, + Depreciates and undoes us in our own? + What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, + That learning is too proud to gather up, + But which the poor and the despised of all + Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? + Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth. + + Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man, + Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, + Domestic life in rural leisure passed! + Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, + Though many boast thy favours, and affect + To understand and choose thee for their own. + But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, + Even as his first progenitor, and quits, + Though placed in paradise, for earth has still + Some traces of her youthful beauty left, + Substantial happiness for transient joy. + Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse + The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, + By every pleasing image they present, + Reflections such as meliorate the heart, + Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; + Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight + To fill with riot and defile with blood. + Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes + We persecute, annihilate the tribes + That draw the sportsman over hill and dale + Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; + Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, + Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; + Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and song + Be quelled in all our summer months' retreats; + How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, + Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, + Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, + And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! + They love the country, and none else, who seek + For their own sake its silence and its shade; + Delights which who would leave, that has a heart + Susceptible of pity, or a mind + Cultured and capable of sober thought, + For all the savage din of the swift pack, + And clamours of the field? Detested sport, + That owes its pleasures to another's pain, + That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks + Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued + With eloquence, that agonies inspire, + Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs! + Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find + A corresponding tone in jovial souls. + Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare + Has never heard the sanguinary yell + Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. + Innocent partner of my peaceful home, + Whom ten long years' experience of my care + Has made at last familiar, she has lost + Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, + Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. + Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand + That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor + At evening, and at night retire secure + To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; + For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged + All that is human in me to protect + Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. + If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, + And when I place thee in it, sighing say, + I knew at least one hare that had a friend. + + How various his employments, whom the world + Calls idle, and who justly in return + Esteems that busy world an idler, too! + Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, + Delightful industry enjoyed at home, + And nature in her cultivated trim + Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad-- + Can he want occupation who has these? + Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? + Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, + Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, + Not waste it; and aware that human life + Is but a loan to be repaid with use, + When He shall call His debtors to account, + From whom are all our blessings; business finds + Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve, + At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, + The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack + Too oft, and much impeded in its work + By causes not to be divulged in vain, + To its just point--the service of mankind. + He that attends to his interior self, + That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind + That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks + A social, not a dissipated life, + Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve + No unimportant, though a silent task. + A life all turbulence and noise may seem, + To him that leads it, wise and to be praised; + But wisdom is a pearl with most success + Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies. + He that is ever occupied in storms, + Or dives not for it or brings up instead, + Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. + + The morning finds the self-sequestered man + Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. + Whether inclement seasons recommend + His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, + With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, + Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph + Which neatly she prepares; then to his book + Well chosen, and not sullenly perused + In selfish silence, but imparted oft + As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, + Or turn to nourishment digested well. + Or if the garden with its many cares, + All well repaid, demand him, he attends + The welcome call, conscious how much the hand + Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, + Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen, + Or misapplying his unskilful strength. + Nor does he govern only or direct, + But much performs himself; no works indeed + That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, + Servile employ--but such as may amuse, + Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. + Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees + That meet, no barren interval between, + With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, + Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. + These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, + No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, + None but his steel approach them. What is weak, + Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, + Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand + Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft + And succulent that feeds its giant growth, + But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs + Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick + With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left + That may disgrace his art, or disappoint + Large expectation, he disposes neat + At measured distances, that air and sun + Admitted freely may afford their aid, + And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. + Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, + And hence even Winter fills his withered hand + With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, + Fair recompense of labour well bestowed + And wise precaution, which a clime so rude + Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child + Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods + Discovering much the temper of her sire. + For oft, as if in her the stream of mild + Maternal nature had reversed its course, + She brings her infants forth with many smiles, + But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. + He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies + Her want of care, screening and keeping warm + The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep + His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft + As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, + The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam, + And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. + + To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, + So grateful to the palate, and when rare + So coveted, else base and disesteemed-- + Food for the vulgar merely--is an art + That toiling ages have but just matured, + And at this moment unessayed in song. + Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, + Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, + And these the Grecian in ennobling strains; + And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye + The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, + Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame! + The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers + Presuming an attempt not less sublime, + Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste + Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, + A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. + + The stable yields a stercoraceous heap + Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, + And potent to resist the freezing blast. + For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf + Deciduous, and when now November dark + Checks vegetation in the torpid plant + Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. + Warily therefore, and with prudent heed + He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds + The agglomerated pile, his frame may front + The sun's meridian disk, and at the back + Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge + Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread + Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe + The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, + And lightly, shaking it with agile hand + From the full fork, the saturated straw. + What longest binds the closest, forms secure + The shapely side, that as it rises takes + By just degrees an overhanging breadth, + Sheltering the base with its projected eaves. + The uplifted frame compact at every joint, + And overlaid with clear translucent glass, + He settles next upon the sloping mount, + Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure + From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls. + He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. + Thrice must the voluble and restless earth + Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth + Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass + Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold! + A pestilent and most corrosive steam, + Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, + And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, + Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged + And drenched conservatory breathes abroad, + In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank, + And purified, rejoices to have lost + Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage + The impatient fervour which it first conceives + Within its reeking bosom, threatening death + To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. + Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft + The way to glory by miscarriage foul, + Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch + The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat, + Friendly to vital motion, may afford + Soft fermentation, and invite the seed. + The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth + And glossy, he commits to pots of size + Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared + And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, + And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds: + These on the warm and genial earth that hides + The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, + He places lightly, and, as time subdues + The rage of fermentation, plunges deep + In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. + Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick + And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first + Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon, + If fanned by balmy and nutritious air + Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green. + Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, + Cautious he pinches from the second stalk + A pimple, that portends a future sprout, + And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed + The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, + Prolific all, and harbingers of more. + The crowded roots demand enlargement now + And transplantation in an ampler space. + Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply + Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, + Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. + These have their sexes, and when summer shines + The bee transports the fertilising meal + From flower to flower, and even the breathing air + Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. + Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art + Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass + The glad espousals and insures the crop. + + Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have + His dainties, and the world's more numerous half + Lives by contriving delicates for you), + Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, + The vigilance, the labour, and the skill + That day and night are exercised, and hang + Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, + That ye may garnish your profuse regales + With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. + Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart + The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, + Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies + Minute as dust and numberless, oft work + Dire disappointment that admits no cure, + And which no care can obviate. It were long, + Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts + Which he, that fights a season so severe, + Devises, while he guards his tender trust, + And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise + Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song + Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit + Of too much labour, worthless when produced. + + Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. + Unconscious of a less propitious clime + There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, + While the winds whistle and the snows descend. + The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf + Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast + Of Portugal and Western India there, + The ruddier orange and the paler lime, + Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, + And seem to smile at what they need not fear. + The amomum there with intermingling flowers + And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts + Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, + Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, + All plants, of every leaf, that can endure + The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, + Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, + Levantine regions these; the Azores send + Their jessamine; her jessamine remote + Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, + They form one social shade, as if convened + By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. + Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass + But by a master's hand, disposing well + The gay diversities of leaf and flower, + Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, + And dress the regular yet various scene. + Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van + The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still + Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. + So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, + A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; + And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, + The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose + Some note of Nature's music from his lips, + And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen + In every flash of his far-beaming eye. + Nor taste alone and well-contrived display + Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace + Of their complete effect. Much yet remains + Unsung, and many cares are yet behind + And more laborious; cares on which depends + Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. + The soil must be renewed, which often washed + Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, + And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, + Close interwoven where they meet the vase, + Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch + Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf + Must be detached, and where it strews the floor + Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else + Contagion, and disseminating death. + Discharge but these kind offices (and who + Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) + Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, + The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, + Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad + Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. + + So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, + All healthful, are the employs of rural life, + Reiterated as the wheel of time + Runs round, still ending, and beginning still. + Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll + That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears + A flowery island from the dark green lawn + Emerging, must be deemed a labour due + To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. + Here also grateful mixture of well-matched + And sorted hues (each giving each relief, + And by contrasted beauty shining more) + Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, + May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, + But elegance, chief grace the garden shows + And most attractive, is the fair result + Of thought, the creature of a polished mind. + Without it, all is Gothic as the scene + To which the insipid citizen resorts, + Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, + But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, + Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons + Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil, + And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. + He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed + Sightly and in just order, ere he gives + The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, + Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene + Shall break into its preconceived display, + Each for itself, and all as with one voice + Conspiring, may attest his bright design. + Nor even then, dismissing as performed + His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. + Few self-supported flowers endure the wind + Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid + Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied + Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, + For interest sake, the living to the dead. + Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused + And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair; + Like virtue, thriving most where little seen. + Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub + With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, + Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon + And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well + The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. + All hate the rank society of weeds, + Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust + The impoverished earth; an overbearing race, + That, like the multitude made faction-mad, + Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. + + Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world, + Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat + Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore + Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; + But it has peace, and much secures the mind + From all assaults of evil; proving still + A faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with ease + By vicious custom raging uncontrolled + Abroad and desolating public life. + When fierce temptation, seconded within + By traitor appetite, and armed with darts + Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast, + To combat may be glorious, and success + Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe. + Had I the choice of sublunary good, + What could I wish that I possess not here? + Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace, + No loose or wanton though a wandering muse, + And constant occupation without care. + Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; + Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds + And profligate abusers of a world + Created fair so much in vain for them, + Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, + Allured by my report; but sure no less + That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, + And what they will not taste, must yet approve. + What we admire we praise; and when we praise + Advance it into notice, that, its worth + Acknowledged, others may admire it too. + I therefore recommend, though at the risk + Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, + The cause of piety and sacred truth + And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained + Should best secure them and promote them most; + Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive + Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. + Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, + And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. + Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, + Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, + To grace the full pavilion. His design + Was but to boast his own peculiar good, + Which all might view with envy, none partake. + My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, + And she that sweetens all my bitters, too, + Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form + And lineaments divine I trace a hand + That errs not, and find raptures still renewed, + Is free to all men--universal prize. + Strange that so fair a creature should yet want + Admirers, and be destined to divide + With meaner objects even the few she finds. + Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers, + She loses all her influence. Cities then + Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, + Abandoned, as unworthy of our love. + But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed + By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt, + And groves, if unharmonious yet secure + From clamour and whose very silence charms, + To be preferred to smoke--to the eclipse + That Metropolitan volcanoes make, + Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long, + And to the stir of commerce, driving slow, + And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels? + They would be, were not madness in the head + And folly in the heart; were England now + What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, + And undebauched. But we have bid farewell + To all the virtues of those better days, + And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once + Knew their own masters, and laborious hands + That had survived the father, served the son. + Now the legitimate and rightful lord + Is but a transient guest, newly arrived + And soon to be supplanted. He that saw + His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, + Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price + To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. + Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, + Then advertised, and auctioneered away. + The country starves, and they that feed the o'er-charged + And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, + By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. + The wings that waft our riches out of sight + Grow on the gamester's elbows, and the alert + And nimble motion of those restless joints, + That never tire, soon fans them all away. + Improvement too, the idol of the age, + Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes-- + The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. + Down falls the venerable pile, the abode + Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race, + But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, + But in a distant spot; where more exposed + It may enjoy the advantage of the North + And aguish East, till time shall have transformed + Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. + He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, + Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, + And streams, as if created for his use, + Pursue the track of his directed wand + Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, + Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades, + Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles. + 'Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems, + Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, + A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. + Drained to the last poor item of his wealth, + He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan + That he has touched and retouched, many a day + Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, + Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven + He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy. + And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, + When having no stake left, no pledge to endear + Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause + A moment's operation on his love, + He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal + To serve his country. Ministerial grace + Deals him out money from the public chest, + Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse + Supplies his need with an usurious loan, + To be refunded duly, when his vote, + Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. + Oh, innocent compared with arts like these, + Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball + Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds + One drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, + Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content, + So he may wrap himself in honest rags + At his last gasp; but could not for a world + Fish up his dirty and dependent bread + From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, + Sordid and sickening at his own success. + + Ambition, avarice, penury incurred + By endless riot, vanity, the lust + Of pleasure and variety, despatch, + As duly as the swallows disappear, + The world of wandering knights and squires to town; + London engulfs them all. The shark is there, + And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech + That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he + That with bare-headed and obsequious bows + Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail + And groat per diem if his patron frown. + The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp + Were charactered on every statesman's door, + 'BATTERED AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE.' + These are the charms that sully and eclipse + The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe + That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, + The hope of better things, the chance to win, + The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, + That, at the sound of Winter's hoary wing, + Unpeople all our counties of such herds + Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose + And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast + And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. + + Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, + Chequered with all complexions of mankind, + And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see + Much that I love, and more that I admire, + And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair + That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh + And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, + Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee! + Ten righteous would have saved a city once, + And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee-- + That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, + And therefore more obnoxious at this hour + Than Sodom in her day had power to be, + For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. + + + +BOOK IV. + +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 spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back. + True to his charge the close-packed load behind, + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped the 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 indifferent 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 amorous sighs of absent swains, + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh, the important budget! ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? + 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 jewelled 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 imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance 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 squeezed + And bored 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 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? + Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge + That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, + The seals of office glitter in his eyes; + He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels, + Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, + And with a dextrous 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 plundered of their sweets. + Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, + Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs, + Ethereal 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. + 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 makes 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 scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, + Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks + Fringed with a beard made white with other snows + Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, + A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne + A sliding car indebted to no wheels, + But 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, and fixing thought + Not less 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 undisturbed retirement, and the hours + Of long uninterrupted evening know. + No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; + No powdered pert proficients in the art + Of sounding an alarm, assault 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 curly 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. + The volume closed, the customary rites + Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal, + Such as the mistress of the world once found + Delicious, when her patriots of high note, + Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, + And under an old oak's domestic shade, + Enjoyed--spare feast!--a radish and an egg. + Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, + Nor such as with a frown forbids the play + Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth; + Nor do we madly, like an impious world, + Who deem religion frenzy, and the God + That made them an intruder on their joys, + Start at His awful name, or deem His praise + A jarring note; themes of a graver tone + Exciting oft our gratitude and love, + While we retrace with memory's pointing wand + That calls the past to our exact review, + The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare, + The disappointed foe, deliverance found + Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored, + Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:-- + Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed + The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, + More to be prized and coveted than yours, + As more illumined and with nobler truths, + That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. + + Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? + Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, + The pent-up breath of an unsavoury 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 controlled them all, + Relaxed into an universal grin, + Sees not a countenance there that speaks a 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 unfurnished brain, + To palliate dulness and give time a shove. + Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, + Unsoiled 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 mast + Well does the work of his destructive scythe. + Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds + To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, + Whose only happy are their wasted hours. + Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore + The back-string 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. + But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, + Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? + As he that travels far, oft turns aside + To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower, + Which seen 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 mixed for a far different use, + Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing + That fancy finds in her excursive flights. + + Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, + Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! + Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, + With matron-step slow moving, while the night + Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed + In letting fall the curtain of repose + On bird and beast, the other charged for man + With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; + Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, + Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems, + A star or two just twinkling on thy brow + Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine + No less than hers, not worn indeed on high + With ostentatious pageantry, but set + With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, + Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. + Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, + Or make me so. Composure is thy gift; + And whether I devote thy gentle hours + To books, to music, or to poet's toil, + To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit, + Or twining silken threads round ivory reels + When they command whom man was born to please, + I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. + + Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze + With lights, by clear reflection multiplied + From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, + Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk + Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, + My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps + The glowing hearth may satisfy a while + With faint illumination, that uplifts + The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits + Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. + Not undelightful is an hour to me + So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom + Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, + The mind contemplative, with some new theme + Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. + Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers + That never feel a stupor, know no pause, + Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess. + Fearless, a soul that does not always think. + Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild + Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, + Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed + In the red cinders, while with poring eye + I gazed, myself creating what I saw. + Nor less amused have I quiescent watched + The sooty films that play upon the bars + Pendulous, and foreboding in the view + Of superstition, prophesying still, + Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. + 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose + In indolent vacuity of thought, + And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face + Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask + Of deep deliberation, as the man + Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost. + Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour + At evening, till at length the freezing blast + That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home + The recollected powers, and, snapping short + The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves + Her brittle toys, restores me to myself. + How calm is my recess! and how the frost + Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear + The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! + I saw the woods and fields at close of day + A variegated show; the meadows green + Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved + The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, + Upturned so lately by the forceful share; + I saw far off the weedy fallows smile + With verdure not unprofitable, grazed + By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each + His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves + That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue, + Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. + To-morrow brings a change, a total change, + Which even now, though silently performed + And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face + Of universal nature undergoes. + Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes, + Descending and with never-ceasing lapse + Softly alighting upon all below, + Assimilate all objects. Earth receives + Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green + And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, + Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. + + In such a world, so thorny, and where none + Finds happiness unblighted, or if found, + Without some thistly sorrow at its side, + It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin + Against the law of love, to measure lots + With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus + We may with patience bear our moderate ills, + And sympathise with others, suffering more. + Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks + In ponderous boots beside his reeking team; + The wain goes heavily, impeded sore + By congregating loads adhering close + To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, + Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. + The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, + While every breath, by respiration strong + Forced downward, is consolidated soon + Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear + The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, + With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth + Presented bare against the storm, plods on; + One hand secures his hat, save when with both + He brandishes his pliant length of whip, + Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. + Oh happy, and, in my account, denied + That sensibility of pain with which + Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! + Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed + The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; + The learned finger never need explore + Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, + That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone + Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. + Thy days roll on exempt from household care, + Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, + That drag the dull companion to and fro, + Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. + Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, + Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, + With needless hurry whirled from place to place, + Humane as they would seem, not always show. + + Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, + Such claim compassion in a night like this, + And have a friend in every feeling heart. + Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long + They brave the season, and yet find at eve, + Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. + The frugal housewife trembles when she lights + Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, + But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; + The few small embers left she nurses well. + And while her infant race with outspread hands + And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, + Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. + The man feels least, as more inured than she + To winter, and the current in his veins + More briskly moved by his severer toil; + Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. + The taper soon extinguished, which I saw + Dangled along at the cold finger's end + Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf + Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce + Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still, + Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, + Where penury is felt the thought is chained, + And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. + With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care + Ingenious parsimony takes, but just + Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, + Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. + They live, and live without extorted alms + From grudging hands, but other boast have none + To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, + Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. + I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, + For ye are worthy; choosing rather far + A dry but independent crust, hard-earned + And eaten with a sigh, than to endure + The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs + Of knaves in office, partial in their work + Of distribution; liberal of their aid + To clamorous importunity in rags, + But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush + To wear a tattered garb however coarse, + Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; + These ask with painful shyness, and, refused + Because deserving, silently retire. + But be ye of good courage! Time itself + Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, + And all your numerous progeny, well trained, + But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, + And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want + What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, + Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. + I mean the man, who when the distant poor + Need help, denies them nothing but his name. + + But poverty with most, who whimper forth + Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, + The effect of laziness or sottish waste. + Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad + For plunder; much solicitous how best + He may compensate for a day of sloth, + By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, + Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge + Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes + Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength + Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame + To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil-- + An ass's burden,--and when laden most + And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. + Nor does the boarded hovel better guard + The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots + From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave + Unwrenched the door, however well secured, + Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps + In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch + He gives the princely bird with all his wives + To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, + And loudly wondering at the sudden change. + Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse + Did pity of their sufferings warp aside + His principle, and tempt him into sin + For their support, so destitute; but they + Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more + Exposed than others, with less scruple made + His victims, robbed of their defenceless all. + Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst + Of ruinous ebriety that prompts + His every action, and imbrutes the man. + Oh for a law to noose the villain's neck + Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood + He gave them in his children's veins, and hates + And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love. + + Pass where we may, through city, or through town, + Village or hamlet of this merry land, + Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace + Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff + Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes + That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. + There sit involved and lost in curling clouds + Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, + The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there + Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil; + Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, + And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike, + All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams + Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed + Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; + Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, + Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, + Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand + Her undecisive scales. In this she lays + A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride, + And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. + Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound + The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised + As ornamental, musical, polite, + Like those which modern senators employ, + Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame. + Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, + Once simple, are initiated in arts + Which some may practise with politer grace, + But none with readier skill! 'Tis here they learn + The road that leads from competence and peace + To indigence and rapine; till at last + Society, grown weary of the load, + Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out. + But censure profits little. Vain the attempt + To advertise in verse a public pest, + That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds + His hungry acres, stinks and is of use. + The excise is fattened with the rich result + Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, + For ever dribbling out their base contents, + Touched by the Midas finger of the state, + Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away. + Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! + Gloriously drunk, obey the important call, + Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;-- + Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. + + Would I had fallen upon those happier days + That poets celebrate; those golden times + And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, + And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. + Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts + That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems, + From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves; + The footsteps of simplicity, impressed + Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing), + Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane + And manners profligate were rarely found, + Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed. + Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams + Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand, + Imparting substance to an empty shade, + Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. + Grant it: I still must envy them an age + That favoured such a dream, in days like these + Impossible, when virtue is so scarce + That to suppose a scene where she presides + Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. + No. We are polished now. The rural lass, + Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, + Her artless manners and her neat attire, + So dignified, that she was hardly less + Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, + Is seen no more. The character is lost. + Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft + And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised + And magnified beyond all human size, + Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand + For more than half the tresses it sustains; + Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form + Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed + (But that the basket dangling on her arm + Interprets her more truly) of a rank + Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs; + Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, + No longer blushing for her awkward load, + Her train and her umbrella all her care. + + The town has tinged the country; and the stain + Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, + The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs + Down into scenes still rural, but alas, + Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now. + Time was when in the pastoral retreat + The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch + To invade another's right, or guard their own. + Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared + By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale + Of midnight murder was a wonder heard + With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes + But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, + And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep, + See that your polished arms be primed with care, + And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad, + And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat + May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear + To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. + Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk + Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once + Of other tenants than melodious birds, + Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. + Lamented change! to which full many a cause + Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. + The course of human things from good to ill, + From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. + Increase of power begets increase of wealth; + Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; + Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague + That seizes first the opulent, descends + To the next rank contagious, and in time + Taints downward all the graduated scale + Of order, from the chariot to the plough. + The rich, and they that have an arm to check + The licence of the lowest in degree, + Desert their office; and themselves, intent + On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus + To all the violence of lawless hands + Resign the scenes their presence might protect. + Authority itself not seldom sleeps, + Though resident, and witness of the wrong. + The plump convivial parson often bears + The magisterial sword in vain, and lays + His reverence and his worship both to rest + On the same cushion of habitual sloth. + Perhaps timidity restrains his arm, + When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, + Himself enslaved by terror of the band, + The audacious convict whom he dares not bind. + Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, + He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove + Less dainty than becomes his grave outside + In lucrative concerns. Examine well + His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean-- + But here and there an ugly smutch appears. + Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He has touched + Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here + Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, + Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. + + But faster far and more than all the rest + A noble cause, which none who bears a spark + Of public virtue ever wished removed, + Works the deplored and mischievous effect. + 'Tis universal soldiership has stabbed + The heart of merit in the meaner class. + Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage + Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, + Seem most at variance with all moral good, + And incompatible with serious thought. + The clown, the child of nature, without guile, + Blest with an infant's ignorance of all + But his own simple pleasures, now and then + A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair, + Is balloted, and trembles at the news. + Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears + A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, + To do he knows not what. The task performed, + That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, + His pupil, and his torment, and his jest; + His awkward gait, his introverted toes, + Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, + Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, + Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff, + He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, + Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well. + He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk, + He steps right onward, martial in his air, + His form and movement; is as smart above + As meal and larded locks can make him: wears + His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace, + And, his three years of heroship expired, + Returns indignant to the slighted plough. + He hates the field in which no fife or drum + Attends him, drives his cattle to a march, + And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. + 'Twere well if his exterior change were all-- + But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost + His ignorance and harmless manners too. + To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home + By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, + The great proficiency he made abroad, + To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, + To break some maiden's and his mother's heart, + To be a pest where he was useful once, + Are his sole aim, and all his glory now! + Man in society is like a flower + Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone + His faculties expanded in full bloom + Shine out, there only reach their proper use. + But man associated and leagued with man + By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond + For interest sake, or swarming into clans + Beneath one head for purposes of war, + Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound + And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, + Fades rapidly, and by compression marred + Contracts defilement not to be endured. + Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues, + And burghers, men immaculate perhaps + In all their private functions, once combined, + Become a loathsome body, only fit + For dissolution, hurtful to the main. + Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin + Against the charities of domestic life, + Incorporated, seem at once to lose + Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard + For mercy and the common rights of man, + Build factories with blood, conducting trade + At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe + Of innocent commercial justice red. + Hence too the field of glory, as the world + Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, + With all the majesty of thundering pomp, + Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, + Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught + On principle, where foppery atones + For folly, gallantry for every vice. + + But slighted as it is, and by the great + Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, + Infected with the manners and the modes + It knew not once, the country wins me still. + I never framed a wish or formed a plan + That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, + But there I laid the scene. There early strayed + My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice + Had found me, or the hope of being free. + My very dreams were rural, rural too + The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, + Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells + Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. + No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned + To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats + Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe + Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang + The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. + Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: + New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed + The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue + To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. + I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age + As twice seven years, his beauties had then first + Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, + And still admiring, with regret supposed + The joy half lost because not sooner found. + Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved, + Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit + Determined, and possessing it at last + With transports such as favoured lovers feel, + I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, + Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed + By modern lights from an erroneous taste, + I cannot but lament thy splendid wit + Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. + I still revere thee, courtly though retired, + Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, + Not unemployed, and finding rich amends + For a lost world in solitude and verse. + 'Tis born with all. The love of Nature's works + Is an ingredient in the compound, man, + Infused at the creation of the kind. + And though the Almighty Maker has throughout + Discriminated each from each, by strokes + And touches of His hand, with so much art + Diversified, that two were never found + Twins at all points--yet this obtains in all, + That all discern a beauty in His works, + And all can taste them: minds that have been formed + And tutored, with a relish more exact, + But none without some relish, none unmoved. + It is a flame that dies not even there, + Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, + Nor habits of luxurious city life, + Whatever else they smother of true worth + In human bosoms, quench it or abate. + The villas, with which London stands begirt + Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, + Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, + The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer + The citizen, and brace his languid frame! + Even in the stifling bosom of the town, + A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms + That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled + That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, + Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well + He cultivates. These serve him with a hint + That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green + Is still the livery she delights to wear, + Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. + What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, + The prouder sashes fronted with a range + Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, + The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs + That man, immured in cities, still retains + His inborn inextinguishable thirst + Of rural scenes, compensating his loss + By supplemental shifts, the best he may? + The most unfurnished with the means of life, + And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds + To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, + Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head + Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick + And watered duly. There the pitcher stands + A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; + Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets + The country, with what ardour he contrives + A peep at nature, when he can no more. + + Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease + And contemplation, heart-consoling joys + And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode + Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life! + Address himself who will to the pursuit + Of honours, or emolument, or fame, + I shall not add myself to such a chase, + Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. + Some must be great. Great offices will have + Great talents. And God gives to every man + The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, + That lifts him into life, and lets him fall + Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. + To the deliverer of an injured land + He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart + To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; + To monarchs dignity, to judges sense; + To artists ingenuity and skill; + To me an unambitious mind, content + In the low vale of life, that early felt + A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long + Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. + + + +BOOK V. + +THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + + 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb + Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, + That crowd away before the driving wind, + More ardent as the disk emerges more, + Resemble most some city in a blaze, + Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray + Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, + And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, + From every herb and every spiry blade + Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field, + Mine, spindling into longitude immense, + In spite of gravity, and sage remark + That I myself am but a fleeting shade, + Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance + I view the muscular proportioned limb + Transformed to a lean shank; the shapeless pair, + As they designed to mock me, at my side + Take step for step, and, as I near approach + The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, + Preposterous sight, the legs without the man. + The verdure of the plain lies buried deep + Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents + And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, + Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine + Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad, + And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. + The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence + Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep + In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait + Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man, + Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, + And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. + He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, + Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft + His broad keen knife into the solid mass: + Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, + With such undeviating and even force + He severs it away: no needless care, + Lest storms should overset the leaning pile + Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. + Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned + The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe + And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, + From morn to eve his solitary task. + Shaggy and lean and shrewd, with pointed ears + And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, + His dog attends him. Close behind his heel + Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk, + Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow + With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; + Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy. + Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl + Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, + But now and then, with pressure of his thumb, + To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, + That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud + Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. + Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale, + Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam + Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, + Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call + The feathered tribes domestic; half on wing, + And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, + Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. + The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves + To seize the fair occasion; well they eye + The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved + To escape the impending famine, often scared + As oft return, a pert, voracious kind. + Clean riddance quickly made, one only care + Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, + Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned + To sad necessity the cock foregoes + His wonted strut, and, wading at their head + With well-considered steps, seems to resent + His altered gait, and stateliness retrenched. + How find the myriads, that in summer cheer + The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, + Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? + Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe + Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs + Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns + That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), + Afford the smaller minstrel no supply. + The long-protracted rigour of the year + Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes + Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, + As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die. + The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, + Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now + Repays their labour more; and perched aloft + By the way-side, or stalking in the path, + Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, + Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, + Of voided pulse, or half-digested grain. + The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, + O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood + Indurated and fixed the snowy weight + Lies undissolved, while silently beneath + And unperceived the current steals away; + Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps + The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, + And wantons in the pebbly gulf below. + No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force + Can but arrest the light and smoky mist + That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. + And see where it has hung the embroidered banks + With forms so various, that no powers of art, + The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene! + Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high + (Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof + Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees + And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops + That trickle down the branches, fast congealed, + Shoot into pillars of pellucid length + And prop the pile they but adorned before. + Here grotto within grotto safe defies + The sunbeam. There imbossed and fretted wild, + The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes + Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain + The likeness of some object seen before. + Thus nature works as if to mock at art, + And in defiance of her rival powers; + By these fortuitous and random strokes + Performing such inimitable feats, + As she with all her rules can never reach. + Less worthy of applause though more admired, + Because a novelty, the work of man, + Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, + Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, + The wonder of the North. No forest fell + When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores + To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, + And make thy marble of the glassy wave. + In such a palace Aristaeus found + Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale + Of his lost bees to her maternal ear. + In such a palace poetry might place + The armoury of winter, where his troops, + The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, + Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, + And snow that often blinds the traveller's course, + And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. + Silently as a dream the fabric rose. + No sound of hammer or of saw was there. + Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts + Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked + Than water interfused to make them one. + Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, + Illumined every side. A watery light + Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed + Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen + From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. + So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth + And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound + Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within + That royal residence might well befit, + For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths + Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth, + Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none + Where all was vitreous, but in order due + Convivial table and commodious seat + (What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, + Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. + The same lubricity was found in all, + And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene + Of evanescent glory, once a stream, + And soon to slide into a stream again. + Alas, 'twas but a mortifying stroke + Of undesigned severity, that glanced + (Made by a monarch) on her own estate, + On human grandeur and the courts of kings + 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show + 'Twas durable; as worthless, as it seemed + Intrinsically precious; to the foot + Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold. + + Great princes have great playthings. Some have played + At hewing mountains into men, and some + At building human wonders mountain high. + Some have amused the dull sad years of life + (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) + With schemes of monumental fame, and sought + By pyramids and mausoleum pomp, + Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones. + Some seek diversion in the tented field, + And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. + But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, + Kings should not play at. Nations would do well + To extort their truncheons from the puny hands + Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds + Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, + Because men suffer it, their toy the world. + + When Babel was confounded, and the great + Confederacy of projectors wild and vain + Was split into diversity of tongues, + Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, + These to the upland, to the valley those, + God drave asunder and assigned their lot + To all the nations. Ample was the boon + He gave them, in its distribution fair + And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. + Peace was a while their care. They ploughed and sowed, + And reaped their plenty without grudge or strife, + But violence can never longer sleep + Than human passions please. In every heart + Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war, + Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. + Cain had already shed a brother's blood: + The Deluge washed it out; but left unquenched + The seeds of murder in the breast of man. + Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line + Of his descending progeny was found + The first artificer of death; the shrewd + Contriver who first sweated at the forge, + And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel + To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. + Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, + The sword and falchion their inventor claim, + And the first smith was the first murderer's son. + His art survived the waters; and ere long, + When man was multiplied and spread abroad + In tribes and clans, and had begun to call + These meadows and that range of hills his own, + The tasted sweets of property begat + Desire of more; and industry in some + To improve and cultivate their just demesne, + Made others covet what they saw so fair. + Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil, + And those in self-defence. Savage at first + The onset, and irregular. At length + One eminent above the rest, for strength, + For stratagem, or courage, or for all, + Was chosen leader. Him they served in war, + And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds + Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare? + Or who so worthy to control themselves + As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes? + Thus war, affording field for the display + Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, + Which have their exigencies too, and call + For skill in government, at length made king. + King was a name too proud for man to wear + With modesty and meekness, and the crown, + So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, + Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. + It is the abject property of most, + That being parcel of the common mass, + And destitute of means to raise themselves, + They sink and settle lower than they need. + They know not what it is to feel within + A comprehensive faculty, that grasps + Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, + Almost without an effort, plans too vast + For their conception, which they cannot move. + Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk + With gazing, when they see an able man + Step forth to notice; and besotted thus + Build him a pedestal and say--Stand there, + And be our admiration and our praise. + They roll themselves before him in the dust, + Then most deserving in their own account + When most extravagant in his applause, + As if exalting him they raised themselves. + Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound + And sober judgment that he is but man, + They demi-deify and fume him so + That in due season he forgets it too. + Inflated and astrut with self-conceit + He gulps the windy diet, and ere long, + Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks + The world was made in vain if not for him. + Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born + To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, + And sweating in his service. His caprice + Becomes the soul that animates them all. + He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, + Spent in the purchase of renown for him + An easy reckoning, and they think the same. + Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings + Were burnished into heroes, and became + The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; + Storks among frogs, that have but croaked and died. + Strange that such folly, as lifts bloated man + To eminence fit only for a god, + Should ever drivel out of human lips, + Even in the cradled weakness of the world! + Still stranger much, that when at length mankind + Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth, + And could discriminate and argue well + On subjects more mysterious, they were yet + Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear + And quake before the gods themselves had made. + But above measure strange, that neither proof + Of sad experience, nor examples set + By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed, + Can even now, when they are grown mature + In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps + Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest! + Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone + To reverence what is ancient, and can plead + A course of long observance for its use, + That even servitude, the worst of ills, + Because delivered down from sire to son, + Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. + But is it fit, or can it bear the shock + Of rational discussion, that a man, + Compounded and made up like other men + Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust + And folly in as ample measure meet, + As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, + Should be a despot absolute, and boast + Himself the only freeman of his land? + Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, + Wage war, with any or with no pretence + Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, + And force the beggarly last doit, by means + That his own humour dictates, from the clutch + Of poverty, that thus he may procure + His thousands, weary of penurious life, + A splendid opportunity to die? + Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old + Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees + In politic convention) put your trust + I' th' shadow of a bramble, and recline + In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, + Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway, + Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs + Your self-denying zeal that holds it good + To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang + His thorns with streamers of continual praise? + We too are friends to loyalty; we love + The king who loves the law, respects his bounds. + And reigns content within them; him we serve + Freely and with delight, who leaves us free; + But recollecting still that he is man, + We trust him not too far. King though he be, + And king in England, too, he may be weak + And vain enough to be ambitious still, + May exercise amiss his proper powers, + Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: + Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, + To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, + But not to warp or change it. We are his, + To serve him nobly in the common cause + True to the death, but not to be his slaves. + Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love + Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. + We love the man; the paltry pageant you: + We the chief patron of the commonwealth; + You the regardless author of its woes: + We, for the sake of liberty, a king; + You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. + + Our love is principle, and has its root + In reason, is judicious, manly, free; + Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, + And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. + Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, + Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, + I would not be a king to be beloved + Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, + Where love is more attachment to the throne, + Not to the man who fills it as he ought. + + Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at will + Of a superior, he is never free. + Who lives, and is not weary of a life + Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. + The state that strives for liberty, though foiled + And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, + Deserves at least applause for her attempt, + And pity for her loss. But that's a cause + Not often unsuccessful; power usurped + Is weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong, + 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. + But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought + Of freedom, in that hope itself possess + All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, + The scorn of danger, and united hearts, + The surest presage of the good they seek. * + +* The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth +upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost +fashionable to stigmatise such sentiments as no better than empty +declamation. But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.--C. + + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats, + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastille! + Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears, + The sighs and groans of miserable men! + There's not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free. + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of humankind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried, + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music; that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour, and the lover, that has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight;-- + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;-- + To read engraven on the mouldy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;-- + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;-- + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till the sum, exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:-- + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon the endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps a heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower + Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, + And we are weeds without it. All constraint, + Except what wisdom lays on evil men, + Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes + Their progress in the road of science; blinds + The eyesight of discovery, and begets, + In those that suffer it, a sordid mind + Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit + To be the tenant of man's noble form. + Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, + With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed + By public exigence, till annual food + Fails for the craving hunger of the state, + Thee I account still happy, and the chief + Among the nations, seeing thou art free, + My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, + Replete with vapours, and disposes much + All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine; + Thine unadulterate manners are less soft + And plausible than social life requires. + And thou hast need of discipline and art + To give thee what politer France receives + From Nature's bounty--that humane address + And sweetness, without which no pleasure is + In converse, either starved by cold reserve, + Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl; + Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake + Of that one feature, can be well content, + Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, + To seek no sublunary rest beside. + But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure + Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, + Where I am free by birthright, not at all. + Then what were left of roughness in the grain + Of British natures, wanting its excuse + That it belongs to freemen, would disgust + And shock me. I should then with double pain + Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; + And, if I must bewail the blessing lost + For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, + I would at least bewail it under skies + Milder, among a people less austere, + In scenes which, having never known me free, + Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. + Do I forebode impossible events, + And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may, + But the age of virtuous politics is past, + And we are deep in that of cold pretence. + Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, + And we too wise to trust them. He that takes + Deep in his soft credulity the stamp + Designed by loud declaimers on the part + Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, + Incurs derision for his easy faith + And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. + For when was public virtue to be found, + Where private was not? Can he love the whole + Who loves no part? he be a nation's friend + Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there? + Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, + Who slights the charities for whose dear sake + That country, if at all, must be beloved? + --'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad + For England's glory, seeing it wax pale + And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts + So loose to private duty, that no brain, + Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, + Can dream them trusty to the general weal. + Such were not they of old whose tempered blades + Dispersed the shackles of usurped control, + And hewed them link from link. Then Albion's sons + Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart + Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs, + And shining each in his domestic sphere, + Shone brighter still once called to public view. + 'Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot + Forbids their interference, looking on, + Anticipate perforce some dire event; + And seeing the old castle of the state, + That promised once more firmness, so assailed + That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, + Stand motionless expectants of its fall. + All has its date below. The fatal hour + Was registered in heaven ere time began. + We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works + Die too. The deep foundations that we lay, + Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. + We build with what we deem eternal rock; + A distant age asks where the fabric stood; + And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain, + The undiscoverable secret sleeps. + + But there is yet a liberty unsung + By poets, and by senators unpraised, + Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power + Of earth and hell confederate take away; + A liberty, which persecution, fraud, + Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind, + Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more: + 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from heaven, + Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, + And sealed with the same token. It is held + By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure + By the unimpeachable and awful oath + And promise of a God. His other gifts + All bear the royal stamp that speaks them His, + And are august, but this transcends them all. + His other works, this visible display + Of all-creating energy and might, + Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the Word + That, finding an interminable space + Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, + And made so sparkling what was dark before. + But these are not His glory. Man, 'tis true, + Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, + Might well suppose the Artificer Divine + Meant it eternal, had He not Himself + Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, + And still designing a more glorious far, + Doomed it, as insufficient for His praise. + These, therefore, are occasional, and pass; + Formed for the confutation of the fool + Whose lying heart disputes against a God; + That office served, they must be swept away. + Not so the labours of His love; they shine + In other heavens than these that we behold, + And fade not. There is Paradise that fears + No forfeiture, and of its fruits He sends + Large prelibation oft to saints below. + Of these the first in order, and the pledge + And confident assurance of the rest, + Is liberty; a flight into His arms + Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, + A clear escape from tyrannising lust, + And fill immunity from penal woe. + + Chains are the portion of revolted man, + Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves + The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, + Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. + Propense his heart to idols, he is held + In silly dotage on created things + Careless of their Creator. And that low + And sordid gravitation of his powers + To a vile clod, so draws him with such force + Resistless from the centre he should seek, + That he at last forgets it. All his hopes + Tend downward, his ambition is to sink, + To reach a depth profounder still, and still + Profounder, in the fathomless abyss + Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. + But ere he gain the comfortless repose + He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, + In heaven renouncing exile, he endures + What does he not? from lusts opposed in vain, + And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees + The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, + Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all + That can ennoble man, and make frail life, + Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, + Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins + Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes + Ages of hopeless misery; future death, + And death still future; not a hasty stroke, + Like that which sends him to the dusty grave, + But unrepealable enduring death. + Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: + What none can prove a forgery, may be true; + What none but bad men wish exploded, must. + That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud + Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst + Of laughter his compunctions are sincere, + And he abhors the jest by which he shines. + Remorse begets reform. His master-lust + Falls first before his resolute rebuke, + And seems dethroned and vanquished. Peace ensues, + But spurious and short-lived, the puny child + Of self-congratulating Pride, begot + On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, + And fights again; but finds his best essay, + A presage ominous, portending still + Its own dishonour by a worse relapse, + Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foiled + So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, + Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now + Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause, + Perversely, which of late she so condemned; + With shallow shifts and old devices, worn + And tattered in the service of debauch, + Covering his shame from his offended sight. + + "Hath God indeed given appetites to man, + And stored the earth so plenteously with means + To gratify the hunger of His wish, + And doth He reprobate and will He damn + The use of His own bounty? making first + So frail a kind, and then enacting laws + So strict, that less than perfect must despair? + Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth, + Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. + Do they themselves, who undertake for hire + The teacher's office, and dispense at large + Their weekly dole of edifying strains, + Attend to their own music? have they faith + In what, with such solemnity of tone + And gesture, they propound to our belief? + Nay--conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice + Is but an instrument on which the priest + May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, + The unequivocal authentic deed, + We find sound argument, we read the heart." + + Such reasonings (if that name must needs belong + To excuses in which reason has no part) + Serve to compose a spirit well inclined + To live on terms of amity with vice, + And sin without disturbance. Often urged + (As often as, libidinous discourse + Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes + Of theological and grave import), + They gain at last his unreserved assent, + Till, hardened his heart's temper in the forge + Of lust and on the anvil of despair, + He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, + Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; + Vain tampering has but fostered his disease, + 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. + Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. + Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear + Of rectitude and fitness: moral truth + How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, + Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps + Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. + Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers + Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise, + Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, + And with poetic trappings grace thy prose + Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.-- + Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass + Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm + The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, + And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. + The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, + Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect, + Who calls for things that are not, and they come. + + Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change + That turns to ridicule the turgid speech + And stately tone of moralists, who boast, + As if, like him of fabulous renown, + They had indeed ability to smooth + The shag of savage nature, and were each + An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. + But transformation of apostate man + From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, + Is work for Him that made him. He alone, + And He, by means in philosophic eyes + Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves + The wonder; humanising what is brute + In the lost kind, extracting from the lips + Of asps their venom, overpowering strength + By weakness, and hostility by love. + + Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause + Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, + Receive proud recompense. We give in charge + Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, + Proud of the treasure, marches with it down + To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, + Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, + To guard them, and to immortalise her trust. + But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, + To those who, posted at the shrine of truth, + Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood + Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed, + And for a time ensure to his loved land, + The sweets of liberty and equal laws; + But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, + And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed + In confirmation of the noblest claim, + Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, + To walk with God, to be divinely free, + To soar, and to anticipate the skies! + Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, + Till persecution dragged them into fame + And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew + --No marble tells us whither. With their names + No bard embalms and sanctifies his song, + And history, so warm on meaner themes, + Is cold on this. She execrates indeed + The tyranny that doomed them to the fire, + But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. + + He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, + And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain + That hellish foes confederate for his harm + Can wind around him, but he casts it off + With as much ease as Samson his green withes. + He looks abroad into the varied field + Of Nature, and, though poor perhaps compared + With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, + Calls the delightful scenery all his own. + His are the mountains, and the valleys his, + And the resplendent river's. His to enjoy + With a propriety that none can feel, + But who, with filial confidence inspired, + Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, + And smiling say--My Father made them all! + Are they not his by a peculiar right, + And by an emphasis of interest his, + Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, + Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind + With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love + That planned, and built, and still upholds a world + So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? + Yes--ye may fill your garners, ye that reap + The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good + In senseless riot; but ye will not find + In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, + A liberty like his, who, unimpeached + Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, + Appropriates nature as his Father's work, + And has a richer use of yours, than you. + He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth + Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills + Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea + With all his roaring multitude of waves. + His freedom is the same in every state; + And no condition of this changeful life + So manifold in cares, whose every day + Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. + For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, + Nor penury, can cripple or confine. + No nook so narrow but he spreads them there + With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds + His body bound, but knows not what a range + His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; + And that to bind him is a vain attempt, + Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. + + Acquaint thyself with God if thou wouldst taste + His works. Admitted once to His embrace, + Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; + Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart, + Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight + Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. + Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone, + And eyes intent upon the scanty herb + It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, + Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread + Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away + From inland regions to the distant main. + Man views it and admires, but rests content + With what he views. The landscape has his praise, + But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed + The paradise he sees, he finds it such, + And such well pleased to find it, asks no more. + Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, + And in the school of sacred wisdom taught + To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, + Fair as it is, existed ere it was. + Nor for its own sake merely, but for His + Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise; + Praise that from earth resulting as it ought + To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once + Its only just proprietor in Him. + The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed + New faculties or learns at least to employ + More worthily the powers she owned before; + Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze + Of ignorance, till then she overlooked, + A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms + Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute + The unambiguous footsteps of the God + Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing + And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds. + Much conversant with heaven, she often holds + With those fair ministers of light to man + That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp + Sweet conference; inquires what strains were they + With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste + To gratulate the new-created earth, + Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God + Shouted for joy.--"Tell me, ye shining hosts + That navigate a sea that knows no storms, + Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, + If from your elevation, whence ye view + Distinctly scenes invisible to man + And systems of whose birth no tidings yet + Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race + Favoured as ours, transgressors from the womb + And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise + And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? + As one who, long detained on foreign shores, + Pants to return, and when he sees afar + His country's weather-bleached and battered rocks, + From the green wave emerging, darts an eye + Radiant with joy towards the happy land; + So I with animated hopes behold, + And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, + That show like beacons in the blue abyss, + Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home + From toilsome life to never-ending rest. + Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires + That give assurance of their own success, + And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend." + + So reads he Nature whom the lamp of truth + Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word! + Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost + With intellect bemazed in endless doubt, + But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, + With means that were not till by Thee employed, + Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength + Been less, or less benevolent than strong. + They are Thy witnesses, who speak Thy power + And goodness infinite, but speak in ears + That hear not, or receive not their report. + In vain Thy creatures testify of Thee + Till Thou proclaim Thyself. Theirs is indeed + A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of Thine + That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, + And with the boon gives talents for its use. + Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain + Possess the heart, and fables, false as hell, + Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death + The uninformed and heedless souls of men. + We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, + The glory of Thy work, which yet appears + Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, + Challenging human scrutiny, and proved + Then skilful most when most severely judged. + But chance is not; or is not where Thou reign'st: + Thy providence forbids that fickle power + (If power she be that works but to confound) + To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws. + Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can, + Instruction, and inventing to ourselves + Gods such as guilt makes welcome--gods that sleep, + Or disregard our follies, or that sit + Amused spectators of this bustling stage. + Thee we reject, unable to abide + Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, + Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause + For which we shunned and hated Thee before. + Then we are free: then liberty, like day, + Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven + Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. + A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not + Till Thou hast touched them; 'tis the voice of song, + A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works, + Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, + And adds his rapture to the general praise. + In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide + Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile + The Author of her beauties, who, retired + Behind His own creation, works unseen + By the impure, and hears His power denied. + Thou art the source and centre of all minds, + Their only point of rest, eternal Word! + From Thee departing, they are lost and rove + At random, without honour, hope, or peace. + From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, + His high endeavour, and his glad success, + His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. + But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good, + Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown! + Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, + And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. + + + +BOOK VI. + +THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + + There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, + And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased + With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; + Some chord in unison with what we hear + Is touched within us, and the heart replies. + How soft the music of those village bells + Falling at intervals upon the ear + In cadence sweet, now dying all away, + Now pealing loud again, and louder still, + Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on. + With easy force it opens all the cells + Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard + A kindred melody, the scene recurs, + And with it all its pleasures and its pains. + Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, + That in a few short moments I retrace + (As in a map the voyager his course) + The windings of my way through many years. + Short as in retrospect the journey seems, + It seemed not always short; the rugged path, + And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, + Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. + Yet feeling present evils, while the past + Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, + How readily we wish time spent revoked, + That we might try the ground again, where once + (Through inexperience as we now perceive) + We missed that happiness we might have found. + Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend + A father, whose authority, in show + When most severe, and mustering all its force, + Was but the graver countenance of love; + Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, + And utter now and then an awful voice, + But had a blessing in its darkest frown, + Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. + We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand + That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured + By every gilded folly, we renounced + His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent + That converse which we now in vain regret. + How gladly would the man recall to life + The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, + That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, + Might he demand them at the gates of death. + Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed + The playful humour; he could now endure + (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) + And feel a parent's presence no restraint. + But not to understand a treasure's worth + Till time has stolen away the slighted good, + Is cause of half the poverty we feel, + And makes the world the wilderness it is. + The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, + And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, + Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings, as I tread + The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though movable through all its length, + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And, intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought: + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes and more than half suppressed. + Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give an useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men; + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds + Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore without pause or choice + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + What prodigies can power divine perform + More grand than it produces year by year, + And all in sight of inattentive man? + Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, + And in the constancy of Nature's course, + The regular return of genial months, + And renovation of a faded world, + See nought to wonder at. Should God again, + As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race + Of the undeviating and punctual sun, + How would the world admire! but speaks it less + An agency divine, to make him know + His moment when to sink and when to rise + Age after age, than to arrest his course? + All we behold is miracle: but, seen + So duly, all is miracle in vain. + Where now the vital energy that moved, + While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph + Through the imperceptible meandering veins + Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch + Of unprolific winter has impressed + A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. + But let the months go round, a few short months, + And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, + Barren as lances, among which the wind + Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, + Shall put their graceful foliage on again, + And more aspiring and with ampler spread + Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. + Then, each in its peculiar honours clad, + Shall publish even to the distant eye + Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich + In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure; + The scented and the scentless rose; this red + And of a humbler growth, the other tall, + And throwing up into the darkest gloom + Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, + Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf + That the wind severs from the broken wave; + The lilac various in array, now white, + Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set + With purple spikes pyramidal, as if + Studious of ornament, yet unresolved + Which hue she most approved, she chose them all; + Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, + But well compensating their sickly looks + With never-cloying odours, early and late; + Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm + Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods, + That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, + Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset + With blushing wreaths investing every spray; + Althaea with the purple eye; the broom, + Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed + Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all + The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, + The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf + Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more + The bright profusion of her scattered stars.-- + These have been, and these shall be in their day, + And all this uniform uncoloured scene + Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, + And flush into variety again. + From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, + Is Nature's progress when she lectures man + In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes + The grand transition, that there lives and works + A soul in all things, and that soul is God. + The beauties of the wilderness are His, + That make so gay the solitary place + Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms + That cultivation glories in, are His. + He sets the bright procession on its way, + And marshals all the order of the year. + He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, + And blunts his pointed fury. In its case, + Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ + Uninjured, with inimitable art, + And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, + Designs the blooming wonders of the next. + + Some say that in the origin of things, + When all creation started into birth, + The infant elements received a law + From which they swerve not since; that under force + Of that controlling ordinance they move, + And need not His immediate hand, who first + Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. + Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God + The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare + The great Artificer of all that moves + The stress of a continual act, the pain + Of unremitted vigilance and care, + As too laborious and severe a task. + So man the moth is not afraid, it seems, + To span Omnipotence, and measure might + That knows no measure, by the scanty rule + And standard of his own, that is to-day, + And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. + But how should matter occupy a charge + Dull as it is, and satisfy a law + So vast in its demands, unless impelled + To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, + And under pressure of some conscious cause? + The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused + Sustains and is the life of all that lives. + Nature is but a name for an effect + Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire + By which the mighty process is maintained, + Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight + Slow-circling ages are as transient days; + Whose work is without labour, whose designs + No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts, + And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. + Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, + With self-taught rites and under various names + Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, + And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth + With tutelary goddesses and gods + That were not, and commending as they would + To each some province, garden, field, or grove. + But all are under One. One spirit--His + Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows-- + Rules universal nature. Not a flower + But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, + Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires + Their balmy odours and imparts their hues, + And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, + In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, + The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth. + Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds + Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, + Or what he views of beautiful or grand + In nature, from the broad majestic oak + To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, + Prompts with remembrance of a present God. + His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, + Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene + Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please. + Though winter had been none had man been true, + And earth be punished for its tenant's sake, + Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, + So soon succeeding such an angry night, + And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream, + Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. + + Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned + To contemplation, and within his reach + A scene so friendly to his favourite task, + Would waste attention at the chequered board, + His host of wooden warriors to and fro + Marching and counter-marching, with an eye + As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged + And furrowed into storms, and with a hand + Trembling, as if eternity were hung + In balance on his conduct of a pin? + Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, + Who pant with application misapplied + To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls + Across the velvet level, feel a joy + Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds + Its destined goal of difficult access. + Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon + To Miss, the Mercer's plague, from shop to shop + Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks + The polished counter, and approving none, + Or promising with smiles to call again. + Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced, + And soothed into a dream that he discerns + The difference of a Guido from a daub, + Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there + As duly as the Langford of the show, + With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, + And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant + And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease, + Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls + He notes it in his book, then raps his box, + Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate + That he has let it pass--but never bids. + + Here unmolested, through whatever sign + The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, + Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me, + Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. + Even in the spring and play-time of the year + That calls the unwonted villager abroad + With all her little ones, a sportive train, + To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, + And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick + A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, + These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, + Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, + Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed + Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends + His long love-ditty for my near approach. + Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm + That age or injury has hollowed deep, + Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves + He has outslept the winter, ventures forth + To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, + The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. + He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, + Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, + And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, + With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, + And anger insignificantly fierce. + + The heart is hard in nature, and unfit + For human fellowship, as being void + Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike + To love and friendship both, that is not pleased + With sight of animals enjoying life, + Nor feels their happiness augment his own. + The bounding fawn that darts across the glade + When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, + And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; + The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, + That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, + Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels + Starts to the voluntary race again; + The very kine that gambol at high noon, + The total herd receiving first from one, + That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, + Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth + Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent + To give such act and utterance as they may + To ecstasy too big to be suppressed-- + These, and a thousand images of bliss, + With which kind nature graces every scene + Where cruel man defeats not her design, + Impart to the benevolent, who wish + All that are capable of pleasure pleased, + A far superior happiness to theirs, + The comfort of a reasonable joy. + + Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call + Who formed him from the dust, his future grave, + When he was crowned as never king was since. + God set His diadem upon his head, + And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood + The new-made monarch, while before him passed, + All happy and all perfect in their kind, + The creatures, summoned from their various haunts + To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. + Vast was his empire, absolute his power, + Or bounded only by a law whose force + 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel + And own, the law of universal love. + He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy. + No cruel purpose lurked within his heart, + And no distrust of his intent in theirs. + So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, + Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole + Begat a tranquil confidence in all, + And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. + But sin marred all; and the revolt of man, + That source of evils not exhausted yet, + Was punished with revolt of his from him. + Garden of God, how terrible the change + Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart, + Each animal of every name, conceived + A jealousy and an instinctive fear, + And, conscious of some danger, either fled + Precipitate the loathed abode of man, + Or growled defiance in such angry sort, + As taught him too to tremble in his turn. + Thus harmony and family accord + Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour + The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled + To such gigantic and enormous growth, + Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. + Hence date the persecution and the pain + That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, + Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, + To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, + Or his base gluttony, are causes good + And just in his account, why bird and beast + Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed + With blood of their inhabitants impaled. + Earth groans beneath the burden of a war + Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, + Not satisfied to prey on all around, + Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs + Needless, and first torments ere he devours. + Now happiest they that occupy the scenes + The most remote from his abhorred resort, + Whom once as delegate of God on earth + They feared, and as His perfect image loved. + The wilderness is theirs with all its caves, + Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains + Unvisited by man. There they are free, + And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled, + Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. + Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude + Within the confines of their wild domain; + The lion tells him, "I am monarch here;" + And if he spares him, spares him on the terms + Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn + To rend a victim trembling at his foot. + In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, + Or by necessity constrained, they live + Dependent upon man, those in his fields, + These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; + They prove too often at how dear a rate + He sells protection. Witness, at his foot + The spaniel dying for some venial fault, + Under dissection of the knotted scourge; + Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells + Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs + To madness, while the savage at his heels + Laughs at the frantic sufferer's fury spent + Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. + He too is witness, noblest of the train + That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: + With unsuspecting readiness he takes + His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day, + With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life, + To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies. + So little mercy shows who needs so much! + Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, + Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None. + He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts + (As if barbarity were high desert) + The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise + Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose + The honours of his matchless horse his own. + But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth, + Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt, + Have each their record, with a curse annexed. + Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, + But God will never. When He charged the Jew + To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise, + And when the bush-exploring boy that seized + The young, to let the parent bird go free, + Proved He not plainly that His meaner works + Are yet His care, and have an interest all, + All, in the universal Father's love? + On Noah, and in him on all mankind, + The charter was conferred by which we hold + The flesh of animals in fee, and claim, + O'er all we feed on, power of life and death. + But read the instrument, and mark it well; + The oppression of a tyrannous control + Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield + Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, + Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute. + + The Governor of all, Himself to all + So bountiful, in whose attentive ear + The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp + Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs + Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed, + Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite + The injurious trampler upon nature's law, + That claims forbearance even for a brute. + He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart, + And, prophet as he was, he might not strike + The blameless animal, without rebuke, + On which he rode. Her opportune offence + Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. + He sees that human equity is slack + To interfere, though in so just a cause, + And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb + And helpless victims with a sense so keen + Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, + And such sagacity to take revenge, + That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man. + An ancient, not a legendary tale, + By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, + (If such, who plead for Providence may seem + In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear. + + Where England, stretched towards the setting sun, + Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, + Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he + Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, + Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. + He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went, + To join a traveller of far different note-- + Evander, famed for piety, for years + Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. + Fame had not left the venerable man + A stranger to the manners of the youth, + Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. + Their way was on the margin of the land, + O'er the green summit of the rocks whose base + Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. + The charity that warmed his heart was moved + At sight of the man-monster. With a smile + Gentle and affable, and full of grace, + As fearful of offending whom he wished + Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths + Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed, + But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. + "And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man + Exclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age, + And fantasies of dotards such as thou, + Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? + Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave + Need no such aids as superstition lends + To steel their hearts against the dread of death." + He spoke, and to the precipice at hand + Pushed with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, + And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought + Of such a gulf as he designed his grave. + But though the felon on his back could dare + The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed + Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, + Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge, + Baffled his rider, saved against his will. + The frenzy of the brain may be redressed + By medicine well applied, but without grace + The heart's insanity admits no cure. + Enraged the more by what might have reformed + His horrible intent, again he sought + Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed, + With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood. + But still in vain. The Providence that meant + A longer date to the far nobler beast, + Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. + And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere, + Incurable obduracy evinced, + His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned + So cheaply the renown of that attempt, + With looks of some complacence he resumed + His road, deriding much the blank amaze + Of good Evander, still where he was left + Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread. + So on they fared; discourse on other themes + Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past, + And tamer far for so much fury shown + (As is the course of rash and fiery men) + The rude companion smiled as if transformed. + But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, + An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. + The impious challenger of power divine + Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, + Is never with impunity defied. + His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, + Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, + Unbidden, and not now to be controlled, + Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood. + At once the shock unseated him; he flew + Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and, immersed + Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, + The death he had deserved, and died alone. + So God wrought double justice; made the fool + The victim of his own tremendous choice, + And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. + + I would not enter on my list of friends + (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility) the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes + A visitor unwelcome into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, + The chamber, or refectory, may die. + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field. + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, + Or safety interfere, his rights and claims + Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. + Else they are all--the meanest things that are-- + As free to live and to enjoy that life, + As God was free to form them at the first, + Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. + Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons + To love it too. The spring-time of our years + Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most + By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand + To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, + If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, + Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. + Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule + And righteous limitation of its act, + By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man; + And he that shows none, being ripe in years, + And conscious of the outrage he commits, + Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. + + Distinguished much by reason, and still more + By our capacity of grace divine, + From creatures that exist but for our sake, + Which having served us, perish, we are held + Accountable, and God, some future day, + Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse + Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. + Superior as we are, they yet depend + Not more on human help, than we on theirs. + Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given + In aid of our defects. In some are found + Such teachable and apprehensive parts, + That man's attainments in his own concerns, + Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, + Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind. + Some show that nice sagacity of smell, + And read with such discernment, in the port + And figure of the man, his secret aim, + That oft we owe our safety to a skill + We could not teach, and must despair to learn. + But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop + To quadruped instructors, many a good + And useful quality, and virtue too, + Rarely exemplified among ourselves; + Attachment never to be weaned, or changed + By any change of fortune, proof alike + Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; + Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat + Can move or warp; and gratitude for small + And trivial favours, lasting as the life, + And glistening even in the dying eye. + + Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms + Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit + Patiently present at a sacred song, + Commemoration-mad; content to hear + (Oh wonderful effect of music's power!) + Messiah's eulogy, for Handel's sake. + But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve-- + (For was it less? What heathen would have dared + To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath + And hang it up in honour of a man?) + Much less might serve, when all that we design + Is but to gratify an itching ear, + And give the day to a musician's praise. + Remember Handel! who, that was not born + Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, + Or can, the more than Homer of his age? + Yes--we remember him; and, while we praise + A talent so divine, remember too + That His most holy Book from whom it came + Was never meant, was never used before + To buckram out the memory of a man. + But hush!--the muse perhaps is too severe, + And with a gravity beyond the size + And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed + Less impious than absurd, and owing more + To want of judgment than to wrong design. + So in the chapel of old Ely House, + When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, + Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, + The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, + And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, + Sung to the praise and glory of King George. + --Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next, + When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made + The idol of our worship while he lived + The god of our idolatry once more, + Shall have its altar; and the world shall go + In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. + The theatre, too small, shall suffocate + Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits + Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return + Ungratified. For there some noble lord + Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch, + Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, + And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, + To show the world how Garrick did not act, + For Garrick was a worshipper himself; + He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites + And solemn ceremonial of the day, + And called the world to worship on the banks + Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof + That piety has still in human hearts + Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. + The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths, + The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance, + The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs, + And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree + Supplied such relics as devotion holds + Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. + So 'twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned, + And mirth without offence. No few returned + Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed. + --Man praises man. The rabble all alive, + From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, + Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, + A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes; + Some shout him, and some hang upon his car + To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave + Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy + While others not so satisfied unhorse + The gilded equipage, and, turning loose + His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. + Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state? + No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. + Enchanting novelty, that moon at full + That finds out every crevice of the head + That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs + Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, + And his own cattle must suffice him soon. + Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, + And dedicate a tribute, in its use + And just direction sacred, to a thing + Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there. + Encomium in old time was poet's work; + But, poets having lavishly long since + Exhausted all materials of the art, + The task now falls into the public hand; + And I, contented with a humble theme, + Have poured my stream of panegyric down + The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds + Among her lovely works, with a secure + And unambitious course, reflecting clear + If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes. + And I am recompensed, and deem the toil + Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine + May stand between an animal and woe, + And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. + + The groans of Nature in this nether world, + Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. + Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, + Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, + The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes. + Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh + Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course + Over a sinful world; and what remains + Of this tempestuous state of human things, + Is merely as the working of a sea + Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. + For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds + The dust that waits upon His sultry march, + When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot, + Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend + Propitious, in His chariot paved with love, + And what His storms have blasted and defaced + For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. + + Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet + Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch; + Nor can the wonders it records be sung + To meaner music, and not suffer loss. + But when a poet, or when one like me, + Happy to rove among poetic flowers, + Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last + On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, + Such is the impulse and the spur he feels + To give it praise proportioned to its worth, + That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems + The labour, were a task more arduous still. + + Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, + Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see, + Though but in distant prospect, and not feel + His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? + Rivers of gladness water all the earth, + And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach + Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field + Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean, + Or fertile only in its own disgrace, + Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. + The various seasons woven into one, + And that one season an eternal spring, + The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, + For there is none to covet, all are full. + The lion and the libbard and the bear + Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon + Together, or all gambol in the shade + Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. + Antipathies are none. No foe to man + Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees, + And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand + Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, + To stroke his azure neck, or to receive + The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. + All creatures worship man, and all mankind + One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; + That creeping pestilence is driven away, + The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart + No passion touches a discordant string, + But all is harmony and love. Disease + Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood + Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. + One song employs all nations; and all cry, + "Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!" + The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks + Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops + From distant mountains catch the flying joy, + Till nation after nation taught the strain, + Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. + Behold the measure of the promise filled, + See Salem built, the labour of a God! + Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; + All kingdoms and all princes of the earth + Flock to that light; the glory of all lands + Flows into her, unbounded is her joy + And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, + Nebaioth,* and the flocks of Kedar there; + The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, + And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. + Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls, + And in her streets, and in her spacious courts + Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there + Kneels with the native of the farthest West, + And AEthiopia spreads abroad the hand, + And worships. Her report has travelled forth + Into all lands. From every clime they come + To see thy beauty and to share thy joy, + O Sion! an assembly such as earth + Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see. + +* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the +Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to may be reasonably +considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.--C. + + Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once + Perfect, and all must be at length restored. + So God has greatly purposed; who would else + In His dishonoured works Himself endure + Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. + Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, + Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see + (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) + A world that does not dread and hate His laws, + And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair + The creature is that God pronounces good, + How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. + Here every drop of honey hides a sting; + Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, + And even the joy, that haply some poor heart + Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, + Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint + From touch of human lips, at best impure. + Oh for a world in principle as chaste + As this is gross and selfish! over which + Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, + That govern all things here, shouldering aside + The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her + To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife + In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men, + Where violence shall never lift the sword, + Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, + Leaving the poor no remedy but tears; + Where he that fills an office, shall esteem + The occasion it presents of doing good + More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak + Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts, + And equity, not jealous more to guard + A worthless form, than to decide aright; + Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, + Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) + With lean performance ape the work of love. + + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, + Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine + By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth, + And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since, + And overpaid its value with Thy blood. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts + Thy title is engraven with a pen + Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay + Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see + The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired, + Would creep into the bowels of the hills, + And flee for safety to the falling rocks. + The very spirit of the world is tired + Of its own taunting question, asked so long, + "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?" + The infidel has shot his bolts away, + Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, + He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled, + And aims them at the shield of truth again. + The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, + That hides divinity from mortal eyes; + And all the mysteries to faith proposed, + Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, + As useless, to the moles and to the bats. + They now are deemed the faithful and are praised, + Who, constant only in rejecting Thee, + Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, + And quit their office for their error's sake. + Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these + Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel, + Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man! + So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare, + The world takes little thought; who will may preach, + And what they will. All pastors are alike + To wandering sheep resolved to follow none. + Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain; + For these they live, they sacrifice to these, + And in their service wage perpetual war + With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, + And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth + To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, + High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. + Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down + The features of the last degenerate times, + Exhibit every lineament of these. + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one as radiant as the rest, + Due to Thy last and most effectual work, + Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world. + + He is the happy man, whose life even now + Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; + Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, + Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, + Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit + Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, + Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one + Content indeed to sojourn while he must + Below the skies, but having there his home. + The world o'erlooks him in her busy search + Of objects more illustrious in her view; + And occupied as earnestly as she, + Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. + She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; + He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. + He cannot skim the ground like summer birds + Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems + Her honours, her emoluments, her joys; + Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, + Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth + She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, + And shows him glories yet to be revealed. + Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, + And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams + Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird + That flutters least is longest on the wing. + Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, + Or what achievements of immortal fame + He purposes, and he shall answer--None. + His warfare is within. There unfatigued + His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, + And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, + And never-withering wreaths, compared with which + The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. + Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, + That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks, + Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see, + Deems him a cipher in the works of God, + Receives advantage from his noiseless hours + Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes + Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring + And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes + When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint + Walks forth to meditate at eventide, + And think on her who thinks not for herself. + Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns + Of little worth, and idler in the best, + If, author of no mischief and some good, + He seeks his proper happiness by means + That may advance, but cannot hinder thine. + Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, + Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, + Account him an encumbrance on the state, + Receiving benefits, and rendering none. + His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere + Shine with his fair example, and though small + His influence, if that influence all be spent + In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, + In aiding helpless indigence, in works + From which at least a grateful few derive + Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, + Then let the supercilious great confess + He serves his country; recompenses well + The state beneath the shadow of whose vine + He sits secure, and in the scale of life + Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. + The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, + Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise; + But he may boast, what few that win it can, + That if his country stand not by his skill, + At least his follies have not wrought her fall. + Polite refinement offers him in vain + Her golden tube, through which a sensual world + Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, + The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. + Not that he peevishly rejects a mode + Because that world adopts it. If it bear + The stamp and clear impression of good sense, + And be not costly more than of true worth, + He puts it on, and for decorum sake + Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. + She judges of refinement by the eye, + He by the test of conscience, and a heart + Not soon deceived; aware that what is base + No polish can make sterling, and that vice, + Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed, + Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, + Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far + For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. + So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, + More golden than that age of fabled gold + Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care, + Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved + Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. + + So glide my life away! and so at last, + My share of duties decently fulfilled, + May some disease, not tardy to perform + Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, + Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat + Beneath the turf that I have often trod. + It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called + To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, + I played awhile, obedient to the fair, + With that light task, but soon to please her more, + Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, + Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; + Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, 'tis true, + Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof, + But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some + To palates that can taste immortal truth; + Insipid else, and sure to be despised. + But all is in His hand whose praise I seek, + In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, + If He regard not, though divine the theme. + 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime + And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, + To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; + Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, + Whose approbation--prosper even mine. + + + +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 Mistress Gilpin, "That's well said; + And, for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + + John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O'erjoyed 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 allowed + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folk so glad; + The stones did rattle underneath + As if Cheapside were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse's side + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + + For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + 'Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind. + When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, + "The wine is left behind!" + + "Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword, + When I do exercise." + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o'er the stones + With caution and good heed! + + But, finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + + So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; + And every soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin--who but he? + His fame soon spread around-- + He carries weight! he rides a race! + 'Tis for a thousand pound! + + And still, as fast as he drew near, + 'Twas wonderful to view + How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; + For all might see the bottle-necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols he did play, + And till he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay. + + And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + + At Edmonton, his loving wife + From the bal-cony spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--here's the house!" + They all at once did cry; + "The dinner waits, and we are tired." + Said Gilpin, "So am I!" + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; + For why?--his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware. + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly--which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin, out of breath, + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the Calender's + His horse at last stood still. + + The Calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him:-- + + "What news? what news? your tidings tell: + Tell me you must and shall-- + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all." + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; + And thus unto the Calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + "I came because your horse would come; + And if I well forebode, + My hat and wig will soon be here; + They are upon the road." + + The Calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, + Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig, + A wig that flowed behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and, in his turn, + Thus showed his ready wit,-- + "My head is twice as big as yours; + They therefore needs must fit. + + "But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + + Says John, "It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware." + + So turning to his horse, he said, + "I am in haste to dine; + 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." + + Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig; + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big. + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pulled out half-a-crown. + + And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to "The Bell," + "This shall be yours when you bring back + My husband safe and well." + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain, + Whom in a trice he tried to stop + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, + The frighted steed he frighted more, + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, + The postboy's horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry: + + "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space, + The tollmen thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, "Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see!" + + + +AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + + DEAR JOSEPH,--five and twenty years ago-- + Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so-- + With frequent intercourse, and always sweet + And always friendly, we were wont to cheat + A tedious hour--and now we never meet. + As some grave gentleman in Terence says + ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), + "Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-- + Strange fluctuation of all human things!" + True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, + But distance only cannot change the heart: + And were I called to prove the assertion true, + One proof should serve--a reference to you. + + Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life, + Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife, + We find the friends we fancied we had won, + Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? + Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? + No. Gold they seemed, but they were never such. + Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, + Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, + Dreading a negative, and overawed + Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad. + "Go, fellow!--whither?"--turning short about-- + "Nay. Stay at home; you're always going out."-- + "'Tis but a step, sir; just at the street's end." + "For what?"--"An please you, sir, to see a friend." + "A friend!" Horatio cried, and seemed to start; + "Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart-- + And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw + I'll see him too--the first I ever saw." + + I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, + And was his plaything often when a child; + But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, + Else he was seldom bitter or morose. + Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed, + His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; + Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, + The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. + Howe'er it was, his language in my mind + Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. + + But not to moralise too much, and strain + To prove an evil of which all complain + (I hate long arguments, verbosely spun), + One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. + Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man. + No matter where, in China or Japan, + Decreed that whosoever should offend + Against the well-known duties of a friend, + Convicted once, should ever after wear + But half a coat, and show his bosom bare; + The punishment importing this, no doubt, + That all was naught within and all found out. + + Oh happy Britain! we have not to fear + Such hard and arbitrary measure here; + Else could a law, like that which I relate, + Once have the sanction of our triple state, + Some few that I have known in days of old + Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold. + While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, + Might traverse England safely to and fro, + An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, + Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. + + + +TO MARY. + + The twentieth year is well-nigh past + Since first our sky was overcast, + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + I see thee daily weaker grow-- + 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, + My Mary! + + Thy needles, once a shining store, + For my sake restless heretofore, + Now rust disused, and shine no more, + My Mary! + + For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil + The same kind office for me still, + Thy sight now seconds not thy will, + My Mary! + + But well thou playedst the housewife's part, + And all thy threads with magic art + Have wound themselves about this heart, + My Mary! + + Thy indistinct expressions seem + Like language uttered in a dream; + Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, + My Mary! + + Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, + Are still more lovely in my sight + Than golden beams of orient light, + My Mary! + + For could I view nor them nor thee, + What sight worth seeing could I see? + The sun would rise in vain for me, + My Mary! + + Partakers of thy sad decline, + Thy hands their little force resign; + Yet gently prest, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, + That now at every step thou mov'st + Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though prest with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me, is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + How oft the sadness that I show, + Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, + My Mary! + + And should my future lot be cast + With much resemblance of the past, + Thy worn-out heart will break at last, + My Mary! + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Task and Other Poems, by William Cowper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 3698.txt or 3698.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/9/3698/ + +Produced by Les Bowler. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a85d5e --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #3698 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3698) diff --git a/old/3698.txt b/old/3698.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cde3471 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/3698.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6360 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Task and Other Poems, by William Cowper + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net + + +Title: The Task and Other Poems + +Author: William Cowper + +Posting Date: April 30, 2009 [EBook #3698] +Release Date: January, 2003 +First Posted: July 24, 2001 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Les Bowler. + + + + + + + + + +THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS + + +BY + +WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + INTRODUCTION + THE TASK + BOOK I. THE SOFA + BOOK II. THE TIMEPIECE + BOOK III. THE GARDEN. + BOOK IV. THE WINTER EVENING. + BOOK V. THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + BOOK VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. + AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + TO MARY. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + +After the publication of his "Table Talk" and other poems in March, +1782, William Cowper, in his quiet retirement at Olney, under Mrs. +Unwin's care, found a new friend in Lady Austen. She was a baronet's +widow who had a sister married to a clergyman near Olney, with whom +Cowper was slightly acquainted. In the summer of 1781, when his first +volume was being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the +street at Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. Their +coming was the beginning of a cordial friendship. Lady Austen, without +being less earnest, had a liveliness that satisfied Cowper's sense of +fun to an extent that stirred at last some jealousy in Mrs. Unwin. +"She had lived much in France," Cowper said, "was very sensible, and +had infinite vivacity." + +The Vicar of Olney was in difficulties, with his affairs in the hands +of trustees. The duties of his office were entirely discharged by a +curate, and the vicarage was to let. Lady Austen, in 1782, rented it, +to be near her new friends. There was only a wall between the garden +of the house occupied by Cowper and Mrs. Unwin and the vicarage garden. +A door was made in the wall, and there was a close companionship of +three. When Lady Austen did not spend her evenings with Mrs. Unwin and +Cowper, Mrs. Unwin and Cowper spent their evenings with Lady Austen. +They read, talked, Lady Austen played and sang, and they all called one +another by their Christian names, William, Mary (Mrs. Unwin), and Anna +(Lady Austen). In a poetical epistle to Lady Austen, written in +December, 1781, Cowper closes a reference to the strength of their +friendship with the evidence it gave,-- + + "That Solomon has wisely spoken,-- + 'A threefold cord is not soon broken.'" + +One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was low-spirited, Lady +Austen told him in lively fashion the story upon which he founded the +ballad of "John Gilpin." Its original hero is said to have been a Mr. +Bayer, who had a draper's shop in London, at the corner of Cheapside. +Cowper was so much tickled by it, that he lay awake part of the night +rhyming and laughing, and by the next evening the ballad was complete. +It was sent to Mrs. Unwin's son, who sent it to the Public Advertiser, +where for the next two or three years it lay buried in the "Poets' +Corner," and attracted no particular attention. + +In the summer of 1783, when one of the three friends had been reading +blank verse aloud to the other two, Lady Austen, from her seat upon the +sofa, urged upon Cowper, as she had urged before, that blank verse was +to be preferred to the rhymed couplets in which his first book had been +written, and that he should write a poem in blank verse. "I will," he +said, "if you will give me a subject." "Oh," she answered, "you can +write upon anything. Write on this sofa." He playfully accepted that +as "the task" set him, and began his poem called "The Task," which was +finished in the summer of the next year, 1784. But before "The Task" +was finished, Mrs. Unwin's jealousy obliged Cowper to give up his new +friend--whom he had made a point of calling upon every morning at +eleven--and prevent her return to summer quarters in the vicarage. + +Two miles from Olney was Weston Underwood with a park, to which its +owner gave Cowper the use of a key. In 1782 a younger brother, John +Throckmorton, came with his wife to live at Weston, and continued +Cowper's privilege. The Throckmortons were Roman Catholics, but in +May, 1784, Mr. Unwin was tempted by an invitation to see a balloon +ascent from their park. Their kindness as hosts won upon Cowper; they +sought and had his more intimate friendship, till in his correspondence +he playfully abused the first syllable of their name and called them +Mr. and Mrs. Frog. + +Cowper's "Task" went to its publisher and printing was begun, when +suddenly "John Gilpin," after a long sleep in the Public Advertiser, +rode triumphant through the town. A favourite actor of the day was +giving recitations at Freemason's Hall. A man of letters, Richard +Sharp, who had read and liked "John Gilpin," pointed out to the actor +how well it would suit his purpose. The actor was John Henderson, +whose Hamlet, Shylock, Richard III., and Falstaff were the most popular +of his day. He died suddenly in 1785, at the age of thirty-eight, and +it was thus in the last year of his life that his power of recitation +drew "John Gilpin" from obscurity and made it the nine days' wonder of +the town. Pictures of John Gilpin abounded in all forms. He figured +on pocket-handkerchiefs. When the publisher asked for a few more pages +to his volume of "The Task," Cowper gave him as makeweights an "Epistle +to Joseph Hill," his "Tirocinium," and, a little doubtfully, "John +Gilpin." So the book was published in June, 1785; was sought by many +because it was by the author of "John Gilpin," and at once won +recognition. The preceding volume had not made Cowper famous. "The +Task" at once gave him his place among the poets. + +Cowper's "Task" is to this day, except Wordsworth's "Excursion," the +best purely didactic poem in the English language. The "Sofa" stands +only as a point of departure:--it suits a gouty limb; but as the poet +is not gouty, he is up and off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin +in the country about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural +sounds, taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy +winter weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage, and draws from +it comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk +to the park at Weston Underwood, the prospect from the hilltop, touches +upon his privilege in having a key of the gate, describes the avenues +of trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher's +flail then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is after +toil. He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness of Nature free +to all, that brings health to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. +Spleen vexes votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the +innocent. So thought flows on, and touches in its course the vital +questions of a troubled time. "The Task" appeared four years before +the outbreak of the French Revolution, and is in many passages not less +significant of rising storms than the "Excursion" is significant of +what came with the breaking of the clouds. + +H. M. + + + +THE TASK. + + + +BOOK I. + +THE SOFA. + +["The history of the following production is briefly this:--A lady, +fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and +gave him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, +connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought +to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at +length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious +affair--a volume.] + + + I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang + Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe + The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, + Escaped with pain from that advent'rous flight, + Now seek repose upon a humbler theme: + The theme though humble, yet august and proud + The occasion--for the Fair commands the song. + + Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, + Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. + As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, + Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: + The hardy chief upon the rugged rock + Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank + Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, + Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. + Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next + The birthday of invention; weak at first, + Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. + Joint-stools were then created; on three legs + Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm + A massy slab, in fashion square or round. + On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, + And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms; + And such in ancient halls and mansions drear + May still be seen, but perforated sore + And drilled in holes the solid oak is found, + By worms voracious eating through and through. + + At length a generation more refined + Improved the simple plan, made three legs four, + Gave them a twisted form vermicular, + And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed, + Induced a splendid cover green and blue, + Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought + And woven close, or needlework sublime. + There might ye see the peony spread wide, + The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, + Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, + And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. + + Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright + With Nature's varnish; severed into stripes + That interlaced each other, these supplied, + Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced + The new machine, and it became a chair. + But restless was the chair; the back erect + Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease; + The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part + That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down, + Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. + These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed + In modest mediocrity, content + With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides + Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, + With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, + Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed: + If cushion might be called, what harder seemed + Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed. + No want of timber then was felt or feared + In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood + Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight. + But elbows still were wanting; these, some say, + An alderman of Cripplegate contrived, + And some ascribe the invention to a priest + Burly and big, and studious of his ease. + But rude at first, and not with easy slope + Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs, + And bruised the side, and elevated high + Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. + Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires + Complained, though incommodiously pent in, + And ill at ease behind. The ladies first + Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. + Ingenious fancy, never better pleased + Than when employed to accommodate the fair, + Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised + The soft settee; one elbow at each end, + And in the midst an elbow, it received, + United yet divided, twain at once. + So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; + And so two citizens who take the air, + Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one. + But relaxation of the languid frame + By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs, + Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow + The growth of what is excellent, so hard + To attain perfection in this nether world. + Thus first necessity invented stools, + Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, + And luxury the accomplished Sofa last. + + The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, + Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he + Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour + To sleep within the carriage more secure, + His legs depending at the open door. + Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, + The tedious rector drawling o'er his head, + And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep + Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, + Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour + To slumber in the carriage more secure, + Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, + Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet, + Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. + + Oh, may I live exempted (while I live + Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) + From pangs arthritic that infest the toe + Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits + The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, + Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: + For I have loved the rural walk through lanes + Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep, + And skirted thick with intertexture firm + Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk + O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, + E'er since a truant boy I passed my bounds + To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. + And still remember, nor without regret + Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared, + How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, + Still hungering penniless and far from home, + I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, + Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss + The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. + Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite + Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved + By culinary arts unsavoury deems. + No Sofa then awaited my return, + No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs + His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil + Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, + As life declines, speed rapidly away, + And not a year but pilfers as he goes + Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, + A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees + Their length and colour from the locks they spare; + The elastic spring of an unwearied foot + That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, + That play of lungs inhaling and again + Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes + Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, + Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired + My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed + Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find + Still soothing and of power to charm me still. + And witness, dear companion of my walks, + Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive + Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, + Confirmed by long experience of thy worth + And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-- + Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. + Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere, + And that my raptures are not conjured up + To serve occasions of poetic pomp, + But genuine, and art partner of them all. + How oft upon yon eminence, our pace + Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne + The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew, + While admiration feeding at the eye, + And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene! + Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned + The distant plough slow-moving, and beside + His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, + The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! + Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain + Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, + Conducts the eye along his sinuous course + Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank + Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms + That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; + While far beyond and overthwart the stream + That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, + The sloping land recedes into the clouds; + Displaying on its varied side the grace + Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, + Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells + Just undulates upon the listening ear; + Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. + Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed + Please daily, and whose novelty survives + Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: + Praise justly due to those that I describe. + + Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds + Exhilarate the spirit, and restore + The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, + That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood + Of ancient growth, make music not unlike + The dash of ocean on his winding shore, + And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, + Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, + And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. + Nor less composure waits upon the roar + Of distant floods, or on the softer voice + Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip + Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall + Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length + In matted grass, that with a livelier green + Betrays the secret of their silent course. + Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, + But animated Nature sweeter still + To soothe and satisfy the human ear. + Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one + The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes + Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, + But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime + In still repeated circles, screaming loud, + The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl + That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. + Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, + Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, + And only there, please highly for their sake. + + Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought + Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! + Fearless of humid air and gathering rains + Forth steps the man--an emblem of myself! + More delicate his timorous mate retires. + When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, + Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, + Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, + The task of new discoveries falls on me. + At such a season and with such a charge + Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown, + A cottage, whither oft we since repair: + 'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close + Environed with a ring of branching elms + That overhang the thatch, itself unseen + Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset + With foliage of such dark redundant growth, + I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT'S NEST. + And hidden as it is, and far remote + From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear + In village or in town, the bay of curs + Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, + And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained, + Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. + Here, I have said, at least I should possess + The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge + The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. + Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat + Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. + Its elevated site forbids the wretch + To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; + He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, + And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, + Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits + Dependent on the baker's punctual call, + To hear his creaking panniers at the door, + Angry and sad and his last crust consumed. + So farewell envy of the PEASANT'S NEST. + If solitude make scant the means of life, + Society for me! Thou seeming sweet, + Be still a pleasing object in my view, + My visit still, but never mine abode. + + Not distant far, a length of colonnade + Invites us; monument of ancient taste, + Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate. + Our fathers knew the value of a screen + From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks + And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon + The gloom and coolness of declining day. + We bear our shades about us; self-deprived + Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, + And range an Indian waste without a tree. + Thanks to Benevolus--he spares me yet + These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, + And, though himself so polished, still reprieves + The obsolete prolixity of shade. + + Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) + A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge + We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip + Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. + Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme + We mount again, and feel at every step + Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, + Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. + He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, + Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark + Toils much to earn a monumental pile, + That may record the mischiefs he has done. + + The summit gained, behold the proud alcove + That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures + The grand retreat from injuries impressed + By rural carvers, who with knives deface + The panels, leaving an obscure rude name + In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. + So strong the zeal to immortalise himself + Beats in the breast of man, that even a few + Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred + Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, + And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, + And posted on this speculative height + Exults in its command. The sheepfold here + Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. + At first, progressive as a stream, they seek + The middle field; but scattered by degrees, + Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. + There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps + The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, + The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, + The boorish driver leaning o'er his team, + Vociferous, and impatient of delay. + Nor less attractive is the woodland scene + Diversified with trees of every growth, + Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks + Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, + Within the twilight of their distant shades; + There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood + Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs. + No tree in all the grove but has its charms, + Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, + And of a wannish gray; the willow such, + And poplar that with silver lines his leaf, + And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; + Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, + Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. + Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, + The maple, and the beech of oily nuts + Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve + Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass + The sycamore, capricious in attire, + Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet + Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. + O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map + Of hill and valley interposed between), + The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, + Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, + As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. + + Hence the declivity is sharp and short, + And such the re-ascent; between them weeps + A little Naiad her impoverished urn, + All summer long, which winter fills again. + The folded gates would bar my progress now, + But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, + Communicative of the good he owns, + Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye + Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. + Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? + By short transition we have lost his glare, + And stepped at once into a cooler clime. + Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn + Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice + That yet a remnant of your race survives. + How airy and how light the graceful arch, + Yet awful as the consecrated roof + Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath, + The chequered earth seems restless as a flood + Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light + Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, + Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, + And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves + Play wanton, every moment, every spot. + + And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, + We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, + With curvature of slow and easy sweep-- + Deception innocent--give ample space + To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; + Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms + We may discern the thresher at his task. + Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, + That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls + Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff, + The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist + Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. + Come hither, ye that press your beds of down + And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread + Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse, + But softened into mercy; made the pledge + Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. + + By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. + Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel + That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, + Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads + An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. + Its own revolvency upholds the world. + Winds from all quarters agitate the air, + And fit the limpid element for use, + Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams + All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed + By restless undulation: even the oak + Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: + He seems indeed indignant, and to feel + The impression of the blast with proud disdain, + Frowning as if in his unconscious arm + He held the thunder. But the monarch owes + His firm stability to what he scorns, + More fixed below, the more disturbed above. + The law, by which all creatures else are bound, + Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives + No mean advantage from a kindred cause, + From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. + The sedentary stretch their lazy length + When custom bids, but no refreshment find, + For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek + Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, + And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, + Reproach their owner with that love of rest + To which he forfeits even the rest he loves. + Not such the alert and active. Measure life + By its true worth, the comforts it affords, + And theirs alone seems worthy of the name + Good health, and, its associate in the most, + Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, + And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; + The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; + Even age itself seems privileged in them + With clear exemption from its own defects. + A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front + The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard + With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave + Sprightly, and old almost without decay. + + Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, + Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrine + Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. + The love of Nature and the scene she draws + Is Nature's dictate. Strange, there should be found + Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, + Renounce the odours of the open field + For the unscented fictions of the loom; + Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, + Prefer to the performance of a God + The inferior wonders of an artist's hand. + Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, + But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, + None more admires, the painter's magic skill, + Who shows me that which I shall never see, + Conveys a distant country into mine, + And throws Italian light on English walls. + But imitative strokes can do no more + Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense. + The air salubrious of her lofty hills, + The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, + And music of her woods--no works of man + May rival these; these all bespeak a power + Peculiar, and exclusively her own. + Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; + 'Tis free to all--'tis ev'ry day renewed, + Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. + He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long + In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey + To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank + And clammy of his dark abode have bred + Escapes at last to liberty and light; + His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, + His eye relumines its extinguished fires, + He walks, he leaps, he runs--is winged with joy, + And riots in the sweets of every breeze. + He does not scorn it, who has long endured + A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. + Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed + With acrid salts; his very heart athirst + To gaze at Nature in her green array. + Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed + With visions prompted by intense desire; + Fair fields appear below, such as he left + Far distant, such as he would die to find-- + He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. + + The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; + The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, + And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort, + And mar the face of beauty, when no cause + For such immeasurable woe appears, + These Flora banishes, and gives the fair + Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. + It is the constant revolution, stale + And tasteless, of the same repeated joys + That palls and satiates, and makes languid life + A pedlar's pack that bows the bearer down. + Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart + Recoils from its own choice--at the full feast + Is famished--finds no music in the song, + No smartness in the jest, and wonders why. + Yet thousands still desire to journey on, + Though halt and weary of the path they tread. + The paralytic, who can hold her cards + But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand + To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort + Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits + Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad + And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. + Others are dragged into the crowded room + Between supporters; and once seated, sit + Through downright inability to rise, + Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. + These speak a loud memento. Yet even these + Themselves love life, and cling to it as he, + That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. + They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, + Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. + Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread, + The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds + Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, + And their inveterate habits, all forbid. + + Whom call we gay? That honour has been long + The boast of mere pretenders to the name. + The innocent are gay--the lark is gay, + That dries his feathers saturate with dew + Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams + Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. + The peasant too, a witness of his song, + Himself a songster, is as gay as he. + But save me from the gaiety of those + Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; + And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes + Flash desperation, and betray their pangs + For property stripped off by cruel chance; + From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, + The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. + + The earth was made so various, that the mind + Of desultory man, studious of change, + And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. + Prospects however lovely may be seen + Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, + Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off + Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. + Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale, + Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, + Delight us, happy to renounce a while, + Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, + That such short absence may endear it more. + Then forests, or the savage rock may please, + That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts + Above the reach of man: his hoary head + Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, + Bound homeward, and in hope already there, + Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist + A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows, + And at his feet the baffled billows die. + The common overgrown with fern, and rough + With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed + And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, + And decks itself with ornaments of gold, + Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf + Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs + And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense + With luxury of unexpected sweets. + + There often wanders one, whom better days + Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed + With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound. + A serving-maid was she, and fell in love + With one who left her, went to sea and died. + Her fancy followed him through foaming waves + To distant shores, and she would sit and weep + At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, + Delusive most where warmest wishes are, + Would oft anticipate his glad return, + And dream of transports she was not to know. + She heard the doleful tidings of his death, + And never smiled again. And now she roams + The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, + And there, unless when charity forbids, + The livelong night. A tattered apron hides, + Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown + More tattered still; and both but ill conceal + A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. + She begs an idle pin of all she meets, + And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, + Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, + Though pinched with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed! + + I see a column of slow-rising smoke + O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. + A vagabond and useless tribe there eat + Their miserable meal. A kettle slung + Between two poles upon a stick transverse, + Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, + Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined + From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! + They pick their fuel out of every hedge, + Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched + The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide + Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, + The vellum of the pedigree they claim. + Great skill have they in palmistry, and more + To conjure clean away the gold they touch, + Conveying worthless dross into its place; + Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. + Strange! that a creature rational, and cast + In human mould, should brutalise by choice + His nature, and, though capable of arts + By which the world might profit and himself, + Self-banished from society, prefer + Such squalid sloth to honourable toil. + Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft + They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, + And vex their flesh with artificial sores, + Can change their whine into a mirthful note + When safe occasion offers, and with dance, + And music of the bladder and the bag, + Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. + Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy + The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; + And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, + Need other physic none to heal the effects + Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. + + Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd + By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure + Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside + His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn + The manners and the arts of civil life. + His wants, indeed, are many; but supply + Is obvious; placed within the easy reach + Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. + Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; + Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, + And terrible to sight, as when she springs + (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote + And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, + And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, + By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed, + And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. + War and the chase engross the savage whole; + War followed for revenge, or to supplant + The envied tenants of some happier spot; + The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! + His hard condition with severe constraint + Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth + Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns + Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, + Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. + Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, + And thus the rangers of the western world, + Where it advances far into the deep, + Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles + So lately found, although the constant sun + Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, + Can boast but little virtue; and inert + Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain + In manners, victims of luxurious ease. + These therefore I can pity, placed remote + From all that science traces, art invents, + Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed + In boundless oceans, never to be passed + By navigators uninformed as they, + Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again. + But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, + Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee + Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, + Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw + Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here + With what superior skill we can abuse + The gifts of Providence, and squander life. + The dream is past. And thou hast found again + Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams, + And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found + Their former charms? And, having seen our state, + Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp + Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, + And heard our music; are thy simple friends, + Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights + As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys + Lost nothing by comparison with ours? + Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude + And ignorant, except of outward show), + I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart + And spiritless, as never to regret + Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. + Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, + And asking of the surge that bathes the foot + If ever it has washed our distant shore. + I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, + A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad + At thought of her forlorn and abject state, + From which no power of thine can raise her up. + Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, + Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. + She tells me too that duly every morn + Thou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eye + Exploring far and wide the watery waste, + For sight of ship from England. Every speck + Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale + With conflict of contending hopes and fears. + But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, + And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared + To dream all night of what the day denied. + Alas, expect it not. We found no bait + To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, + Disinterested good, is not our trade. + We travel far, 'tis true, but not for naught; + And must be bribed to compass earth again + By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours. + + But though true worth and virtue, in the mild + And genial soil of cultivated life + Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, + Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay + And gain-devoted cities, thither flow, + As to a common and most noisome sewer, + The dregs and feculence of every land. + In cities, foul example on most minds + Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds + In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust, + And wantonness and gluttonous excess. + In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, + Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught + By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there, + Beyond the achievement of successful flight. + I do confess them nurseries of the arts, + In which they flourish most; where, in the beams + Of warm encouragement, and in the eye + Of public note, they reach their perfect size. + Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed + The fairest capital in all the world, + By riot and incontinence the worst. + There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes + A lucid mirror, in which nature sees + All her reflected features. Bacon there + Gives more than female beauty to a stone, + And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. + Nor does the chisel occupy alone + The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; + Each province of her art her equal care. + With nice incision of her guided steel + She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil + So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, + The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. + Where finds philosophy her eagle eye, + With which she gazes at yon burning disk + Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? + In London. Where her implements exact, + With which she calculates, computes, and scans + All distance, motion, magnitude, and now + Measures an atom, and now girds a world? + In London. Where has commerce such a mart, + So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, + As London, opulent, enlarged, and still + Increasing London? Babylon of old + Not more the glory of the earth, than she + A more accomplished world's chief glory now. + + She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two + That so much beauty would do well to purge; + And show this queen of cities, that so fair + May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. + It is not seemly, nor of good report, + That she is slack in discipline; more prompt + To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: + That she is rigid in denouncing death + On petty robbers, and indulges life + And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, + To peculators of the public gold: + That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts + Into his overgorged and bloated purse + The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. + Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, + That through profane and infidel contempt + Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul + And abrogate, as roundly as she may, + The total ordinance and will of God; + Advancing fashion to the post of truth, + And centring all authority in modes + And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites + Have dwindled into unrespected forms, + And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced. + + God made the country, and man made the town. + What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts + That can alone make sweet the bitter draught + That life holds out to all, should most abound + And least be threatened in the fields and groves? + Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about + In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue + But that of idleness, and taste no scenes + But such as art contrives, possess ye still + Your element; there only ye can shine, + There only minds like yours can do no harm. + Our groves were planted to console at noon + The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve + The moonbeam, sliding softly in between + The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, + Birds warbling all the music. We can spare + The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse + Our softer satellite. Your songs confound + Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs + Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. + There is a public mischief in your mirth; + It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, + Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, + Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done, + Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, + A mutilated structure, soon to fall. + + + +BOOK II. + +THE TIMEPIECE. + + Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, + Some boundless contiguity of shade, + Where rumour of oppression and deceit, + Of unsuccessful or successful war, + Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, + My soul is sick with every day's report + Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. + There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, + It does not feel for man. The natural bond + Of brotherhood is severed as the flax + That falls asunder at the touch of fire. + He finds his fellow guilty of a skin + Not coloured like his own, and having power + To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause + Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. + Lands intersected by a narrow frith + Abhor each other. Mountains interposed + Make enemies of nations, who had else + Like kindred drops been mingled into one. + Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; + And worse than all, and most to be deplored, + As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, + Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat + With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, + Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. + Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, + And having human feelings, does not blush + And hang his head, to think himself a man? + I would not have a slave to till my ground, + To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, + And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth + That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. + No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's + Just estimation prized above all price, + I had much rather be myself the slave + And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. + We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? + And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave + That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. + Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs + Receive our air, that moment they are free, + They touch our country and their shackles fall. + That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud + And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, + And let it circulate through every vein + Of all your empire; that where Britain's power + Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + + Sure there is need of social intercourse, + Benevolence and peace and mutual aid, + Between the nations, in a world that seems + To toll the death-bell to its own decease; + And by the voice of all its elements + To preach the general doom. When were the winds + Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? + When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap + Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? + Fires from beneath and meteors from above, + Portentous, unexampled, unexplained, + Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old + And crazy earth has had her shaking fits + More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. + Is it a time to wrangle, when the props + And pillars of our planet seem to fail, + And nature with a dim and sickly eye + To wait the close of all? But grant her end + More distant, and that prophecy demands + A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; + Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak + Displeasure in His breast who smites the earth + Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. + And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve + And stand exposed by common peccancy + To what no few have felt, there should be peace, + And brethren in calamity should love. + + Alas for Sicily, rude fragments now + Lie scattered where the shapely column stood. + Her palaces are dust. In all her streets + The voice of singing and the sprightly chord + Are silent. Revelry and dance and show + Suffer a syncope and solemn pause, + While God performs, upon the trembling stage + Of His own works, His dreadful part alone. + How does the earth receive Him?--With what signs + Of gratulation and delight, her King? + Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, + Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, + Disclosing paradise where'er He treads? + She quakes at His approach. Her hollow womb, + Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps + And fiery caverns roars beneath His foot. + The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke, + For He has touched them. From the extremest point + Of elevation down into the abyss, + His wrath is busy and His frown is felt. + The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise, + The rivers die into offensive pools, + And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross + And mortal nuisance into all the air. + What solid was, by transformation strange + Grows fluid, and the fixed and rooted earth + Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, + Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl + Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense + The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs + And agonies of human and of brute + Multitudes, fugitive on every side, + And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene + Migrates uplifted, and, with all its soil + Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out + A new possessor, and survives the change. + Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought + To an enormous and o'erbearing height, + Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice + Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore + Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, + Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, + Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng + That pressed the beach and hasty to depart + Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, + Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, + A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, + And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes + Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume + Life in the unproductive shades of death, + Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, + And, happy in their unforeseen release + From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy + The terrors of the day that sets them free. + Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, + Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, + That even a judgment, making way for thee, + Seems in their eyes a mercy, for thy sake. + + Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame + Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, + And, in the furious inquest that it makes + On God's behalf, lays waste His fairest works. + The very elements, though each be meant + The minister of man to serve his wants, + Conspire against him. With his breath he draws + A plague into his blood; and cannot use + Life's necessary means, but he must die. + Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds + Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, + And, needing none assistance of the storm, + Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. + The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, + Or make his house his grave; nor so content, + Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, + And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. + What then--were they the wicked above all, + And we the righteous, whose fast-anchored isle + Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff, + The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, + And none than we more guilty. But where all + Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts + Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose His mark, + May punish, if He please, the less, to warn + The more malignant. If He spared not them, + Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, + Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee! + + Happy the man who sees a God employed + In all the good and ill that chequer life! + Resolving all events, with their effects + And manifold results, into the will + And arbitration wise of the Supreme. + Did not His eye rule all things, and intend + The least of our concerns (since from the least + The greatest oft originate), could chance + Find place in His dominion, or dispose + One lawless particle to thwart His plan, + Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen + Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb + The smooth and equal course of His affairs. + This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed + In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; + And, having found His instrument, forgets + Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, + Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims + His hot displeasure against foolish men + That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven + In tempests, quits His grasp upon the winds + And gives them all their fury; bids a plague + Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, + And putrefy the breath of blooming health. + He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend + Blows mildew from between his shrivelled lips, + And taints the golden ear. He springs His mines, + And desolates a nation at a blast. + Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells + Of homogeneal and discordant springs + And principles; of causes how they work + By necessary laws their sure effects; + Of action and reaction. He has found + The source of the disease that nature feels, + And bids the world take heart and banish fear. + Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause + Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God + Still wrought by means since first He made the world, + And did He not of old employ His means + To drown it? What is His creation less + Than a capacious reservoir of means + Formed for His use, and ready at His will? + Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of Him, + Or ask of whomsoever He has taught, + And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. + + England, with all thy faults, I love thee still-- + My country! and while yet a nook is left, + Where English minds and manners may be found, + Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime + Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed + With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, + I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies + And fields without a flower, for warmer France + With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves + Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. + To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime + Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire + Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; + But I can feel thy fortune, and partake + Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart + As any thunderer there. And I can feel + Thy follies too, and with a just disdain + Frown at effeminates, whose very looks + Reflect dishonour on the land I love. + How, in the name of soldiership and sense, + Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth + And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er + With odours, and as profligate as sweet, + Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, + And love when they should fight; when such as these + Presume to lay their hand upon the ark + Of her magnificent and awful cause? + Time was when it was praise and boast enough + In every clime, and travel where we might, + That we were born her children. Praise enough + To fill the ambition of a private man, + That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, + And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. + Farewell those honours, and farewell with them + The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen + Each in his field of glory; one in arms, + And one in council;--Wolfe upon the lap + Of smiling victory that moment won, + And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame. + They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still + Consulting England's happiness at home, + Secured it by an unforgiving frown + If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, + Put so much of his heart into his act, + That his example had a magnet's force, + And all were swift to follow whom all loved. + Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! + Or all that we have left is empty talk + Of old achievements, and despair of new. + + Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float + Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck + With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, + That no rude savour maritime invade + The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft, + Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes, + That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds + May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. + True, we have lost an empire--let it pass. + True, we may thank the perfidy of France + That picked the jewel out of England's crown, + With all the cunning of an envious shrew. + And let that pass--'twas but a trick of state. + A brave man knows no malice, but at once + Forgets in peace the injuries of war, + And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. + And shamed as we have been, to the very beard + Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved + Too weak for those decisive blows that once + Insured us mastery there, we yet retain + Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast + At least superior jockeyship, and claim + The honours of the turf as all our own. + Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, + And show the shame ye might conceal at home, + In foreign eyes!--be grooms, and win the plate, + Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!-- + 'Tis generous to communicate your skill + To those that need it. Folly is soon learned, + And, under such preceptors, who can fail? + + There is a pleasure in poetic pains + Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, + The expedients and inventions multiform + To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms + Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- + To arrest the fleeting images that fill + The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, + And force them sit, till he has pencilled off + A faithful likeness of the forms he views; + Then to dispose his copies with such art + That each may find its most propitious light, + And shine by situation, hardly less + Than by the labour and the skill it cost, + Are occupations of the poet's mind + So pleasing, and that steal away the thought + With such address from themes of sad import, + That, lost in his own musings, happy man! + He feels the anxieties of life, denied + Their wonted entertainment, all retire. + Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, + Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. + Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps + Aware of nothing arduous in a task + They never undertook, they little note + His dangers or escapes, and haply find + There least amusement where he found the most. + But is amusement all? studious of song + And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, + I would not trifle merely, though the world + Be loudest in their praise who do no more. + Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? + It may correct a foible, may chastise + The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, + Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; + But where are its sublimer trophies found? + What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed + By rigour, or whom laughed into reform? + Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed. + Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, + Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, + That fear no discipline of human hands. + + The pulpit therefore--and I name it, filled + With solemn awe, that bids me well beware + With what intent I touch that holy thing-- + The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, + Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, + Spent all his force, and made no proselyte-- + I say the pulpit, in the sober use + Of its legitimate peculiar powers, + Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, + The most important and effectual guard, + Support, and ornament of virtue's cause. + There stands the messenger of truth; there stands + The legate of the skies; his theme divine, + His office sacred, his credentials clear. + By him, the violated Law speaks out + Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet + As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. + He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, + Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, + And, armed himself in panoply complete + Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms + Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule + Of holy discipline, to glorious war, + The sacramental host of God's elect. + Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were! + But hark--the Doctor's voice--fast wedged between + Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks + Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far + Than all invective is his bold harangue, + While through that public organ of report + He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, + Announces to the world his own and theirs, + He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, + And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, + And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer + The adagio and andante it demands. + He grinds divinity of other days + Down into modern use; transforms old print + To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes + Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.-- + Are there who purchase of the Doctor's ware? + Oh name it not in Gath!--it cannot be, + That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid. + He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, + Assuming thus a rank unknown before, + Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church. + + I venerate the man whose heart is warm, + Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, + Coincident, exhibit lucid proof + That he is honest in the sacred cause. + To such I render more than mere respect, + Whose actions say that they respect themselves. + But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, + In conversation frivolous, in dress + Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, + Frequent in park with lady at his side, + Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes, + But rare at home, and never at his books + Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; + Constant at routs, familiar with a round + Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; + Ambitions of preferment for its gold, + And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, + By infidelity and love o' the world, + To make God's work a sinecure; a slave + To his own pleasures and his patron's pride.-- + From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, + Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands + On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. + + Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, + Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, + Paul should himself direct me. I would trace + His master-strokes, and draw from his design. + I would express him simple, grave, sincere; + In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, + And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, + And natural in gesture; much impressed + Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, + And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds + May feel it too; affectionate in look + And tender in address, as well becomes + A messenger of grace to guilty men. + Behold the picture!--Is it like?--Like whom? + The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, + And then skip down again; pronounce a text, + Cry--Hem; and reading what they never wrote, + Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, + And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. + + In man or woman, but far most in man, + And most of all in man that ministers + And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe + All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; + Object of my implacable disgust. + What!--will a man play tricks, will he indulge + A silly fond conceit of his fair form + And just proportion, fashionable mien, + And pretty face, in presence of his God? + Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, + As with the diamond on his lily hand, + And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, + When I am hungry for the Bread of Life? + He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames + His noble office, and, instead of truth, + Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! + Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare + And start theatric, practised at the glass. + I seek divine simplicity in him + Who handles things divine; and all beside, + Though learned with labour, and though much admired + By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, + To me is odious as the nasal twang + Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, + Misled by custom, strain celestial themes + Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. + Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, + That task performed, relapse into themselves, + And having spoken wisely, at the close + Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye-- + Whoe'er was edified themselves were not. + Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke + An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; + Then with an air, most gracefully performed, + Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, + And lay it at its ease with gentle care, + With handkerchief in hand, depending low: + The better hand, more busy, gives the nose + Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye + With opera glass to watch the moving scene, + And recognise the slow-retiring fair. + Now this is fulsome, and offends me more + Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect + And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind + May be indifferent to her house of clay, + And slight the hovel as beneath her care. + But how a body so fantastic, trim, + And quaint in its deportment and attire, + Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt. + + He that negotiates between God and man, + As God's ambassador, the grand concerns + Of judgment and of mercy, should beware + Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful + To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; + To break a jest, when pity would inspire + Pathetic exhortation; and to address + The skittish fancy with facetious tales, + When sent with God's commission to the heart. + So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip + Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, + And I consent you take it for your text, + Your only one, till sides and benches fail. + No: he was serious in a serious cause, + And understood too well the weighty terms + That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop + To conquer those by jocular exploits, + Whom truth and soberness assailed in vain. + + Oh, popular applause! what heart of man + Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? + The wisest and the best feel urgent need + Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; + But swelled into a gust--who then, alas! + With all his canvas set, and inexpert, + And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? + Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald + Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean + And craving poverty, and in the bow + Respectful of the smutched artificer, + Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb + The bias of the purpose. How much more, + Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite, + In language soft as adoration breathes? + Ah, spare your idol! think him human still; + Charms he may have, but he has frailties too; + Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. + + All truth is from the sempiternal source + Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome + Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we + Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. + To them it flowed much mingled and defiled + With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams + Illusive of philosophy, so called, + But falsely. Sages after sages strove, + In vain, to filter off a crystal draught + Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced + The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred + Intoxication and delirium wild. + In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth + And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man? + Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is? + Where must he find his Maker? With what rites + Adore Him? Will He hear, accept, and bless? + Or does He sit regardless of His works? + Has man within him an immortal seed? + Or does the tomb take all? If he survive + His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? + Knots worthy of solution, which alone + A Deity could solve. Their answers vague, + And all at random, fabulous and dark, + Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, + Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak + To bind the roving appetite, and lead + Blind nature to a God not yet revealed. + 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, + Explains all mysteries, except her own, + And so illuminates the path of life, + That fools discover it, and stray no more. + Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, + My man of morals, nurtured in the shades + Of Academus, is this false or true? + Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? + If Christ, then why resort at every turn + To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short + Of man's occasions, when in Him reside + Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store? + How oft when Paul has served us with a text, + Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached! + Men that, if now alive, would sit content + And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, + Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, + Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. + + And thus it is. The pastor, either vain + By nature, or by flattery made so, taught + To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt + Absurdly, not his office, but himself; + Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, + Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, + Perverting often, by the stress of lewd + And loose example, whom he should instruct, + Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace + The noblest function, and discredits much + The brightest truths that man has ever seen. + For ghostly counsel, if it either fall + Below the exigence, or be not backed + With show of love, at least with hopeful proof + Of some sincerity on the giver's part; + Or be dishonoured in the exterior form + And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks + As move derision, or by foppish airs + And histrionic mummery, that let down + The pulpit to the level of the stage; + Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. + The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, + While prejudice in men of stronger minds + Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see. + A relaxation of religion's hold + Upon the roving and untutored heart + Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, + The laity run wild.--But do they now? + Note their extravagance, and be convinced. + + As nations, ignorant of God, contrive + A wooden one, so we, no longer taught + By monitors that Mother Church supplies, + Now make our own. Posterity will ask + (If e'er posterity sees verse of mine), + Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, + What was a monitor in George's days? + My very gentle reader, yet unborn, + Of whom I needs must augur better things, + Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world + Productive only of a race like us, + A monitor is wood--plank shaven thin. + We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced + And neatly fitted, it compresses hard + The prominent and most unsightly bones, + And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use + Sovereign and most effectual to secure + A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, + From rickets and distortion, else, our lot. + But thus admonished we can walk erect, + One proof at least of manhood; while the friend + Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. + Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, + And, by caprice as multiplied as his, + Just please us while the fashion is at full, + But change with every moon. The sycophant, + That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, + Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; + Finds one ill made, another obsolete, + This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; + And, making prize of all that he condemns, + With our expenditure defrays his own. + Variety's the very spice of life, + That gives it all its flavour. We have run + Through every change that fancy, at the loom + Exhausted, has had genius to supply, + And, studious of mutation still, discard + A real elegance, a little used, + For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. + We sacrifice to dress, till household joys + And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, + And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires, + And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, + Where peace and hospitality might reign. + What man that lives, and that knows how to live, + Would fail to exhibit at the public shows + A form as splendid as the proudest there, + Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? + A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough, + With reasonable forecast and despatch, + To ensure a side-box station at half-price. + You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, + His daily fare as delicate. Alas! + He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems + With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. + The rout is folly's circle which she draws + With magic wand. So potent is the spell, + That none decoyed into that fatal ring, + Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. + There we grow early gray, but never wise; + There form connections, and acquire no friend; + Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; + Waste youth in occupations only fit + For second childhood, and devote old age + To sports which only childhood could excuse. + There they are happiest who dissemble best + Their weariness; and they the most polite, + Who squander time and treasure with a smile, + Though at their own destruction. She that asks + Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, + And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) + Make just reprisals, and, with cringe and shrug + And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. + All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, + Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, + And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, + To her who, frugal only that her thrift + May feed excesses she can ill afford, + Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste + Alighting, turns the key in her own door, + And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, + Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. + Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, + On Fortune's velvet altar offering up + Their last poor pittance--Fortune, most severe + Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far + Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.-- + So fare we in this prison-house the world. + And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see + So many maniacs dancing in their chains. + They gaze upon the links that hold them fast + With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, + Then shake them in despair, and dance again. + + Now basket up the family of plagues + That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale + Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds + By forgery, by subterfuge of law, + By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen + As the necessities their authors feel; + Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat + At the right door. Profusion is its sire. + Profusion unrestrained, with all that's base + In character, has littered all the land, + And bred within the memory of no few + A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, + A people such as never was till now. + It is a hungry vice:--it eats up all + That gives society its beauty, strength, + Convenience, and security, and use; + Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped + And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws + Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot + Of union, and converts the sacred band + That holds mankind together to a scourge. + Profusion, deluging a state with lusts + Of grossest nature and of worst effects, + Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds, + And warps the consciences of public men + Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools + That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face + That would have shocked credulity herself, + Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;-- + Since all alike are selfish, why not they? + This does Profusion, and the accursed cause + Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. + + In colleges and halls, in ancient days, + When learning, virtue, piety, and truth + Were precious, and inculcated with care, + There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, + Not yet by time completely silvered o'er, + Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, + But strong for service still, and unimpaired. + His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile + Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard + Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. + The occupation dearest to his heart + Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke + The head of modest and ingenuous worth, + That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth + Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew + Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant; + The mind was well informed, the passions held + Subordinate, and diligence was choice. + If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, + That one among so many overleaped + The limits of control, his gentle eye + Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; + His frown was full of terror, and his voice + Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe + As left him not, till penitence had won + Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. + But Discipline, a faithful servant long, + Declined at length into the vale of years; + A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye + Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung + Grew tremulous, and moved derision more + Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth. + So colleges and halls neglected much + Their good old friend, and Discipline at length, + O'erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died. + Then study languished, emulation slept, + And virtue fled. The schools became a scene + Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, + His cap well lined with logic not his own, + With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, + Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. + Then compromise had place, and scrutiny + Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, + And he was competent whose purse was so. + A dissolution of all bonds ensued, + The curbs invented for the mulish mouth + Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts + Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates + Forgot their office, opening with a touch; + Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; + The tasselled cap and the spruce band a jest, + A mockery of the world. What need of these + For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, + Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen + With belted waist, and pointers at their heels, + Than in the bounds of duty? What was learned, + If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot, + And such expense as pinches parents blue + And mortifies the liberal hand of love, + Is squandered in pursuit of idle sports + And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, + That sits a stigma on his father's house, + And cleaves through life inseparably close + To him that wears it. What can after-games + Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, + The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, + Add to such erudition thus acquired, + Where science and where virtue are professed? + They may confirm his habits, rivet fast + His folly, but to spoil him is a task + That bids defiance to the united powers + Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. + Now, blame we most the nurselings, or the nurse? + The children crooked and twisted and deformed + Through want of care, or her whose winking eye + And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? + The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge, + She needs herself correction; needs to learn + That it is dangerous sporting with the world, + With things so sacred as a nation's trust; + The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. + + All are not such. I had a brother once-- + Peace to the memory of a man of worth, + A man of letters and of manners too-- + Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, + When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. + He graced a college in which order yet + Was sacred, and was honoured, loved, and wept, + By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. + Some minds are tempered happily, and mixt + With such ingredients of good sense and taste + Of what is excellent in man, they thirst + With such a zeal to be what they approve, + That no restraints can circumscribe them more + Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. + Nor can example hurt them. What they see + Of vice in others but enhancing more + The charms of virtue in their just esteem. + If such escape contagion, and emerge + Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad, + And give the world their talents and themselves, + Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth + Exposed their inexperience to the snare, + And left them to an undirected choice. + + See, then, the quiver broken and decayed, + In which are kept our arrows. Rusting there + In wild disorder and unfit for use, + What wonder if discharged into the world + They shame their shooters with a random flight, + Their points obtuse and feathers drunk with wine. + Well may the Church wage unsuccessful war + With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide + The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, + And stands an impudent and fearless mark. + + Have we not tracked the felon home, and found + His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns-- + Mourns, because every plague that can infest + Society, that saps and worms the base + Of the edifice that Policy has raised, + Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, + And suffocates the breath at every turn. + Profusion breeds them. And the cause itself + Of that calamitous mischief has been found, + Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts + Of the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraigned + Stand up unconscious and refute the charge. + So, when the Jewish leader stretched his arm + And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, + Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth + Polluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plains + Were covered with the pest. The streets were filled; + The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook, + Nor palaces nor even chambers 'scaped, + And the land stank, so numerous was the fry. + + + +BOOK III. + +THE GARDEN. + + As one who, long in thickets and in brakes + Entangled, winds now this way and now that + His devious course uncertain, seeking home; + Or, having long in miry ways been foiled + And sore discomfited, from slough to slough + Plunging, and half despairing of escape, + If chance at length he find a greensward smooth + And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, + He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, + And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; + So I, designing other themes, and called + To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, + To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams, + Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat + Of academic fame, howe'er deserved, + Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. + But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road + I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, + Courageous, and refreshed for future toil, + If toil await me, or if dangers new. + + Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect + Most part an empty ineffectual sound, + What chance that I, to fame so little known, + Nor conversant with men or manners much, + Should speak to purpose, or with better hope + Crack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far + For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes, + And charmed with rural beauty, to repose, + Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine + My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; + Or when rough winter rages, on the soft + And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air + Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth; + There, undisturbed by folly, and apprised + How great the danger of disturbing her, + To muse in silence, or at least confine + Remarks that gall so many to the few, + My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed + Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault + Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. + + Domestic happiness, thou only bliss + Of Paradise that has survived the fall! + Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, + Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm + Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets + Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect + Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. + Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms + She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, + Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. + Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, + That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist + And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm + Of Novelty, her fickle frail support; + For thou art meek and constant, hating change, + And finding in the calm of truth-tried love + Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. + Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made + Of honour, dignity, and fair renown, + Till prostitution elbows us aside + In all our crowded streets, and senates seem + Convened for purposes of empire less, + Than to release the adult'ress from her bond. + The adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse, + What provocation to the indignant heart + That feels for injured love! but I disdain + The nauseous task to paint her as she is, + Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame. + No; let her pass, and charioted along + In guilty splendour shake the public ways; + The frequency of crimes has washed them white, + And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch + Whom matrons now of character unsmirched + And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. + Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time + Not to be passed; and she that had renounced + Her sex's honour, was renounced herself + By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, + But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. + 'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif + Desirous to return, and not received; + But was a wholesome rigour in the main, + And taught the unblemished to preserve with care + That purity, whose loss was loss of all. + Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, + And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped, + And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained, + Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold + His country, or was slack when she required + His every nerve in action and at stretch, + Paid with the blood that he had basely spared + The price of his default. But now,--yes, now, + We are become so candid and so fair, + So liberal in construction, and so rich + In Christian charity (good-natured age!) + That they are safe, sinners of either sex, + Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred, + Well equipaged, is ticket good enough + To pass us readily through every door. + Hypocrisy, detest her as we may + (And no man's hatred ever wronged her yet), + May claim this merit still--that she admits + The worth of what she mimics with such care, + And thus gives virtue indirect applause; + But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, + Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts + And specious semblances have lost their use. + + I was a stricken deer that left the herd + Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt + My panting side was charged, when I withdrew + To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. + There was I found by one who had himself + Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, + And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. + With gentle force soliciting the darts + He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live. + Since then, with few associates, in remote + And silent woods I wander, far from those + My former partners of the peopled scene, + With few associates, and not wishing more. + Here much I ruminate, as much I may, + With other views of men and manners now + Than once, and others of a life to come. + I see that all are wanderers, gone astray + Each in his own delusions; they are lost + In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd + And never won. Dream after dream ensues, + And still they dream that they shall still succeed, + And still are disappointed: rings the world + With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, + And add two-thirds of the remaining half, + And find the total of their hopes and fears + Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay + As if created only, like the fly + That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, + To sport their season and be seen no more. + The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, + And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. + Some write a narrative of wars, and feats + Of heroes little known, and call the rant + A history; describe the man, of whom + His own coevals took but little note, + And paint his person, character, and views, + As they had known him from his mother's womb; + They disentangle from the puzzled skein, + In which obscurity has wrapped them up, + The threads of politic and shrewd design + That ran through all his purposes, and charge + His mind with meanings that he never had, + Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore + The solid earth, and from the strata there + Extract a register, by which we learn + That He who made it and revealed its date + To Moses, was mistaken in its age. + Some, more acute and more industrious still, + Contrive creation; travel nature up + To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, + And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt, + And planetary some; what gave them first + Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. + Great contest follows, and much learned dust + Involves the combatants, each claiming truth, + And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend + The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp + In playing tricks with nature, giving laws + To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. + Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums + Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight + Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, + That having wielded the elements, and built + A thousand systems, each in his own way, + They should go out in fume and be forgot? + Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are they + But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke-- + Eternity for bubbles proves at last + A senseless bargain. When I see such games + Played by the creatures of a Power who swears + That He will judge the earth, and call the fool + To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain, + And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, + And prove it in the infallible result + So hollow and so false--I feel my heart + Dissolve in pity, and account the learned, + If this be learning, most of all deceived. + Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps + While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. + Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, + From reveries so airy, from the toil + Of dropping buckets into empty wells, + And growing old in drawing nothing up! + + 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, + Terribly arched and aquiline his nose, + And overbuilt with most impending brows, + 'Twere well could you permit the world to live + As the world pleases. What's the world to you?-- + Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk + As sweet as charity from human breasts. + I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, + And exercise all functions of a man. + How then should I and any man that lives + Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, + Take of the crimson stream meandering there, + And catechise it well. Apply your glass, + Search it, and prove now if it be not blood + Congenial with thine own; and if it be, + What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose + Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, + To cut the link of brotherhood, by which + One common Maker bound me to the kind? + True; I am no proficient, I confess, + In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift + And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, + And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath; + I cannot analyse the air, nor catch + The parallax of yonder luminous point + That seems half quenched in the immense abyss: + Such powers I boast not--neither can I rest + A silent witness of the headlong rage, + Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, + Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. + + God never meant that man should scale the heavens + By strides of human wisdom. In His works, + Though wondrous, He commands us in His Word + To seek Him rather where His mercy shines. + The mind indeed, enlightened from above, + Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand cause + The grand effect; acknowledges with joy + His manner, and with rapture tastes His style. + But never yet did philosophic tube, + That brings the planets home into the eye + Of observation, and discovers, else + Not visible, His family of worlds, + Discover Him that rules them; such a veil + Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, + And dark in things divine. Full often too + Our wayward intellect, the more we learn + Of nature, overlooks her Author more; + From instrumental causes proud to draw + Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake: + But if His Word once teach us, shoot a ray + Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal + Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, + Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised + In the pure fountain of eternal love, + Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees + As meant to indicate a God to man, + Gives HIM His praise, and forfeits not her own. + Learning has borne such fruit in other days + On all her branches. Piety has found + Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer + Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. + Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! + Sagacious reader of the works of God, + And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine, + Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, + And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom + Our British Themis gloried with just cause, + Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, + And sound integrity not more, than famed + For sanctity of manners undefiled. + + All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades + Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind; + Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; + The man we celebrate must find a tomb, + And we that worship him, ignoble graves. + Nothing is proof against the general curse + Of vanity, that seizes all below. + The only amaranthine flower on earth + Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth. + But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question put + To truth itself, that deigned him no reply. + And wherefore? will not God impart His light + To them that ask it?--Freely--'tis His joy, + His glory, and His nature to impart. + But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, + Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. + What's that which brings contempt upon a book + And him that writes it, though the style be neat, + The method clear, and argument exact? + That makes a minister in holy things + The joy of many, and the dread of more, + His name a theme for praise and for reproach?-- + That, while it gives us worth in God's account, + Depreciates and undoes us in our own? + What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, + That learning is too proud to gather up, + But which the poor and the despised of all + Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? + Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth. + + Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man, + Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, + Domestic life in rural leisure passed! + Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, + Though many boast thy favours, and affect + To understand and choose thee for their own. + But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, + Even as his first progenitor, and quits, + Though placed in paradise, for earth has still + Some traces of her youthful beauty left, + Substantial happiness for transient joy. + Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse + The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, + By every pleasing image they present, + Reflections such as meliorate the heart, + Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; + Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight + To fill with riot and defile with blood. + Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes + We persecute, annihilate the tribes + That draw the sportsman over hill and dale + Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; + Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, + Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; + Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and song + Be quelled in all our summer months' retreats; + How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, + Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, + Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, + And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! + They love the country, and none else, who seek + For their own sake its silence and its shade; + Delights which who would leave, that has a heart + Susceptible of pity, or a mind + Cultured and capable of sober thought, + For all the savage din of the swift pack, + And clamours of the field? Detested sport, + That owes its pleasures to another's pain, + That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks + Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued + With eloquence, that agonies inspire, + Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs! + Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find + A corresponding tone in jovial souls. + Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare + Has never heard the sanguinary yell + Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. + Innocent partner of my peaceful home, + Whom ten long years' experience of my care + Has made at last familiar, she has lost + Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, + Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. + Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand + That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor + At evening, and at night retire secure + To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; + For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged + All that is human in me to protect + Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. + If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, + And when I place thee in it, sighing say, + I knew at least one hare that had a friend. + + How various his employments, whom the world + Calls idle, and who justly in return + Esteems that busy world an idler, too! + Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, + Delightful industry enjoyed at home, + And nature in her cultivated trim + Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad-- + Can he want occupation who has these? + Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? + Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, + Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, + Not waste it; and aware that human life + Is but a loan to be repaid with use, + When He shall call His debtors to account, + From whom are all our blessings; business finds + Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve, + At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, + The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack + Too oft, and much impeded in its work + By causes not to be divulged in vain, + To its just point--the service of mankind. + He that attends to his interior self, + That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind + That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks + A social, not a dissipated life, + Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve + No unimportant, though a silent task. + A life all turbulence and noise may seem, + To him that leads it, wise and to be praised; + But wisdom is a pearl with most success + Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies. + He that is ever occupied in storms, + Or dives not for it or brings up instead, + Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. + + The morning finds the self-sequestered man + Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. + Whether inclement seasons recommend + His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, + With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, + Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph + Which neatly she prepares; then to his book + Well chosen, and not sullenly perused + In selfish silence, but imparted oft + As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, + Or turn to nourishment digested well. + Or if the garden with its many cares, + All well repaid, demand him, he attends + The welcome call, conscious how much the hand + Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, + Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen, + Or misapplying his unskilful strength. + Nor does he govern only or direct, + But much performs himself; no works indeed + That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, + Servile employ--but such as may amuse, + Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. + Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees + That meet, no barren interval between, + With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, + Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. + These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, + No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, + None but his steel approach them. What is weak, + Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, + Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand + Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft + And succulent that feeds its giant growth, + But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs + Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick + With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left + That may disgrace his art, or disappoint + Large expectation, he disposes neat + At measured distances, that air and sun + Admitted freely may afford their aid, + And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. + Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, + And hence even Winter fills his withered hand + With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, + Fair recompense of labour well bestowed + And wise precaution, which a clime so rude + Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child + Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods + Discovering much the temper of her sire. + For oft, as if in her the stream of mild + Maternal nature had reversed its course, + She brings her infants forth with many smiles, + But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. + He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies + Her want of care, screening and keeping warm + The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep + His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft + As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, + The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam, + And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. + + To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, + So grateful to the palate, and when rare + So coveted, else base and disesteemed-- + Food for the vulgar merely--is an art + That toiling ages have but just matured, + And at this moment unessayed in song. + Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, + Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, + And these the Grecian in ennobling strains; + And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye + The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, + Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame! + The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers + Presuming an attempt not less sublime, + Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste + Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, + A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. + + The stable yields a stercoraceous heap + Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, + And potent to resist the freezing blast. + For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf + Deciduous, and when now November dark + Checks vegetation in the torpid plant + Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. + Warily therefore, and with prudent heed + He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds + The agglomerated pile, his frame may front + The sun's meridian disk, and at the back + Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge + Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread + Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe + The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, + And lightly, shaking it with agile hand + From the full fork, the saturated straw. + What longest binds the closest, forms secure + The shapely side, that as it rises takes + By just degrees an overhanging breadth, + Sheltering the base with its projected eaves. + The uplifted frame compact at every joint, + And overlaid with clear translucent glass, + He settles next upon the sloping mount, + Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure + From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls. + He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. + Thrice must the voluble and restless earth + Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth + Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass + Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold! + A pestilent and most corrosive steam, + Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, + And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, + Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged + And drenched conservatory breathes abroad, + In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank, + And purified, rejoices to have lost + Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage + The impatient fervour which it first conceives + Within its reeking bosom, threatening death + To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. + Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft + The way to glory by miscarriage foul, + Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch + The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat, + Friendly to vital motion, may afford + Soft fermentation, and invite the seed. + The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth + And glossy, he commits to pots of size + Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared + And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, + And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds: + These on the warm and genial earth that hides + The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, + He places lightly, and, as time subdues + The rage of fermentation, plunges deep + In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. + Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick + And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first + Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon, + If fanned by balmy and nutritious air + Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green. + Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, + Cautious he pinches from the second stalk + A pimple, that portends a future sprout, + And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed + The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, + Prolific all, and harbingers of more. + The crowded roots demand enlargement now + And transplantation in an ampler space. + Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply + Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, + Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. + These have their sexes, and when summer shines + The bee transports the fertilising meal + From flower to flower, and even the breathing air + Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. + Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art + Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass + The glad espousals and insures the crop. + + Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have + His dainties, and the world's more numerous half + Lives by contriving delicates for you), + Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, + The vigilance, the labour, and the skill + That day and night are exercised, and hang + Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, + That ye may garnish your profuse regales + With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. + Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart + The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, + Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies + Minute as dust and numberless, oft work + Dire disappointment that admits no cure, + And which no care can obviate. It were long, + Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts + Which he, that fights a season so severe, + Devises, while he guards his tender trust, + And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise + Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song + Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit + Of too much labour, worthless when produced. + + Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. + Unconscious of a less propitious clime + There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, + While the winds whistle and the snows descend. + The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf + Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast + Of Portugal and Western India there, + The ruddier orange and the paler lime, + Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, + And seem to smile at what they need not fear. + The amomum there with intermingling flowers + And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts + Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, + Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, + All plants, of every leaf, that can endure + The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, + Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, + Levantine regions these; the Azores send + Their jessamine; her jessamine remote + Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, + They form one social shade, as if convened + By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. + Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass + But by a master's hand, disposing well + The gay diversities of leaf and flower, + Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, + And dress the regular yet various scene. + Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van + The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still + Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. + So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, + A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; + And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, + The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose + Some note of Nature's music from his lips, + And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen + In every flash of his far-beaming eye. + Nor taste alone and well-contrived display + Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace + Of their complete effect. Much yet remains + Unsung, and many cares are yet behind + And more laborious; cares on which depends + Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. + The soil must be renewed, which often washed + Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, + And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, + Close interwoven where they meet the vase, + Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch + Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf + Must be detached, and where it strews the floor + Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else + Contagion, and disseminating death. + Discharge but these kind offices (and who + Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) + Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, + The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, + Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad + Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. + + So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, + All healthful, are the employs of rural life, + Reiterated as the wheel of time + Runs round, still ending, and beginning still. + Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll + That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears + A flowery island from the dark green lawn + Emerging, must be deemed a labour due + To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. + Here also grateful mixture of well-matched + And sorted hues (each giving each relief, + And by contrasted beauty shining more) + Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, + May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, + But elegance, chief grace the garden shows + And most attractive, is the fair result + Of thought, the creature of a polished mind. + Without it, all is Gothic as the scene + To which the insipid citizen resorts, + Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, + But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, + Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons + Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil, + And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. + He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed + Sightly and in just order, ere he gives + The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, + Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene + Shall break into its preconceived display, + Each for itself, and all as with one voice + Conspiring, may attest his bright design. + Nor even then, dismissing as performed + His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. + Few self-supported flowers endure the wind + Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid + Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied + Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, + For interest sake, the living to the dead. + Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused + And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair; + Like virtue, thriving most where little seen. + Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub + With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, + Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon + And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well + The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. + All hate the rank society of weeds, + Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust + The impoverished earth; an overbearing race, + That, like the multitude made faction-mad, + Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. + + Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world, + Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat + Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore + Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; + But it has peace, and much secures the mind + From all assaults of evil; proving still + A faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with ease + By vicious custom raging uncontrolled + Abroad and desolating public life. + When fierce temptation, seconded within + By traitor appetite, and armed with darts + Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast, + To combat may be glorious, and success + Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe. + Had I the choice of sublunary good, + What could I wish that I possess not here? + Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace, + No loose or wanton though a wandering muse, + And constant occupation without care. + Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; + Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds + And profligate abusers of a world + Created fair so much in vain for them, + Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, + Allured by my report; but sure no less + That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, + And what they will not taste, must yet approve. + What we admire we praise; and when we praise + Advance it into notice, that, its worth + Acknowledged, others may admire it too. + I therefore recommend, though at the risk + Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, + The cause of piety and sacred truth + And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained + Should best secure them and promote them most; + Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive + Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. + Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, + And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. + Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, + Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, + To grace the full pavilion. His design + Was but to boast his own peculiar good, + Which all might view with envy, none partake. + My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, + And she that sweetens all my bitters, too, + Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form + And lineaments divine I trace a hand + That errs not, and find raptures still renewed, + Is free to all men--universal prize. + Strange that so fair a creature should yet want + Admirers, and be destined to divide + With meaner objects even the few she finds. + Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers, + She loses all her influence. Cities then + Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, + Abandoned, as unworthy of our love. + But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed + By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt, + And groves, if unharmonious yet secure + From clamour and whose very silence charms, + To be preferred to smoke--to the eclipse + That Metropolitan volcanoes make, + Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long, + And to the stir of commerce, driving slow, + And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels? + They would be, were not madness in the head + And folly in the heart; were England now + What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, + And undebauched. But we have bid farewell + To all the virtues of those better days, + And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once + Knew their own masters, and laborious hands + That had survived the father, served the son. + Now the legitimate and rightful lord + Is but a transient guest, newly arrived + And soon to be supplanted. He that saw + His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, + Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price + To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. + Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, + Then advertised, and auctioneered away. + The country starves, and they that feed the o'er-charged + And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, + By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. + The wings that waft our riches out of sight + Grow on the gamester's elbows, and the alert + And nimble motion of those restless joints, + That never tire, soon fans them all away. + Improvement too, the idol of the age, + Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes-- + The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. + Down falls the venerable pile, the abode + Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race, + But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, + But in a distant spot; where more exposed + It may enjoy the advantage of the North + And aguish East, till time shall have transformed + Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. + He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, + Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, + And streams, as if created for his use, + Pursue the track of his directed wand + Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, + Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades, + Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles. + 'Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems, + Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, + A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. + Drained to the last poor item of his wealth, + He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan + That he has touched and retouched, many a day + Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, + Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven + He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy. + And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, + When having no stake left, no pledge to endear + Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause + A moment's operation on his love, + He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal + To serve his country. Ministerial grace + Deals him out money from the public chest, + Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse + Supplies his need with an usurious loan, + To be refunded duly, when his vote, + Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. + Oh, innocent compared with arts like these, + Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball + Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds + One drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, + Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content, + So he may wrap himself in honest rags + At his last gasp; but could not for a world + Fish up his dirty and dependent bread + From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, + Sordid and sickening at his own success. + + Ambition, avarice, penury incurred + By endless riot, vanity, the lust + Of pleasure and variety, despatch, + As duly as the swallows disappear, + The world of wandering knights and squires to town; + London engulfs them all. The shark is there, + And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech + That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he + That with bare-headed and obsequious bows + Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail + And groat per diem if his patron frown. + The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp + Were charactered on every statesman's door, + 'BATTERED AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE.' + These are the charms that sully and eclipse + The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe + That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, + The hope of better things, the chance to win, + The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, + That, at the sound of Winter's hoary wing, + Unpeople all our counties of such herds + Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose + And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast + And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. + + Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, + Chequered with all complexions of mankind, + And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see + Much that I love, and more that I admire, + And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair + That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh + And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, + Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee! + Ten righteous would have saved a city once, + And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee-- + That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, + And therefore more obnoxious at this hour + Than Sodom in her day had power to be, + For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. + + + +BOOK IV. + +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 spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, + News from all nations lumbering at his back. + True to his charge the close-packed load behind, + Yet careless what he brings, his one concern + Is to conduct it to the destined inn, + And, having dropped the 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 indifferent 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 amorous sighs of absent swains, + Or nymphs responsive, equally affect + His horse and him, unconscious of them all. + But oh, the important budget! ushered in + With such heart-shaking music, who can say + What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? + 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 jewelled 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 imprisoned wranglers free, + And give them voice and utterance 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 squeezed + And bored 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 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? + Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge + That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, + The seals of office glitter in his eyes; + He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels, + Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, + And with a dextrous 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 plundered of their sweets. + Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, + Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs, + Ethereal 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. + 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 makes 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 scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, + Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks + Fringed with a beard made white with other snows + Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, + A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne + A sliding car indebted to no wheels, + But 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, and fixing thought + Not less 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 undisturbed retirement, and the hours + Of long uninterrupted evening know. + No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; + No powdered pert proficients in the art + Of sounding an alarm, assault 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 curly 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. + The volume closed, the customary rites + Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal, + Such as the mistress of the world once found + Delicious, when her patriots of high note, + Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, + And under an old oak's domestic shade, + Enjoyed--spare feast!--a radish and an egg. + Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, + Nor such as with a frown forbids the play + Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth; + Nor do we madly, like an impious world, + Who deem religion frenzy, and the God + That made them an intruder on their joys, + Start at His awful name, or deem His praise + A jarring note; themes of a graver tone + Exciting oft our gratitude and love, + While we retrace with memory's pointing wand + That calls the past to our exact review, + The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare, + The disappointed foe, deliverance found + Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored, + Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:-- + Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed + The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, + More to be prized and coveted than yours, + As more illumined and with nobler truths, + That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. + + Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? + Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, + The pent-up breath of an unsavoury 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 controlled them all, + Relaxed into an universal grin, + Sees not a countenance there that speaks a 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 unfurnished brain, + To palliate dulness and give time a shove. + Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, + Unsoiled 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 mast + Well does the work of his destructive scythe. + Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds + To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, + Whose only happy are their wasted hours. + Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore + The back-string 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. + But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, + Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? + As he that travels far, oft turns aside + To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower, + Which seen 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 mixed for a far different use, + Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing + That fancy finds in her excursive flights. + + Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, + Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! + Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, + With matron-step slow moving, while the night + Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed + In letting fall the curtain of repose + On bird and beast, the other charged for man + With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; + Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, + Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems, + A star or two just twinkling on thy brow + Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine + No less than hers, not worn indeed on high + With ostentatious pageantry, but set + With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, + Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. + Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, + Or make me so. Composure is thy gift; + And whether I devote thy gentle hours + To books, to music, or to poet's toil, + To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit, + Or twining silken threads round ivory reels + When they command whom man was born to please, + I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. + + Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze + With lights, by clear reflection multiplied + From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, + Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk + Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, + My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps + The glowing hearth may satisfy a while + With faint illumination, that uplifts + The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits + Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. + Not undelightful is an hour to me + So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom + Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, + The mind contemplative, with some new theme + Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. + Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers + That never feel a stupor, know no pause, + Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess. + Fearless, a soul that does not always think. + Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild + Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, + Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed + In the red cinders, while with poring eye + I gazed, myself creating what I saw. + Nor less amused have I quiescent watched + The sooty films that play upon the bars + Pendulous, and foreboding in the view + Of superstition, prophesying still, + Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. + 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose + In indolent vacuity of thought, + And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face + Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask + Of deep deliberation, as the man + Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost. + Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour + At evening, till at length the freezing blast + That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home + The recollected powers, and, snapping short + The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves + Her brittle toys, restores me to myself. + How calm is my recess! and how the frost + Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear + The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! + I saw the woods and fields at close of day + A variegated show; the meadows green + Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved + The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, + Upturned so lately by the forceful share; + I saw far off the weedy fallows smile + With verdure not unprofitable, grazed + By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each + His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves + That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue, + Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. + To-morrow brings a change, a total change, + Which even now, though silently performed + And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face + Of universal nature undergoes. + Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes, + Descending and with never-ceasing lapse + Softly alighting upon all below, + Assimilate all objects. Earth receives + Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green + And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, + Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. + + In such a world, so thorny, and where none + Finds happiness unblighted, or if found, + Without some thistly sorrow at its side, + It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin + Against the law of love, to measure lots + With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus + We may with patience bear our moderate ills, + And sympathise with others, suffering more. + Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks + In ponderous boots beside his reeking team; + The wain goes heavily, impeded sore + By congregating loads adhering close + To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, + Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. + The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, + While every breath, by respiration strong + Forced downward, is consolidated soon + Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear + The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, + With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth + Presented bare against the storm, plods on; + One hand secures his hat, save when with both + He brandishes his pliant length of whip, + Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. + Oh happy, and, in my account, denied + That sensibility of pain with which + Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! + Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed + The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; + The learned finger never need explore + Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, + That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone + Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. + Thy days roll on exempt from household care, + Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, + That drag the dull companion to and fro, + Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. + Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, + Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, + With needless hurry whirled from place to place, + Humane as they would seem, not always show. + + Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, + Such claim compassion in a night like this, + And have a friend in every feeling heart. + Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long + They brave the season, and yet find at eve, + Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. + The frugal housewife trembles when she lights + Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, + But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; + The few small embers left she nurses well. + And while her infant race with outspread hands + And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, + Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. + The man feels least, as more inured than she + To winter, and the current in his veins + More briskly moved by his severer toil; + Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. + The taper soon extinguished, which I saw + Dangled along at the cold finger's end + Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf + Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce + Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still, + Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, + Where penury is felt the thought is chained, + And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. + With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care + Ingenious parsimony takes, but just + Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, + Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. + They live, and live without extorted alms + From grudging hands, but other boast have none + To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, + Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. + I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, + For ye are worthy; choosing rather far + A dry but independent crust, hard-earned + And eaten with a sigh, than to endure + The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs + Of knaves in office, partial in their work + Of distribution; liberal of their aid + To clamorous importunity in rags, + But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush + To wear a tattered garb however coarse, + Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; + These ask with painful shyness, and, refused + Because deserving, silently retire. + But be ye of good courage! Time itself + Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, + And all your numerous progeny, well trained, + But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, + And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want + What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, + Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. + I mean the man, who when the distant poor + Need help, denies them nothing but his name. + + But poverty with most, who whimper forth + Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, + The effect of laziness or sottish waste. + Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad + For plunder; much solicitous how best + He may compensate for a day of sloth, + By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, + Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge + Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes + Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength + Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame + To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil-- + An ass's burden,--and when laden most + And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. + Nor does the boarded hovel better guard + The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots + From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave + Unwrenched the door, however well secured, + Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps + In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch + He gives the princely bird with all his wives + To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, + And loudly wondering at the sudden change. + Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse + Did pity of their sufferings warp aside + His principle, and tempt him into sin + For their support, so destitute; but they + Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more + Exposed than others, with less scruple made + His victims, robbed of their defenceless all. + Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst + Of ruinous ebriety that prompts + His every action, and imbrutes the man. + Oh for a law to noose the villain's neck + Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood + He gave them in his children's veins, and hates + And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love. + + Pass where we may, through city, or through town, + Village or hamlet of this merry land, + Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace + Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff + Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes + That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. + There sit involved and lost in curling clouds + Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, + The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there + Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil; + Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, + And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike, + All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams + Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed + Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; + Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, + Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, + Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand + Her undecisive scales. In this she lays + A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride, + And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. + Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound + The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised + As ornamental, musical, polite, + Like those which modern senators employ, + Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame. + Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, + Once simple, are initiated in arts + Which some may practise with politer grace, + But none with readier skill! 'Tis here they learn + The road that leads from competence and peace + To indigence and rapine; till at last + Society, grown weary of the load, + Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out. + But censure profits little. Vain the attempt + To advertise in verse a public pest, + That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds + His hungry acres, stinks and is of use. + The excise is fattened with the rich result + Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, + For ever dribbling out their base contents, + Touched by the Midas finger of the state, + Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away. + Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! + Gloriously drunk, obey the important call, + Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;-- + Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. + + Would I had fallen upon those happier days + That poets celebrate; those golden times + And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, + And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. + Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts + That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems, + From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves; + The footsteps of simplicity, impressed + Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing), + Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane + And manners profligate were rarely found, + Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed. + Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams + Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand, + Imparting substance to an empty shade, + Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. + Grant it: I still must envy them an age + That favoured such a dream, in days like these + Impossible, when virtue is so scarce + That to suppose a scene where she presides + Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. + No. We are polished now. The rural lass, + Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, + Her artless manners and her neat attire, + So dignified, that she was hardly less + Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, + Is seen no more. The character is lost. + Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft + And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised + And magnified beyond all human size, + Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand + For more than half the tresses it sustains; + Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form + Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed + (But that the basket dangling on her arm + Interprets her more truly) of a rank + Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs; + Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, + No longer blushing for her awkward load, + Her train and her umbrella all her care. + + The town has tinged the country; and the stain + Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, + The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs + Down into scenes still rural, but alas, + Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now. + Time was when in the pastoral retreat + The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch + To invade another's right, or guard their own. + Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared + By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale + Of midnight murder was a wonder heard + With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes + But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, + And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep, + See that your polished arms be primed with care, + And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad, + And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat + May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear + To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. + Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk + Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once + Of other tenants than melodious birds, + Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. + Lamented change! to which full many a cause + Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. + The course of human things from good to ill, + From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. + Increase of power begets increase of wealth; + Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; + Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague + That seizes first the opulent, descends + To the next rank contagious, and in time + Taints downward all the graduated scale + Of order, from the chariot to the plough. + The rich, and they that have an arm to check + The licence of the lowest in degree, + Desert their office; and themselves, intent + On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus + To all the violence of lawless hands + Resign the scenes their presence might protect. + Authority itself not seldom sleeps, + Though resident, and witness of the wrong. + The plump convivial parson often bears + The magisterial sword in vain, and lays + His reverence and his worship both to rest + On the same cushion of habitual sloth. + Perhaps timidity restrains his arm, + When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, + Himself enslaved by terror of the band, + The audacious convict whom he dares not bind. + Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, + He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove + Less dainty than becomes his grave outside + In lucrative concerns. Examine well + His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean-- + But here and there an ugly smutch appears. + Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He has touched + Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here + Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, + Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. + + But faster far and more than all the rest + A noble cause, which none who bears a spark + Of public virtue ever wished removed, + Works the deplored and mischievous effect. + 'Tis universal soldiership has stabbed + The heart of merit in the meaner class. + Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage + Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, + Seem most at variance with all moral good, + And incompatible with serious thought. + The clown, the child of nature, without guile, + Blest with an infant's ignorance of all + But his own simple pleasures, now and then + A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair, + Is balloted, and trembles at the news. + Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears + A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, + To do he knows not what. The task performed, + That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, + His pupil, and his torment, and his jest; + His awkward gait, his introverted toes, + Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, + Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, + Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff, + He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, + Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well. + He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk, + He steps right onward, martial in his air, + His form and movement; is as smart above + As meal and larded locks can make him: wears + His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace, + And, his three years of heroship expired, + Returns indignant to the slighted plough. + He hates the field in which no fife or drum + Attends him, drives his cattle to a march, + And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. + 'Twere well if his exterior change were all-- + But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost + His ignorance and harmless manners too. + To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home + By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, + The great proficiency he made abroad, + To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, + To break some maiden's and his mother's heart, + To be a pest where he was useful once, + Are his sole aim, and all his glory now! + Man in society is like a flower + Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone + His faculties expanded in full bloom + Shine out, there only reach their proper use. + But man associated and leagued with man + By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond + For interest sake, or swarming into clans + Beneath one head for purposes of war, + Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound + And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, + Fades rapidly, and by compression marred + Contracts defilement not to be endured. + Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues, + And burghers, men immaculate perhaps + In all their private functions, once combined, + Become a loathsome body, only fit + For dissolution, hurtful to the main. + Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin + Against the charities of domestic life, + Incorporated, seem at once to lose + Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard + For mercy and the common rights of man, + Build factories with blood, conducting trade + At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe + Of innocent commercial justice red. + Hence too the field of glory, as the world + Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, + With all the majesty of thundering pomp, + Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, + Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught + On principle, where foppery atones + For folly, gallantry for every vice. + + But slighted as it is, and by the great + Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, + Infected with the manners and the modes + It knew not once, the country wins me still. + I never framed a wish or formed a plan + That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, + But there I laid the scene. There early strayed + My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice + Had found me, or the hope of being free. + My very dreams were rural, rural too + The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, + Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells + Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. + No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned + To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats + Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe + Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang + The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. + Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: + New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed + The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue + To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. + I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age + As twice seven years, his beauties had then first + Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, + And still admiring, with regret supposed + The joy half lost because not sooner found. + Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved, + Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit + Determined, and possessing it at last + With transports such as favoured lovers feel, + I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, + Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed + By modern lights from an erroneous taste, + I cannot but lament thy splendid wit + Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. + I still revere thee, courtly though retired, + Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, + Not unemployed, and finding rich amends + For a lost world in solitude and verse. + 'Tis born with all. The love of Nature's works + Is an ingredient in the compound, man, + Infused at the creation of the kind. + And though the Almighty Maker has throughout + Discriminated each from each, by strokes + And touches of His hand, with so much art + Diversified, that two were never found + Twins at all points--yet this obtains in all, + That all discern a beauty in His works, + And all can taste them: minds that have been formed + And tutored, with a relish more exact, + But none without some relish, none unmoved. + It is a flame that dies not even there, + Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, + Nor habits of luxurious city life, + Whatever else they smother of true worth + In human bosoms, quench it or abate. + The villas, with which London stands begirt + Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, + Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, + The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer + The citizen, and brace his languid frame! + Even in the stifling bosom of the town, + A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms + That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled + That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, + Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well + He cultivates. These serve him with a hint + That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green + Is still the livery she delights to wear, + Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. + What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, + The prouder sashes fronted with a range + Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, + The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs + That man, immured in cities, still retains + His inborn inextinguishable thirst + Of rural scenes, compensating his loss + By supplemental shifts, the best he may? + The most unfurnished with the means of life, + And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds + To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, + Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head + Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick + And watered duly. There the pitcher stands + A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; + Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets + The country, with what ardour he contrives + A peep at nature, when he can no more. + + Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease + And contemplation, heart-consoling joys + And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode + Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life! + Address himself who will to the pursuit + Of honours, or emolument, or fame, + I shall not add myself to such a chase, + Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. + Some must be great. Great offices will have + Great talents. And God gives to every man + The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, + That lifts him into life, and lets him fall + Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. + To the deliverer of an injured land + He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart + To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; + To monarchs dignity, to judges sense; + To artists ingenuity and skill; + To me an unambitious mind, content + In the low vale of life, that early felt + A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long + Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. + + + +BOOK V. + +THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + + 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb + Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, + That crowd away before the driving wind, + More ardent as the disk emerges more, + Resemble most some city in a blaze, + Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray + Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, + And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, + From every herb and every spiry blade + Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field, + Mine, spindling into longitude immense, + In spite of gravity, and sage remark + That I myself am but a fleeting shade, + Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance + I view the muscular proportioned limb + Transformed to a lean shank; the shapeless pair, + As they designed to mock me, at my side + Take step for step, and, as I near approach + The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, + Preposterous sight, the legs without the man. + The verdure of the plain lies buried deep + Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents + And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, + Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine + Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad, + And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. + The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence + Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep + In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait + Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man, + Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, + And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. + He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, + Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft + His broad keen knife into the solid mass: + Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, + With such undeviating and even force + He severs it away: no needless care, + Lest storms should overset the leaning pile + Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. + Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned + The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe + And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, + From morn to eve his solitary task. + Shaggy and lean and shrewd, with pointed ears + And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, + His dog attends him. Close behind his heel + Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk, + Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow + With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; + Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy. + Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl + Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, + But now and then, with pressure of his thumb, + To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, + That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud + Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. + Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale, + Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam + Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, + Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call + The feathered tribes domestic; half on wing, + And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, + Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. + The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves + To seize the fair occasion; well they eye + The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved + To escape the impending famine, often scared + As oft return, a pert, voracious kind. + Clean riddance quickly made, one only care + Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, + Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned + To sad necessity the cock foregoes + His wonted strut, and, wading at their head + With well-considered steps, seems to resent + His altered gait, and stateliness retrenched. + How find the myriads, that in summer cheer + The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, + Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? + Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe + Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs + Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns + That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), + Afford the smaller minstrel no supply. + The long-protracted rigour of the year + Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes + Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, + As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die. + The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, + Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now + Repays their labour more; and perched aloft + By the way-side, or stalking in the path, + Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, + Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, + Of voided pulse, or half-digested grain. + The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, + O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood + Indurated and fixed the snowy weight + Lies undissolved, while silently beneath + And unperceived the current steals away; + Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps + The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, + And wantons in the pebbly gulf below. + No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force + Can but arrest the light and smoky mist + That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. + And see where it has hung the embroidered banks + With forms so various, that no powers of art, + The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene! + Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high + (Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof + Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees + And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops + That trickle down the branches, fast congealed, + Shoot into pillars of pellucid length + And prop the pile they but adorned before. + Here grotto within grotto safe defies + The sunbeam. There imbossed and fretted wild, + The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes + Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain + The likeness of some object seen before. + Thus nature works as if to mock at art, + And in defiance of her rival powers; + By these fortuitous and random strokes + Performing such inimitable feats, + As she with all her rules can never reach. + Less worthy of applause though more admired, + Because a novelty, the work of man, + Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, + Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, + The wonder of the North. No forest fell + When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores + To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, + And make thy marble of the glassy wave. + In such a palace Aristaeus found + Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale + Of his lost bees to her maternal ear. + In such a palace poetry might place + The armoury of winter, where his troops, + The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, + Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, + And snow that often blinds the traveller's course, + And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. + Silently as a dream the fabric rose. + No sound of hammer or of saw was there. + Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts + Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked + Than water interfused to make them one. + Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, + Illumined every side. A watery light + Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed + Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen + From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. + So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth + And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound + Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within + That royal residence might well befit, + For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths + Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth, + Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none + Where all was vitreous, but in order due + Convivial table and commodious seat + (What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, + Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. + The same lubricity was found in all, + And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene + Of evanescent glory, once a stream, + And soon to slide into a stream again. + Alas, 'twas but a mortifying stroke + Of undesigned severity, that glanced + (Made by a monarch) on her own estate, + On human grandeur and the courts of kings + 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show + 'Twas durable; as worthless, as it seemed + Intrinsically precious; to the foot + Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold. + + Great princes have great playthings. Some have played + At hewing mountains into men, and some + At building human wonders mountain high. + Some have amused the dull sad years of life + (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) + With schemes of monumental fame, and sought + By pyramids and mausoleum pomp, + Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones. + Some seek diversion in the tented field, + And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. + But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, + Kings should not play at. Nations would do well + To extort their truncheons from the puny hands + Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds + Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, + Because men suffer it, their toy the world. + + When Babel was confounded, and the great + Confederacy of projectors wild and vain + Was split into diversity of tongues, + Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, + These to the upland, to the valley those, + God drave asunder and assigned their lot + To all the nations. Ample was the boon + He gave them, in its distribution fair + And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. + Peace was a while their care. They ploughed and sowed, + And reaped their plenty without grudge or strife, + But violence can never longer sleep + Than human passions please. In every heart + Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war, + Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. + Cain had already shed a brother's blood: + The Deluge washed it out; but left unquenched + The seeds of murder in the breast of man. + Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line + Of his descending progeny was found + The first artificer of death; the shrewd + Contriver who first sweated at the forge, + And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel + To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. + Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, + The sword and falchion their inventor claim, + And the first smith was the first murderer's son. + His art survived the waters; and ere long, + When man was multiplied and spread abroad + In tribes and clans, and had begun to call + These meadows and that range of hills his own, + The tasted sweets of property begat + Desire of more; and industry in some + To improve and cultivate their just demesne, + Made others covet what they saw so fair. + Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil, + And those in self-defence. Savage at first + The onset, and irregular. At length + One eminent above the rest, for strength, + For stratagem, or courage, or for all, + Was chosen leader. Him they served in war, + And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds + Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare? + Or who so worthy to control themselves + As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes? + Thus war, affording field for the display + Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, + Which have their exigencies too, and call + For skill in government, at length made king. + King was a name too proud for man to wear + With modesty and meekness, and the crown, + So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, + Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. + It is the abject property of most, + That being parcel of the common mass, + And destitute of means to raise themselves, + They sink and settle lower than they need. + They know not what it is to feel within + A comprehensive faculty, that grasps + Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, + Almost without an effort, plans too vast + For their conception, which they cannot move. + Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk + With gazing, when they see an able man + Step forth to notice; and besotted thus + Build him a pedestal and say--Stand there, + And be our admiration and our praise. + They roll themselves before him in the dust, + Then most deserving in their own account + When most extravagant in his applause, + As if exalting him they raised themselves. + Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound + And sober judgment that he is but man, + They demi-deify and fume him so + That in due season he forgets it too. + Inflated and astrut with self-conceit + He gulps the windy diet, and ere long, + Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks + The world was made in vain if not for him. + Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born + To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, + And sweating in his service. His caprice + Becomes the soul that animates them all. + He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, + Spent in the purchase of renown for him + An easy reckoning, and they think the same. + Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings + Were burnished into heroes, and became + The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; + Storks among frogs, that have but croaked and died. + Strange that such folly, as lifts bloated man + To eminence fit only for a god, + Should ever drivel out of human lips, + Even in the cradled weakness of the world! + Still stranger much, that when at length mankind + Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth, + And could discriminate and argue well + On subjects more mysterious, they were yet + Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear + And quake before the gods themselves had made. + But above measure strange, that neither proof + Of sad experience, nor examples set + By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed, + Can even now, when they are grown mature + In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps + Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest! + Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone + To reverence what is ancient, and can plead + A course of long observance for its use, + That even servitude, the worst of ills, + Because delivered down from sire to son, + Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. + But is it fit, or can it bear the shock + Of rational discussion, that a man, + Compounded and made up like other men + Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust + And folly in as ample measure meet, + As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, + Should be a despot absolute, and boast + Himself the only freeman of his land? + Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, + Wage war, with any or with no pretence + Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, + And force the beggarly last doit, by means + That his own humour dictates, from the clutch + Of poverty, that thus he may procure + His thousands, weary of penurious life, + A splendid opportunity to die? + Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old + Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees + In politic convention) put your trust + I' th' shadow of a bramble, and recline + In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, + Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway, + Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs + Your self-denying zeal that holds it good + To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang + His thorns with streamers of continual praise? + We too are friends to loyalty; we love + The king who loves the law, respects his bounds. + And reigns content within them; him we serve + Freely and with delight, who leaves us free; + But recollecting still that he is man, + We trust him not too far. King though he be, + And king in England, too, he may be weak + And vain enough to be ambitious still, + May exercise amiss his proper powers, + Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: + Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, + To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, + But not to warp or change it. We are his, + To serve him nobly in the common cause + True to the death, but not to be his slaves. + Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love + Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. + We love the man; the paltry pageant you: + We the chief patron of the commonwealth; + You the regardless author of its woes: + We, for the sake of liberty, a king; + You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. + + Our love is principle, and has its root + In reason, is judicious, manly, free; + Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, + And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. + Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, + Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, + I would not be a king to be beloved + Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, + Where love is more attachment to the throne, + Not to the man who fills it as he ought. + + Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at will + Of a superior, he is never free. + Who lives, and is not weary of a life + Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. + The state that strives for liberty, though foiled + And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, + Deserves at least applause for her attempt, + And pity for her loss. But that's a cause + Not often unsuccessful; power usurped + Is weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong, + 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. + But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought + Of freedom, in that hope itself possess + All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, + The scorn of danger, and united hearts, + The surest presage of the good they seek. * + +* The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unnecessary warmth +upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost +fashionable to stigmatise such sentiments as no better than empty +declamation. But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.--C. + + Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more + To France than all her losses and defeats, + Old or of later date, by sea or land, + Her house of bondage worse than that of old + Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastille! + Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, + Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, + That monarchs have supplied from age to age + With music such as suits their sovereign ears, + The sighs and groans of miserable men! + There's not an English heart that would not leap + To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know + That even our enemies, so oft employed + In forging chains for us, themselves were free. + For he that values liberty, confines + His zeal for her predominance within + No narrow bounds; her cause engages him + Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. + There dwell the most forlorn of humankind, + Immured though unaccused, condemned untried, + Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. + There, like the visionary emblem seen + By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, + And filleted about with hoops of brass, + Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. + To count the hour bell and expect no change; + And ever as the sullen sound is heard, + Still to reflect that though a joyless note + To him whose moments all have one dull pace, + Ten thousand rovers in the world at large + Account it music; that it summons some + To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; + The wearied hireling finds it a release + From labour, and the lover, that has chid + Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke + Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight;-- + To fly for refuge from distracting thought + To such amusements as ingenious woe + Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;-- + To read engraven on the mouldy walls, + In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, + A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;-- + To turn purveyor to an overgorged + And bloated spider, till the pampered pest + Is made familiar, watches his approach, + Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;-- + To wear out time in numbering to and fro + The studs that thick emboss his iron door, + Then downward and then upward, then aslant + And then alternate, with a sickly hope + By dint of change to give his tasteless task + Some relish, till the sum, exactly found + In all directions, he begins again:-- + Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around + With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel + And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? + That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, + Abridge him of his just and native rights, + Eradicate him, tear him from his hold + Upon the endearments of domestic life + And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, + And doom him for perhaps a heedless word + To barrenness and solitude and tears, + Moves indignation; makes the name of king + (Of king whom such prerogative can please) + As dreadful as the Manichean god, + Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + + 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower + Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, + And we are weeds without it. All constraint, + Except what wisdom lays on evil men, + Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes + Their progress in the road of science; blinds + The eyesight of discovery, and begets, + In those that suffer it, a sordid mind + Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit + To be the tenant of man's noble form. + Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, + With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed + By public exigence, till annual food + Fails for the craving hunger of the state, + Thee I account still happy, and the chief + Among the nations, seeing thou art free, + My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, + Replete with vapours, and disposes much + All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine; + Thine unadulterate manners are less soft + And plausible than social life requires. + And thou hast need of discipline and art + To give thee what politer France receives + From Nature's bounty--that humane address + And sweetness, without which no pleasure is + In converse, either starved by cold reserve, + Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl; + Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake + Of that one feature, can be well content, + Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, + To seek no sublunary rest beside. + But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure + Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, + Where I am free by birthright, not at all. + Then what were left of roughness in the grain + Of British natures, wanting its excuse + That it belongs to freemen, would disgust + And shock me. I should then with double pain + Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; + And, if I must bewail the blessing lost + For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, + I would at least bewail it under skies + Milder, among a people less austere, + In scenes which, having never known me free, + Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. + Do I forebode impossible events, + And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may, + But the age of virtuous politics is past, + And we are deep in that of cold pretence. + Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, + And we too wise to trust them. He that takes + Deep in his soft credulity the stamp + Designed by loud declaimers on the part + Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, + Incurs derision for his easy faith + And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. + For when was public virtue to be found, + Where private was not? Can he love the whole + Who loves no part? he be a nation's friend + Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there? + Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, + Who slights the charities for whose dear sake + That country, if at all, must be beloved? + --'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad + For England's glory, seeing it wax pale + And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts + So loose to private duty, that no brain, + Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, + Can dream them trusty to the general weal. + Such were not they of old whose tempered blades + Dispersed the shackles of usurped control, + And hewed them link from link. Then Albion's sons + Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart + Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs, + And shining each in his domestic sphere, + Shone brighter still once called to public view. + 'Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot + Forbids their interference, looking on, + Anticipate perforce some dire event; + And seeing the old castle of the state, + That promised once more firmness, so assailed + That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, + Stand motionless expectants of its fall. + All has its date below. The fatal hour + Was registered in heaven ere time began. + We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works + Die too. The deep foundations that we lay, + Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. + We build with what we deem eternal rock; + A distant age asks where the fabric stood; + And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain, + The undiscoverable secret sleeps. + + But there is yet a liberty unsung + By poets, and by senators unpraised, + Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power + Of earth and hell confederate take away; + A liberty, which persecution, fraud, + Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind, + Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more: + 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from heaven, + Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, + And sealed with the same token. It is held + By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure + By the unimpeachable and awful oath + And promise of a God. His other gifts + All bear the royal stamp that speaks them His, + And are august, but this transcends them all. + His other works, this visible display + Of all-creating energy and might, + Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the Word + That, finding an interminable space + Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, + And made so sparkling what was dark before. + But these are not His glory. Man, 'tis true, + Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, + Might well suppose the Artificer Divine + Meant it eternal, had He not Himself + Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, + And still designing a more glorious far, + Doomed it, as insufficient for His praise. + These, therefore, are occasional, and pass; + Formed for the confutation of the fool + Whose lying heart disputes against a God; + That office served, they must be swept away. + Not so the labours of His love; they shine + In other heavens than these that we behold, + And fade not. There is Paradise that fears + No forfeiture, and of its fruits He sends + Large prelibation oft to saints below. + Of these the first in order, and the pledge + And confident assurance of the rest, + Is liberty; a flight into His arms + Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, + A clear escape from tyrannising lust, + And fill immunity from penal woe. + + Chains are the portion of revolted man, + Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves + The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, + Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. + Propense his heart to idols, he is held + In silly dotage on created things + Careless of their Creator. And that low + And sordid gravitation of his powers + To a vile clod, so draws him with such force + Resistless from the centre he should seek, + That he at last forgets it. All his hopes + Tend downward, his ambition is to sink, + To reach a depth profounder still, and still + Profounder, in the fathomless abyss + Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. + But ere he gain the comfortless repose + He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, + In heaven renouncing exile, he endures + What does he not? from lusts opposed in vain, + And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees + The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, + Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all + That can ennoble man, and make frail life, + Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, + Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins + Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes + Ages of hopeless misery; future death, + And death still future; not a hasty stroke, + Like that which sends him to the dusty grave, + But unrepealable enduring death. + Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: + What none can prove a forgery, may be true; + What none but bad men wish exploded, must. + That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud + Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst + Of laughter his compunctions are sincere, + And he abhors the jest by which he shines. + Remorse begets reform. His master-lust + Falls first before his resolute rebuke, + And seems dethroned and vanquished. Peace ensues, + But spurious and short-lived, the puny child + Of self-congratulating Pride, begot + On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, + And fights again; but finds his best essay, + A presage ominous, portending still + Its own dishonour by a worse relapse, + Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foiled + So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, + Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now + Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause, + Perversely, which of late she so condemned; + With shallow shifts and old devices, worn + And tattered in the service of debauch, + Covering his shame from his offended sight. + + "Hath God indeed given appetites to man, + And stored the earth so plenteously with means + To gratify the hunger of His wish, + And doth He reprobate and will He damn + The use of His own bounty? making first + So frail a kind, and then enacting laws + So strict, that less than perfect must despair? + Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth, + Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. + Do they themselves, who undertake for hire + The teacher's office, and dispense at large + Their weekly dole of edifying strains, + Attend to their own music? have they faith + In what, with such solemnity of tone + And gesture, they propound to our belief? + Nay--conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice + Is but an instrument on which the priest + May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, + The unequivocal authentic deed, + We find sound argument, we read the heart." + + Such reasonings (if that name must needs belong + To excuses in which reason has no part) + Serve to compose a spirit well inclined + To live on terms of amity with vice, + And sin without disturbance. Often urged + (As often as, libidinous discourse + Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes + Of theological and grave import), + They gain at last his unreserved assent, + Till, hardened his heart's temper in the forge + Of lust and on the anvil of despair, + He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, + Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; + Vain tampering has but fostered his disease, + 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. + Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. + Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear + Of rectitude and fitness: moral truth + How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, + Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps + Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. + Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers + Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise, + Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, + And with poetic trappings grace thy prose + Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.-- + Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass + Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm + The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, + And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. + The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, + Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect, + Who calls for things that are not, and they come. + + Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change + That turns to ridicule the turgid speech + And stately tone of moralists, who boast, + As if, like him of fabulous renown, + They had indeed ability to smooth + The shag of savage nature, and were each + An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. + But transformation of apostate man + From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, + Is work for Him that made him. He alone, + And He, by means in philosophic eyes + Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves + The wonder; humanising what is brute + In the lost kind, extracting from the lips + Of asps their venom, overpowering strength + By weakness, and hostility by love. + + Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause + Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, + Receive proud recompense. We give in charge + Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, + Proud of the treasure, marches with it down + To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, + Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, + To guard them, and to immortalise her trust. + But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, + To those who, posted at the shrine of truth, + Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood + Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed, + And for a time ensure to his loved land, + The sweets of liberty and equal laws; + But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, + And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed + In confirmation of the noblest claim, + Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, + To walk with God, to be divinely free, + To soar, and to anticipate the skies! + Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, + Till persecution dragged them into fame + And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew + --No marble tells us whither. With their names + No bard embalms and sanctifies his song, + And history, so warm on meaner themes, + Is cold on this. She execrates indeed + The tyranny that doomed them to the fire, + But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. + + He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, + And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain + That hellish foes confederate for his harm + Can wind around him, but he casts it off + With as much ease as Samson his green withes. + He looks abroad into the varied field + Of Nature, and, though poor perhaps compared + With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, + Calls the delightful scenery all his own. + His are the mountains, and the valleys his, + And the resplendent river's. His to enjoy + With a propriety that none can feel, + But who, with filial confidence inspired, + Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, + And smiling say--My Father made them all! + Are they not his by a peculiar right, + And by an emphasis of interest his, + Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, + Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind + With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love + That planned, and built, and still upholds a world + So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? + Yes--ye may fill your garners, ye that reap + The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good + In senseless riot; but ye will not find + In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, + A liberty like his, who, unimpeached + Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, + Appropriates nature as his Father's work, + And has a richer use of yours, than you. + He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth + Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills + Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea + With all his roaring multitude of waves. + His freedom is the same in every state; + And no condition of this changeful life + So manifold in cares, whose every day + Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. + For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, + Nor penury, can cripple or confine. + No nook so narrow but he spreads them there + With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds + His body bound, but knows not what a range + His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; + And that to bind him is a vain attempt, + Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. + + Acquaint thyself with God if thou wouldst taste + His works. Admitted once to His embrace, + Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; + Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart, + Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight + Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. + Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone, + And eyes intent upon the scanty herb + It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, + Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread + Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away + From inland regions to the distant main. + Man views it and admires, but rests content + With what he views. The landscape has his praise, + But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed + The paradise he sees, he finds it such, + And such well pleased to find it, asks no more. + Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, + And in the school of sacred wisdom taught + To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, + Fair as it is, existed ere it was. + Nor for its own sake merely, but for His + Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise; + Praise that from earth resulting as it ought + To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once + Its only just proprietor in Him. + The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed + New faculties or learns at least to employ + More worthily the powers she owned before; + Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze + Of ignorance, till then she overlooked, + A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms + Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute + The unambiguous footsteps of the God + Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing + And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds. + Much conversant with heaven, she often holds + With those fair ministers of light to man + That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp + Sweet conference; inquires what strains were they + With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste + To gratulate the new-created earth, + Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God + Shouted for joy.--"Tell me, ye shining hosts + That navigate a sea that knows no storms, + Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, + If from your elevation, whence ye view + Distinctly scenes invisible to man + And systems of whose birth no tidings yet + Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race + Favoured as ours, transgressors from the womb + And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise + And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? + As one who, long detained on foreign shores, + Pants to return, and when he sees afar + His country's weather-bleached and battered rocks, + From the green wave emerging, darts an eye + Radiant with joy towards the happy land; + So I with animated hopes behold, + And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, + That show like beacons in the blue abyss, + Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home + From toilsome life to never-ending rest. + Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires + That give assurance of their own success, + And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend." + + So reads he Nature whom the lamp of truth + Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word! + Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost + With intellect bemazed in endless doubt, + But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, + With means that were not till by Thee employed, + Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength + Been less, or less benevolent than strong. + They are Thy witnesses, who speak Thy power + And goodness infinite, but speak in ears + That hear not, or receive not their report. + In vain Thy creatures testify of Thee + Till Thou proclaim Thyself. Theirs is indeed + A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of Thine + That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, + And with the boon gives talents for its use. + Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain + Possess the heart, and fables, false as hell, + Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death + The uninformed and heedless souls of men. + We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, + The glory of Thy work, which yet appears + Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, + Challenging human scrutiny, and proved + Then skilful most when most severely judged. + But chance is not; or is not where Thou reign'st: + Thy providence forbids that fickle power + (If power she be that works but to confound) + To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws. + Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can, + Instruction, and inventing to ourselves + Gods such as guilt makes welcome--gods that sleep, + Or disregard our follies, or that sit + Amused spectators of this bustling stage. + Thee we reject, unable to abide + Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, + Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause + For which we shunned and hated Thee before. + Then we are free: then liberty, like day, + Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven + Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. + A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not + Till Thou hast touched them; 'tis the voice of song, + A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works, + Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, + And adds his rapture to the general praise. + In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide + Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile + The Author of her beauties, who, retired + Behind His own creation, works unseen + By the impure, and hears His power denied. + Thou art the source and centre of all minds, + Their only point of rest, eternal Word! + From Thee departing, they are lost and rove + At random, without honour, hope, or peace. + From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, + His high endeavour, and his glad success, + His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. + But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good, + Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown! + Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, + And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. + + + +BOOK VI. + +THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + + There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, + And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased + With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; + Some chord in unison with what we hear + Is touched within us, and the heart replies. + How soft the music of those village bells + Falling at intervals upon the ear + In cadence sweet, now dying all away, + Now pealing loud again, and louder still, + Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on. + With easy force it opens all the cells + Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard + A kindred melody, the scene recurs, + And with it all its pleasures and its pains. + Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, + That in a few short moments I retrace + (As in a map the voyager his course) + The windings of my way through many years. + Short as in retrospect the journey seems, + It seemed not always short; the rugged path, + And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, + Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. + Yet feeling present evils, while the past + Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, + How readily we wish time spent revoked, + That we might try the ground again, where once + (Through inexperience as we now perceive) + We missed that happiness we might have found. + Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend + A father, whose authority, in show + When most severe, and mustering all its force, + Was but the graver countenance of love; + Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, + And utter now and then an awful voice, + But had a blessing in its darkest frown, + Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. + We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand + That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured + By every gilded folly, we renounced + His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent + That converse which we now in vain regret. + How gladly would the man recall to life + The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, + That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, + Might he demand them at the gates of death. + Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed + The playful humour; he could now endure + (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) + And feel a parent's presence no restraint. + But not to understand a treasure's worth + Till time has stolen away the slighted good, + Is cause of half the poverty we feel, + And makes the world the wilderness it is. + The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, + And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, + Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. + + The night was winter in his roughest mood, + The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon + Upon the southern side of the slant hills, + And where the woods fence off the northern blast, + The season smiles, resigning all its rage, + And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue + Without a cloud, and white without a speck + The dazzling splendour of the scene below. + Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, + And through the trees I view the embattled tower + Whence all the music. I again perceive + The soothing influence of the wafted strains, + And settle in soft musings, as I tread + The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, + Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. + The roof, though movable through all its length, + As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, + And, intercepting in their silent fall + The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. + No noise is here, or none that hinders thought: + The redbreast warbles still, but is content + With slender notes and more than half suppressed. + Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light + From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes + From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, + That tinkle in the withered leaves below. + Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, + Charms more than silence. Meditation here + May think down hours to moments. Here the heart + May give an useful lesson to the head, + And learning wiser grow without his books. + Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, + Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells + In heads replete with thoughts of other men; + Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. + Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, + The mere materials with which wisdom builds, + Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, + Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. + Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, + Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. + Books are not seldom talismans and spells + By which the magic art of shrewder wits + Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. + Some to the fascination of a name + Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style + Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds + Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. + While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear + The insupportable fatigue of thought, + And swallowing therefore without pause or choice + The total grist unsifted, husks and all. + But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course + Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, + And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, + And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time + Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, + Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, + Not shy as in the world, and to be won + By slow solicitation, seize at once + The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + + What prodigies can power divine perform + More grand than it produces year by year, + And all in sight of inattentive man? + Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, + And in the constancy of Nature's course, + The regular return of genial months, + And renovation of a faded world, + See nought to wonder at. Should God again, + As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race + Of the undeviating and punctual sun, + How would the world admire! but speaks it less + An agency divine, to make him know + His moment when to sink and when to rise + Age after age, than to arrest his course? + All we behold is miracle: but, seen + So duly, all is miracle in vain. + Where now the vital energy that moved, + While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph + Through the imperceptible meandering veins + Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch + Of unprolific winter has impressed + A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. + But let the months go round, a few short months, + And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, + Barren as lances, among which the wind + Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, + Shall put their graceful foliage on again, + And more aspiring and with ampler spread + Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. + Then, each in its peculiar honours clad, + Shall publish even to the distant eye + Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich + In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure; + The scented and the scentless rose; this red + And of a humbler growth, the other tall, + And throwing up into the darkest gloom + Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, + Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf + That the wind severs from the broken wave; + The lilac various in array, now white, + Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set + With purple spikes pyramidal, as if + Studious of ornament, yet unresolved + Which hue she most approved, she chose them all; + Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, + But well compensating their sickly looks + With never-cloying odours, early and late; + Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm + Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods, + That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, + Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset + With blushing wreaths investing every spray; + Althaea with the purple eye; the broom, + Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed + Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all + The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, + The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf + Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more + The bright profusion of her scattered stars.-- + These have been, and these shall be in their day, + And all this uniform uncoloured scene + Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, + And flush into variety again. + From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, + Is Nature's progress when she lectures man + In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes + The grand transition, that there lives and works + A soul in all things, and that soul is God. + The beauties of the wilderness are His, + That make so gay the solitary place + Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms + That cultivation glories in, are His. + He sets the bright procession on its way, + And marshals all the order of the year. + He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, + And blunts his pointed fury. In its case, + Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ + Uninjured, with inimitable art, + And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, + Designs the blooming wonders of the next. + + Some say that in the origin of things, + When all creation started into birth, + The infant elements received a law + From which they swerve not since; that under force + Of that controlling ordinance they move, + And need not His immediate hand, who first + Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. + Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God + The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare + The great Artificer of all that moves + The stress of a continual act, the pain + Of unremitted vigilance and care, + As too laborious and severe a task. + So man the moth is not afraid, it seems, + To span Omnipotence, and measure might + That knows no measure, by the scanty rule + And standard of his own, that is to-day, + And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. + But how should matter occupy a charge + Dull as it is, and satisfy a law + So vast in its demands, unless impelled + To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, + And under pressure of some conscious cause? + The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused + Sustains and is the life of all that lives. + Nature is but a name for an effect + Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire + By which the mighty process is maintained, + Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight + Slow-circling ages are as transient days; + Whose work is without labour, whose designs + No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts, + And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. + Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, + With self-taught rites and under various names + Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, + And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth + With tutelary goddesses and gods + That were not, and commending as they would + To each some province, garden, field, or grove. + But all are under One. One spirit--His + Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows-- + Rules universal nature. Not a flower + But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, + Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires + Their balmy odours and imparts their hues, + And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, + In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, + The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth. + Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds + Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, + Or what he views of beautiful or grand + In nature, from the broad majestic oak + To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, + Prompts with remembrance of a present God. + His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, + Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene + Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please. + Though winter had been none had man been true, + And earth be punished for its tenant's sake, + Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, + So soon succeeding such an angry night, + And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream, + Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. + + Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned + To contemplation, and within his reach + A scene so friendly to his favourite task, + Would waste attention at the chequered board, + His host of wooden warriors to and fro + Marching and counter-marching, with an eye + As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged + And furrowed into storms, and with a hand + Trembling, as if eternity were hung + In balance on his conduct of a pin? + Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, + Who pant with application misapplied + To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls + Across the velvet level, feel a joy + Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds + Its destined goal of difficult access. + Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon + To Miss, the Mercer's plague, from shop to shop + Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks + The polished counter, and approving none, + Or promising with smiles to call again. + Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced, + And soothed into a dream that he discerns + The difference of a Guido from a daub, + Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there + As duly as the Langford of the show, + With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, + And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant + And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease, + Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls + He notes it in his book, then raps his box, + Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate + That he has let it pass--but never bids. + + Here unmolested, through whatever sign + The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, + Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me, + Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. + Even in the spring and play-time of the year + That calls the unwonted villager abroad + With all her little ones, a sportive train, + To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, + And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick + A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, + These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, + Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, + Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed + Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends + His long love-ditty for my near approach. + Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm + That age or injury has hollowed deep, + Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves + He has outslept the winter, ventures forth + To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, + The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. + He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, + Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, + And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, + With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, + And anger insignificantly fierce. + + The heart is hard in nature, and unfit + For human fellowship, as being void + Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike + To love and friendship both, that is not pleased + With sight of animals enjoying life, + Nor feels their happiness augment his own. + The bounding fawn that darts across the glade + When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, + And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; + The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, + That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, + Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels + Starts to the voluntary race again; + The very kine that gambol at high noon, + The total herd receiving first from one, + That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, + Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth + Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent + To give such act and utterance as they may + To ecstasy too big to be suppressed-- + These, and a thousand images of bliss, + With which kind nature graces every scene + Where cruel man defeats not her design, + Impart to the benevolent, who wish + All that are capable of pleasure pleased, + A far superior happiness to theirs, + The comfort of a reasonable joy. + + Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call + Who formed him from the dust, his future grave, + When he was crowned as never king was since. + God set His diadem upon his head, + And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood + The new-made monarch, while before him passed, + All happy and all perfect in their kind, + The creatures, summoned from their various haunts + To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. + Vast was his empire, absolute his power, + Or bounded only by a law whose force + 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel + And own, the law of universal love. + He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy. + No cruel purpose lurked within his heart, + And no distrust of his intent in theirs. + So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, + Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole + Begat a tranquil confidence in all, + And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. + But sin marred all; and the revolt of man, + That source of evils not exhausted yet, + Was punished with revolt of his from him. + Garden of God, how terrible the change + Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart, + Each animal of every name, conceived + A jealousy and an instinctive fear, + And, conscious of some danger, either fled + Precipitate the loathed abode of man, + Or growled defiance in such angry sort, + As taught him too to tremble in his turn. + Thus harmony and family accord + Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour + The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled + To such gigantic and enormous growth, + Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. + Hence date the persecution and the pain + That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, + Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, + To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, + Or his base gluttony, are causes good + And just in his account, why bird and beast + Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed + With blood of their inhabitants impaled. + Earth groans beneath the burden of a war + Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, + Not satisfied to prey on all around, + Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs + Needless, and first torments ere he devours. + Now happiest they that occupy the scenes + The most remote from his abhorred resort, + Whom once as delegate of God on earth + They feared, and as His perfect image loved. + The wilderness is theirs with all its caves, + Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains + Unvisited by man. There they are free, + And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled, + Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. + Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude + Within the confines of their wild domain; + The lion tells him, "I am monarch here;" + And if he spares him, spares him on the terms + Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn + To rend a victim trembling at his foot. + In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, + Or by necessity constrained, they live + Dependent upon man, those in his fields, + These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; + They prove too often at how dear a rate + He sells protection. Witness, at his foot + The spaniel dying for some venial fault, + Under dissection of the knotted scourge; + Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells + Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs + To madness, while the savage at his heels + Laughs at the frantic sufferer's fury spent + Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. + He too is witness, noblest of the train + That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: + With unsuspecting readiness he takes + His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day, + With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life, + To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies. + So little mercy shows who needs so much! + Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, + Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None. + He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts + (As if barbarity were high desert) + The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise + Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose + The honours of his matchless horse his own. + But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth, + Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt, + Have each their record, with a curse annexed. + Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, + But God will never. When He charged the Jew + To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise, + And when the bush-exploring boy that seized + The young, to let the parent bird go free, + Proved He not plainly that His meaner works + Are yet His care, and have an interest all, + All, in the universal Father's love? + On Noah, and in him on all mankind, + The charter was conferred by which we hold + The flesh of animals in fee, and claim, + O'er all we feed on, power of life and death. + But read the instrument, and mark it well; + The oppression of a tyrannous control + Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield + Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, + Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute. + + The Governor of all, Himself to all + So bountiful, in whose attentive ear + The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp + Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs + Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed, + Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite + The injurious trampler upon nature's law, + That claims forbearance even for a brute. + He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart, + And, prophet as he was, he might not strike + The blameless animal, without rebuke, + On which he rode. Her opportune offence + Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. + He sees that human equity is slack + To interfere, though in so just a cause, + And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb + And helpless victims with a sense so keen + Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, + And such sagacity to take revenge, + That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man. + An ancient, not a legendary tale, + By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, + (If such, who plead for Providence may seem + In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear. + + Where England, stretched towards the setting sun, + Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, + Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he + Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, + Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. + He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went, + To join a traveller of far different note-- + Evander, famed for piety, for years + Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. + Fame had not left the venerable man + A stranger to the manners of the youth, + Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. + Their way was on the margin of the land, + O'er the green summit of the rocks whose base + Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. + The charity that warmed his heart was moved + At sight of the man-monster. With a smile + Gentle and affable, and full of grace, + As fearful of offending whom he wished + Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths + Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed, + But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. + "And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man + Exclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age, + And fantasies of dotards such as thou, + Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? + Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave + Need no such aids as superstition lends + To steel their hearts against the dread of death." + He spoke, and to the precipice at hand + Pushed with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, + And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought + Of such a gulf as he designed his grave. + But though the felon on his back could dare + The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed + Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, + Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge, + Baffled his rider, saved against his will. + The frenzy of the brain may be redressed + By medicine well applied, but without grace + The heart's insanity admits no cure. + Enraged the more by what might have reformed + His horrible intent, again he sought + Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed, + With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood. + But still in vain. The Providence that meant + A longer date to the far nobler beast, + Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. + And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere, + Incurable obduracy evinced, + His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned + So cheaply the renown of that attempt, + With looks of some complacence he resumed + His road, deriding much the blank amaze + Of good Evander, still where he was left + Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread. + So on they fared; discourse on other themes + Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past, + And tamer far for so much fury shown + (As is the course of rash and fiery men) + The rude companion smiled as if transformed. + But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, + An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. + The impious challenger of power divine + Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, + Is never with impunity defied. + His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, + Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, + Unbidden, and not now to be controlled, + Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood. + At once the shock unseated him; he flew + Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and, immersed + Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, + The death he had deserved, and died alone. + So God wrought double justice; made the fool + The victim of his own tremendous choice, + And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. + + I would not enter on my list of friends + (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, + Yet wanting sensibility) the man + Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. + An inadvertent step may crush the snail + That crawls at evening in the public path; + But he that has humanity, forewarned, + Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. + The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, + And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes + A visitor unwelcome into scenes + Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, + The chamber, or refectory, may die. + A necessary act incurs no blame. + Not so when, held within their proper bounds + And guiltless of offence, they range the air, + Or take their pastime in the spacious field. + There they are privileged; and he that hunts + Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, + Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, + Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. + The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, + Or safety interfere, his rights and claims + Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. + Else they are all--the meanest things that are-- + As free to live and to enjoy that life, + As God was free to form them at the first, + Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. + Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons + To love it too. The spring-time of our years + Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most + By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand + To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, + If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, + Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. + Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule + And righteous limitation of its act, + By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man; + And he that shows none, being ripe in years, + And conscious of the outrage he commits, + Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. + + Distinguished much by reason, and still more + By our capacity of grace divine, + From creatures that exist but for our sake, + Which having served us, perish, we are held + Accountable, and God, some future day, + Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse + Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. + Superior as we are, they yet depend + Not more on human help, than we on theirs. + Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given + In aid of our defects. In some are found + Such teachable and apprehensive parts, + That man's attainments in his own concerns, + Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, + Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind. + Some show that nice sagacity of smell, + And read with such discernment, in the port + And figure of the man, his secret aim, + That oft we owe our safety to a skill + We could not teach, and must despair to learn. + But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop + To quadruped instructors, many a good + And useful quality, and virtue too, + Rarely exemplified among ourselves; + Attachment never to be weaned, or changed + By any change of fortune, proof alike + Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; + Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat + Can move or warp; and gratitude for small + And trivial favours, lasting as the life, + And glistening even in the dying eye. + + Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms + Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit + Patiently present at a sacred song, + Commemoration-mad; content to hear + (Oh wonderful effect of music's power!) + Messiah's eulogy, for Handel's sake. + But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve-- + (For was it less? What heathen would have dared + To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath + And hang it up in honour of a man?) + Much less might serve, when all that we design + Is but to gratify an itching ear, + And give the day to a musician's praise. + Remember Handel! who, that was not born + Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, + Or can, the more than Homer of his age? + Yes--we remember him; and, while we praise + A talent so divine, remember too + That His most holy Book from whom it came + Was never meant, was never used before + To buckram out the memory of a man. + But hush!--the muse perhaps is too severe, + And with a gravity beyond the size + And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed + Less impious than absurd, and owing more + To want of judgment than to wrong design. + So in the chapel of old Ely House, + When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, + Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, + The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, + And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, + Sung to the praise and glory of King George. + --Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next, + When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made + The idol of our worship while he lived + The god of our idolatry once more, + Shall have its altar; and the world shall go + In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. + The theatre, too small, shall suffocate + Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits + Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return + Ungratified. For there some noble lord + Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch, + Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, + And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, + To show the world how Garrick did not act, + For Garrick was a worshipper himself; + He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites + And solemn ceremonial of the day, + And called the world to worship on the banks + Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof + That piety has still in human hearts + Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. + The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths, + The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance, + The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs, + And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree + Supplied such relics as devotion holds + Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. + So 'twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned, + And mirth without offence. No few returned + Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed. + --Man praises man. The rabble all alive, + From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, + Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, + A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes; + Some shout him, and some hang upon his car + To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave + Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy + While others not so satisfied unhorse + The gilded equipage, and, turning loose + His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. + Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state? + No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. + Enchanting novelty, that moon at full + That finds out every crevice of the head + That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs + Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, + And his own cattle must suffice him soon. + Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, + And dedicate a tribute, in its use + And just direction sacred, to a thing + Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there. + Encomium in old time was poet's work; + But, poets having lavishly long since + Exhausted all materials of the art, + The task now falls into the public hand; + And I, contented with a humble theme, + Have poured my stream of panegyric down + The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds + Among her lovely works, with a secure + And unambitious course, reflecting clear + If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes. + And I am recompensed, and deem the toil + Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine + May stand between an animal and woe, + And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. + + The groans of Nature in this nether world, + Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. + Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, + Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, + The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes. + Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh + Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course + Over a sinful world; and what remains + Of this tempestuous state of human things, + Is merely as the working of a sea + Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. + For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds + The dust that waits upon His sultry march, + When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot, + Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend + Propitious, in His chariot paved with love, + And what His storms have blasted and defaced + For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. + + Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet + Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch; + Nor can the wonders it records be sung + To meaner music, and not suffer loss. + But when a poet, or when one like me, + Happy to rove among poetic flowers, + Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last + On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, + Such is the impulse and the spur he feels + To give it praise proportioned to its worth, + That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems + The labour, were a task more arduous still. + + Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, + Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see, + Though but in distant prospect, and not feel + His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? + Rivers of gladness water all the earth, + And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach + Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field + Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean, + Or fertile only in its own disgrace, + Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. + The various seasons woven into one, + And that one season an eternal spring, + The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, + For there is none to covet, all are full. + The lion and the libbard and the bear + Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon + Together, or all gambol in the shade + Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. + Antipathies are none. No foe to man + Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees, + And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand + Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, + To stroke his azure neck, or to receive + The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. + All creatures worship man, and all mankind + One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; + That creeping pestilence is driven away, + The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart + No passion touches a discordant string, + But all is harmony and love. Disease + Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood + Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. + One song employs all nations; and all cry, + "Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!" + The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks + Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops + From distant mountains catch the flying joy, + Till nation after nation taught the strain, + Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. + Behold the measure of the promise filled, + See Salem built, the labour of a God! + Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; + All kingdoms and all princes of the earth + Flock to that light; the glory of all lands + Flows into her, unbounded is her joy + And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, + Nebaioth,* and the flocks of Kedar there; + The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, + And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. + Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls, + And in her streets, and in her spacious courts + Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there + Kneels with the native of the farthest West, + And AEthiopia spreads abroad the hand, + And worships. Her report has travelled forth + Into all lands. From every clime they come + To see thy beauty and to share thy joy, + O Sion! an assembly such as earth + Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see. + +* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the +Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to may be reasonably +considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large.--C. + + Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once + Perfect, and all must be at length restored. + So God has greatly purposed; who would else + In His dishonoured works Himself endure + Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. + Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, + Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see + (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) + A world that does not dread and hate His laws, + And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair + The creature is that God pronounces good, + How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. + Here every drop of honey hides a sting; + Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, + And even the joy, that haply some poor heart + Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, + Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint + From touch of human lips, at best impure. + Oh for a world in principle as chaste + As this is gross and selfish! over which + Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, + That govern all things here, shouldering aside + The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her + To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife + In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men, + Where violence shall never lift the sword, + Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, + Leaving the poor no remedy but tears; + Where he that fills an office, shall esteem + The occasion it presents of doing good + More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak + Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts, + And equity, not jealous more to guard + A worthless form, than to decide aright; + Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, + Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) + With lean performance ape the work of love. + + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, + Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine + By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth, + And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since, + And overpaid its value with Thy blood. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts + Thy title is engraven with a pen + Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. + Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay + Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see + The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired, + Would creep into the bowels of the hills, + And flee for safety to the falling rocks. + The very spirit of the world is tired + Of its own taunting question, asked so long, + "Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?" + The infidel has shot his bolts away, + Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, + He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled, + And aims them at the shield of truth again. + The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, + That hides divinity from mortal eyes; + And all the mysteries to faith proposed, + Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, + As useless, to the moles and to the bats. + They now are deemed the faithful and are praised, + Who, constant only in rejecting Thee, + Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, + And quit their office for their error's sake. + Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these + Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel, + Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man! + So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare, + The world takes little thought; who will may preach, + And what they will. All pastors are alike + To wandering sheep resolved to follow none. + Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain; + For these they live, they sacrifice to these, + And in their service wage perpetual war + With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, + And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth + To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, + High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. + Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down + The features of the last degenerate times, + Exhibit every lineament of these. + Come then, and added to Thy many crowns + Receive yet one as radiant as the rest, + Due to Thy last and most effectual work, + Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world. + + He is the happy man, whose life even now + Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; + Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, + Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, + Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit + Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, + Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one + Content indeed to sojourn while he must + Below the skies, but having there his home. + The world o'erlooks him in her busy search + Of objects more illustrious in her view; + And occupied as earnestly as she, + Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. + She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; + He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. + He cannot skim the ground like summer birds + Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems + Her honours, her emoluments, her joys; + Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, + Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth + She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, + And shows him glories yet to be revealed. + Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, + And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams + Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird + That flutters least is longest on the wing. + Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, + Or what achievements of immortal fame + He purposes, and he shall answer--None. + His warfare is within. There unfatigued + His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, + And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, + And never-withering wreaths, compared with which + The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. + Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, + That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks, + Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see, + Deems him a cipher in the works of God, + Receives advantage from his noiseless hours + Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes + Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring + And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes + When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint + Walks forth to meditate at eventide, + And think on her who thinks not for herself. + Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns + Of little worth, and idler in the best, + If, author of no mischief and some good, + He seeks his proper happiness by means + That may advance, but cannot hinder thine. + Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, + Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, + Account him an encumbrance on the state, + Receiving benefits, and rendering none. + His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere + Shine with his fair example, and though small + His influence, if that influence all be spent + In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, + In aiding helpless indigence, in works + From which at least a grateful few derive + Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, + Then let the supercilious great confess + He serves his country; recompenses well + The state beneath the shadow of whose vine + He sits secure, and in the scale of life + Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. + The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, + Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise; + But he may boast, what few that win it can, + That if his country stand not by his skill, + At least his follies have not wrought her fall. + Polite refinement offers him in vain + Her golden tube, through which a sensual world + Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, + The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. + Not that he peevishly rejects a mode + Because that world adopts it. If it bear + The stamp and clear impression of good sense, + And be not costly more than of true worth, + He puts it on, and for decorum sake + Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. + She judges of refinement by the eye, + He by the test of conscience, and a heart + Not soon deceived; aware that what is base + No polish can make sterling, and that vice, + Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed, + Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, + Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far + For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. + So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, + More golden than that age of fabled gold + Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care, + Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved + Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. + + So glide my life away! and so at last, + My share of duties decently fulfilled, + May some disease, not tardy to perform + Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, + Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat + Beneath the turf that I have often trod. + It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called + To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, + I played awhile, obedient to the fair, + With that light task, but soon to please her more, + Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, + Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; + Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, 'tis true, + Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof, + But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some + To palates that can taste immortal truth; + Insipid else, and sure to be despised. + But all is in His hand whose praise I seek, + In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, + If He regard not, though divine the theme. + 'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime + And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, + To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; + Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, + Whose approbation--prosper even mine. + + + +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 Mistress Gilpin, "That's well said; + And, for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + + John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O'erjoyed 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 allowed + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folk so glad; + The stones did rattle underneath + As if Cheapside were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse's side + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + + For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + 'Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind. + When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, + "The wine is left behind!" + + "Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword, + When I do exercise." + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o'er the stones + With caution and good heed! + + But, finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + + So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; + And every soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin--who but he? + His fame soon spread around-- + He carries weight! he rides a race! + 'Tis for a thousand pound! + + And still, as fast as he drew near, + 'Twas wonderful to view + How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; + For all might see the bottle-necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols he did play, + And till he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay. + + And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + + At Edmonton, his loving wife + From the bal-cony spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--here's the house!" + They all at once did cry; + "The dinner waits, and we are tired." + Said Gilpin, "So am I!" + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; + For why?--his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware. + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly--which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin, out of breath, + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the Calender's + His horse at last stood still. + + The Calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him:-- + + "What news? what news? your tidings tell: + Tell me you must and shall-- + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all." + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; + And thus unto the Calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + "I came because your horse would come; + And if I well forebode, + My hat and wig will soon be here; + They are upon the road." + + The Calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, + Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig, + A wig that flowed behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and, in his turn, + Thus showed his ready wit,-- + "My head is twice as big as yours; + They therefore needs must fit. + + "But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + + Says John, "It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware." + + So turning to his horse, he said, + "I am in haste to dine; + 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." + + Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig; + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big. + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pulled out half-a-crown. + + And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to "The Bell," + "This shall be yours when you bring back + My husband safe and well." + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain, + Whom in a trice he tried to stop + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, + The frighted steed he frighted more, + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, + The postboy's horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry: + + "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space, + The tollmen thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, "Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see!" + + + +AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + + DEAR JOSEPH,--five and twenty years ago-- + Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so-- + With frequent intercourse, and always sweet + And always friendly, we were wont to cheat + A tedious hour--and now we never meet. + As some grave gentleman in Terence says + ('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), + "Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-- + Strange fluctuation of all human things!" + True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, + But distance only cannot change the heart: + And were I called to prove the assertion true, + One proof should serve--a reference to you. + + Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life, + Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife, + We find the friends we fancied we had won, + Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? + Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? + No. Gold they seemed, but they were never such. + Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, + Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, + Dreading a negative, and overawed + Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad. + "Go, fellow!--whither?"--turning short about-- + "Nay. Stay at home; you're always going out."-- + "'Tis but a step, sir; just at the street's end." + "For what?"--"An please you, sir, to see a friend." + "A friend!" Horatio cried, and seemed to start; + "Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart-- + And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw + I'll see him too--the first I ever saw." + + I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, + And was his plaything often when a child; + But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, + Else he was seldom bitter or morose. + Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed, + His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; + Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, + The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. + Howe'er it was, his language in my mind + Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. + + But not to moralise too much, and strain + To prove an evil of which all complain + (I hate long arguments, verbosely spun), + One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. + Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man. + No matter where, in China or Japan, + Decreed that whosoever should offend + Against the well-known duties of a friend, + Convicted once, should ever after wear + But half a coat, and show his bosom bare; + The punishment importing this, no doubt, + That all was naught within and all found out. + + Oh happy Britain! we have not to fear + Such hard and arbitrary measure here; + Else could a law, like that which I relate, + Once have the sanction of our triple state, + Some few that I have known in days of old + Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold. + While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, + Might traverse England safely to and fro, + An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, + Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. + + + +TO MARY. + + The twentieth year is well-nigh past + Since first our sky was overcast, + Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + + Thy spirits have a fainter flow, + I see thee daily weaker grow-- + 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, + My Mary! + + Thy needles, once a shining store, + For my sake restless heretofore, + Now rust disused, and shine no more, + My Mary! + + For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil + The same kind office for me still, + Thy sight now seconds not thy will, + My Mary! + + But well thou playedst the housewife's part, + And all thy threads with magic art + Have wound themselves about this heart, + My Mary! + + Thy indistinct expressions seem + Like language uttered in a dream; + Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, + My Mary! + + Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, + Are still more lovely in my sight + Than golden beams of orient light, + My Mary! + + For could I view nor them nor thee, + What sight worth seeing could I see? + The sun would rise in vain for me, + My Mary! + + Partakers of thy sad decline, + Thy hands their little force resign; + Yet gently prest, press gently mine, + My Mary! + + Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, + That now at every step thou mov'st + Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, + My Mary! + + And still to love, though prest with ill, + In wintry age to feel no chill, + With me, is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + + But ah! by constant heed I know, + How oft the sadness that I show, + Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, + My Mary! + + And should my future lot be cast + With much resemblance of the past, + Thy worn-out heart will break at last, + My Mary! + + + + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Task and Other Poems, by William Cowper + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TASK AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 3698.txt or 3698.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/6/9/3698/ + +Produced by Les Bowler. + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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In the summer of 1781, when his first volume was +being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the +street at Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to +tea. Their coming was the beginning of a cordial friendship. +Lady Austen, without being less earnest, had a liveliness that +satisfied Cowper's sense of fun to an extent that stirred at +last some jealousy in Mrs. Unwin. "She had lived much in +France," Cowper said, "was very sensible, and had infinite +vivacity." + +The Vicar of Olney was in difficulties, with his affairs in +the hands of trustees. The duties of his office were entirely +discharged by a curate, and the vicarage was to let. Lady +Austen, in 1782, rented it, to be near her new friends. There +was only a wall between the garden of the house occupied by +Cowper and Mrs. Unwin and the vicarage garden. A door was +made in the wall, and there was a close companionship of +three. When Lady Austen did not spend her evenings with Mrs. +Unwin and Cowper, Mrs. Unwin and Cowper spent their evenings +with Lady Austen. They read, talked, Lady Austen played and +sang, and they all called one another by their Christian +names, William, Mary (Mrs. Unwin), and Anna (Lady Austen). In +a poetical epistle to Lady Austen, written in December, 1781, +Cowper closes a reference to the strength of their friendship +with the evidence it gave,-- + + "That Solomon has wisely spoken,-- + 'A threefold cord is not soon broken.'" + +One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was low- +spirited, Lady Austen told him in lively fashion the story +upon which he founded the ballad of "John Gilpin." Its +original hero is said to have been a Mr. Bayer, who had a +draper's shop in London, at the corner of Cheapside. Cowper +was so much tickled by it, that he lay awake part of the night +rhyming and laughing, and by the next evening the ballad was +complete. It was sent to Mrs. Unwin's son, who sent it to the +Public Advertiser, where for the next two or three years it +lay buried in the "Poets' Corner," and attracted no particular +attention. + +In the summer of 1783, when one of the three friends had been +reading blank verse aloud to the other two, Lady Austen, from +her seat upon the sofa, urged upon Cowper, as she had urged +before, that blank verse was to be preferred to the rhymed +couplets in which his first book had been written, and that he +should write a poem in blank verse. "I will," he said, "if +you will give me a subject." "Oh," she answered, "you can +write upon anything. Write on this sofa." He playfully +accepted that as "the task" set him, and began his poem called +"The Task," which was finished in the summer of the next year, +1784. But before "The Task" was finished, Mrs. Unwin's +jealousy obliged Cowper to give up his new friend--whom he had +made a point of calling upon every morning at eleven--and +prevent her return to summer quarters in the vicarage. + +Two miles from Olney was Weston Underwood with a park, to +which its owner gave Cowper the use of a key. In 1782 a +younger brother, John Throckmorton, came with his wife to live +at Weston, and continued Cowper's privilege. The +Throckmortons were Roman Catholics, but in May, 1784, Mr. +Unwin was tempted by an invitation to see a balloon ascent +from their park. Their kindness as hosts won upon Cowper; +they sought and had his more intimate friendship, till in his +correspondence he playfully abused the first syllable of their +name and called them Mr. and Mrs. Frog. + +Cowper's "Task" went to its publisher and printing was begun, +when suddenly "John Gilpin," after a long sleep in the Public +Advertiser, rode triumphant through the town. A favourite +actor of the day was giving recitations at Freemason's Hall. +A man of letters, Richard Sharp, who had read and liked "John +Gilpin," pointed out to the actor how well it would suit his +purpose. The actor was John Henderson, whose Hamlet, Shylock, +Richard III., and Falstaff were the most popular of his day. +He died suddenly in 1785, at the age of thirty-eight, and it +was thus in the last year of his life that his power of +recitation drew "John Gilpin" from obscurity and made it the +nine days' wonder of the town. Pictures of John Gilpin +abounded in all forms. He figured on pocket-handkerchiefs. +When the publisher asked for a few more pages to his volume of +"The Task," Cowper gave him as makeweights an "Epistle to +Joseph Hill," his "Tirocinium," and, a little doubtfully, +"John Gilpin." So the book was published in June, 1785; was +sought by many because it was by the author of "John Gilpin," +and at once won recognition. The preceding volume had not made +Cowper famous. "The Task" at once gave him his place among +the poets. + +Cowper's "Task" is to this day, except Wordsworth's +"Excursion," the best purely didactic poem in the English +language. The "Sofa" stands only as a point of departure:--it +suits a gouty limb; but as the poet is not gouty, he is up and +off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin in the country +about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural sounds, +taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy +winter weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage, and +draws from it comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. +He describes the walk to the park at Weston Underwood, the +prospect from the hilltop, touches upon his privilege in +having a key of the gate, describes the avenues of trees, the +wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher's flail +then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is +after toil. He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness +of Nature free to all, that brings health to the sick, joy to +the returned seafarer. Spleen vexes votaries of artificial +life. True gaiety is for the innocent. So thought flows on, +and touches in its course the vital questions of a troubled +time. "The Task" appeared four years before the outbreak of +the French Revolution, and is in many passages not less +significant of rising storms than the "Excursion" is +significant of what came with the breaking of the clouds. + +H. M. + + + +THE TASK. + + + +BOOK I. THE SOFA. + +["The history of the following production is briefly this:--A +lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from +the author, and gave him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, +and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; +and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and +turn of mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of the +trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair--a +volume.] + + +I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang +Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe +The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, +Escaped with pain from that advent'rous flight, +Now seek repose upon a humbler theme: +The theme though humble, yet august and proud +The occasion--for the Fair commands the song. + +Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, +Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. +As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, +Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: +The hardy chief upon the rugged rock +Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank +Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, +Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength. +Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next +The birthday of invention; weak at first, +Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. +Joint-stools were then created; on three legs +Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm +A massy slab, in fashion square or round. +On such a stool immortal Alfred sat, +And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms; +And such in ancient halls and mansions drear +May still be seen, but perforated sore +And drilled in holes the solid oak is found, +By worms voracious eating through and through. + +At length a generation more refined +Improved the simple plan, made three legs four, +Gave them a twisted form vermicular, +And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed, +Induced a splendid cover green and blue, +Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought +And woven close, or needlework sublime. +There might ye see the peony spread wide, +The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, +Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes, +And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. + +Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright +With Nature's varnish; severed into stripes +That interlaced each other, these supplied, +Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced +The new machine, and it became a chair. +But restless was the chair; the back erect +Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease; +The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part +That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down, +Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. +These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed +In modest mediocrity, content +With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides +Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, +With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, +Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed: +If cushion might be called, what harder seemed +Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed. +No want of timber then was felt or feared +In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood +Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight. +But elbows still were wanting; these, some say, +An alderman of Cripplegate contrived, +And some ascribe the invention to a priest +Burly and big, and studious of his ease. +But rude at first, and not with easy slope +Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs, +And bruised the side, and elevated high +Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears. +Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires +Complained, though incommodiously pent in, +And ill at ease behind. The ladies first +Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. +Ingenious fancy, never better pleased +Than when employed to accommodate the fair, +Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised +The soft settee; one elbow at each end, +And in the midst an elbow, it received, +United yet divided, twain at once. +So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; +And so two citizens who take the air, +Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one. +But relaxation of the languid frame +By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs, +Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow +The growth of what is excellent, so hard +To attain perfection in this nether world. +Thus first necessity invented stools, +Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, +And luxury the accomplished Sofa last. + +The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick, +Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he +Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour +To sleep within the carriage more secure, +His legs depending at the open door. +Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, +The tedious rector drawling o'er his head, +And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep +Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, +Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour +To slumber in the carriage more secure, +Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk, +Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet, +Compared with the repose the Sofa yields. + +Oh, may I live exempted (while I live +Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene) +From pangs arthritic that infest the toe +Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits +The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, +Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: +For I have loved the rural walk through lanes +Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep, +And skirted thick with intertexture firm +Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk +O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, +E'er since a truant boy I passed my bounds +To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. +And still remember, nor without regret +Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared, +How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, +Still hungering penniless and far from home, +I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, +Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss +The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. +Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite +Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved +By culinary arts unsavoury deems. +No Sofa then awaited my return, +No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs +His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil +Incurring short fatigue; and though our years, +As life declines, speed rapidly away, +And not a year but pilfers as he goes +Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, +A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees +Their length and colour from the locks they spare; +The elastic spring of an unwearied foot +That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, +That play of lungs inhaling and again +Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes +Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, +Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired +My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed +Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find +Still soothing and of power to charm me still. +And witness, dear companion of my walks, +Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive +Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, +Confirmed by long experience of thy worth +And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire-- +Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. +Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere, +And that my raptures are not conjured up +To serve occasions of poetic pomp, +But genuine, and art partner of them all. +How oft upon yon eminence, our pace +Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne +The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew, +While admiration feeding at the eye, +And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene! +Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned +The distant plough slow-moving, and beside +His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, +The sturdy swain diminished to a boy! +Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain +Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, +Conducts the eye along his sinuous course +Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank +Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms +That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; +While far beyond and overthwart the stream +That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, +The sloping land recedes into the clouds; +Displaying on its varied side the grace +Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, +Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells +Just undulates upon the listening ear; +Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. +Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed +Please daily, and whose novelty survives +Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: +Praise justly due to those that I describe. + +Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds +Exhilarate the spirit, and restore +The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, +That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood +Of ancient growth, make music not unlike +The dash of ocean on his winding shore, +And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, +Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, +And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once. +Nor less composure waits upon the roar +Of distant floods, or on the softer voice +Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip +Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall +Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length +In matted grass, that with a livelier green +Betrays the secret of their silent course. +Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, +But animated Nature sweeter still +To soothe and satisfy the human ear. +Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one +The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes +Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, +But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime +In still repeated circles, screaming loud, +The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl +That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. +Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, +Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, +And only there, please highly for their sake. + +Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought +Devised the weather-house, that useful toy! +Fearless of humid air and gathering rains +Forth steps the man--an emblem of myself! +More delicate his timorous mate retires. +When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, +Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, +Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, +The task of new discoveries falls on me. +At such a season and with such a charge +Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown, +A cottage, whither oft we since repair: +'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close +Environed with a ring of branching elms +That overhang the thatch, itself unseen +Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset +With foliage of such dark redundant growth, +I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT'S NEST. +And hidden as it is, and far remote +From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear +In village or in town, the bay of curs +Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, +And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained, +Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine. +Here, I have said, at least I should possess +The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge +The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. +Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat +Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. +Its elevated site forbids the wretch +To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; +He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, +And heavy-laden brings his beverage home, +Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits +Dependent on the baker's punctual call, +To hear his creaking panniers at the door, +Angry and sad and his last crust consumed. +So farewell envy of the PEASANT'S NEST. +If solitude make scant the means of life, +Society for me! Thou seeming sweet, +Be still a pleasing object in my view, +My visit still, but never mine abode. + +Not distant far, a length of colonnade +Invites us; monument of ancient taste, +Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate. +Our fathers knew the value of a screen +From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks +And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon +The gloom and coolness of declining day. +We bear our shades about us; self-deprived +Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, +And range an Indian waste without a tree. +Thanks to Benevolus--he spares me yet +These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines, +And, though himself so polished, still reprieves +The obsolete prolixity of shade. + +Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) +A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge +We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip +Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. +Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme +We mount again, and feel at every step +Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, +Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. +He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, +Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark +Toils much to earn a monumental pile, +That may record the mischiefs he has done. + +The summit gained, behold the proud alcove +That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures +The grand retreat from injuries impressed +By rural carvers, who with knives deface +The panels, leaving an obscure rude name +In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. +So strong the zeal to immortalise himself +Beats in the breast of man, that even a few +Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred +Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, +And even to a clown. Now roves the eye, +And posted on this speculative height +Exults in its command. The sheepfold here +Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. +At first, progressive as a stream, they seek +The middle field; but scattered by degrees, +Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. +There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps +The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge, +The wain that meets it passes swiftly by, +The boorish driver leaning o'er his team, +Vociferous, and impatient of delay. +Nor less attractive is the woodland scene +Diversified with trees of every growth, +Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks +Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, +Within the twilight of their distant shades; +There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood +Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs. +No tree in all the grove but has its charms, +Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, +And of a wannish gray; the willow such, +And poplar that with silver lines his leaf, +And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; +Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, +Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. +Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun, +The maple, and the beech of oily nuts +Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve +Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass +The sycamore, capricious in attire, +Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet +Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright. +O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map +Of hill and valley interposed between), +The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land, +Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, +As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. + +Hence the declivity is sharp and short, +And such the re-ascent; between them weeps +A little Naiad her impoverished urn, +All summer long, which winter fills again. +The folded gates would bar my progress now, +But that the lord of this enclosed demesne, +Communicative of the good he owns, +Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye +Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. +Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? +By short transition we have lost his glare, +And stepped at once into a cooler clime. +Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn +Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice +That yet a remnant of your race survives. +How airy and how light the graceful arch, +Yet awful as the consecrated roof +Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath, +The chequered earth seems restless as a flood +Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light +Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, +Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, +And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves +Play wanton, every moment, every spot. + +And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered, +We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks, +With curvature of slow and easy sweep-- +Deception innocent--give ample space +To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next; +Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms +We may discern the thresher at his task. +Thump after thump resounds the constant flail, +That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls +Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff, +The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist +Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam. +Come hither, ye that press your beds of down +And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread +Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse, +But softened into mercy; made the pledge +Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. + +By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. +Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel +That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, +Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads +An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. +Its own revolvency upholds the world. +Winds from all quarters agitate the air, +And fit the limpid element for use, +Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams +All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed +By restless undulation: even the oak +Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: +He seems indeed indignant, and to feel +The impression of the blast with proud disdain, +Frowning as if in his unconscious arm +He held the thunder. But the monarch owes +His firm stability to what he scorns, +More fixed below, the more disturbed above. +The law, by which all creatures else are bound, +Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives +No mean advantage from a kindred cause, +From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. +The sedentary stretch their lazy length +When custom bids, but no refreshment find, +For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek +Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, +And withered muscle, and the vapid soul, +Reproach their owner with that love of rest +To which he forfeits even the rest he loves. +Not such the alert and active. Measure life +By its true worth, the comforts it affords, +And theirs alone seems worthy of the name +Good health, and, its associate in the most, +Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, +And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; +The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs; +Even age itself seems privileged in them +With clear exemption from its own defects. +A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front +The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard +With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave +Sprightly, and old almost without decay. + +Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, +Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrine +Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least. +The love of Nature and the scene she draws +Is Nature's dictate. Strange, there should be found +Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons, +Renounce the odours of the open field +For the unscented fictions of the loom; +Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes, +Prefer to the performance of a God +The inferior wonders of an artist's hand. +Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art, +But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, +None more admires, the painter's magic skill, +Who shows me that which I shall never see, +Conveys a distant country into mine, +And throws Italian light on English walls. +But imitative strokes can do no more +Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense. +The air salubrious of her lofty hills, +The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, +And music of her woods--no works of man +May rival these; these all bespeak a power +Peculiar, and exclusively her own. +Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; +'Tis free to all--'tis ev'ry day renewed, +Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home. +He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long +In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey +To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank +And clammy of his dark abode have bred +Escapes at last to liberty and light; +His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue, +His eye relumines its extinguished fires, +He walks, he leaps, he runs--is winged with joy, +And riots in the sweets of every breeze. +He does not scorn it, who has long endured +A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. +Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed +With acrid salts; his very heart athirst +To gaze at Nature in her green array. +Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed +With visions prompted by intense desire; +Fair fields appear below, such as he left +Far distant, such as he would die to find-- +He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. + +The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; +The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown, +And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort, +And mar the face of beauty, when no cause +For such immeasurable woe appears, +These Flora banishes, and gives the fair +Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. +It is the constant revolution, stale +And tasteless, of the same repeated joys +That palls and satiates, and makes languid life +A pedlar's pack that bows the bearer down. +Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart +Recoils from its own choice--at the full feast +Is famished--finds no music in the song, +No smartness in the jest, and wonders why. +Yet thousands still desire to journey on, +Though halt and weary of the path they tread. +The paralytic, who can hold her cards +But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand +To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort +Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits +Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad +And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. +Others are dragged into the crowded room +Between supporters; and once seated, sit +Through downright inability to rise, +Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. +These speak a loud memento. Yet even these +Themselves love life, and cling to it as he, +That overhangs a torrent, to a twig. +They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die, +Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. +Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread, +The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds +Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, +And their inveterate habits, all forbid. + +Whom call we gay? That honour has been long +The boast of mere pretenders to the name. +The innocent are gay--the lark is gay, +That dries his feathers saturate with dew +Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams +Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. +The peasant too, a witness of his song, +Himself a songster, is as gay as he. +But save me from the gaiety of those +Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed; +And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes +Flash desperation, and betray their pangs +For property stripped off by cruel chance; +From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, +The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. + +The earth was made so various, that the mind +Of desultory man, studious of change, +And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. +Prospects however lovely may be seen +Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, +Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off +Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. +Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale, +Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, +Delight us, happy to renounce a while, +Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, +That such short absence may endear it more. +Then forests, or the savage rock may please, +That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts +Above the reach of man: his hoary head +Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, +Bound homeward, and in hope already there, +Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist +A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows, +And at his feet the baffled billows die. +The common overgrown with fern, and rough +With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed +And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, +And decks itself with ornaments of gold, +Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf +Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs +And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense +With luxury of unexpected sweets. + +There often wanders one, whom better days +Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed +With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound. +A serving-maid was she, and fell in love +With one who left her, went to sea and died. +Her fancy followed him through foaming waves +To distant shores, and she would sit and weep +At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, +Delusive most where warmest wishes are, +Would oft anticipate his glad return, +And dream of transports she was not to know. +She heard the doleful tidings of his death, +And never smiled again. And now she roams +The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, +And there, unless when charity forbids, +The livelong night. A tattered apron hides, +Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown +More tattered still; and both but ill conceal +A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. +She begs an idle pin of all she meets, +And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, +Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, +Though pinched with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed! + +I see a column of slow-rising smoke +O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. +A vagabond and useless tribe there eat +Their miserable meal. A kettle slung +Between two poles upon a stick transverse, +Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog, +Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined +From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race! +They pick their fuel out of every hedge, +Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched +The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide +Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin, +The vellum of the pedigree they claim. +Great skill have they in palmistry, and more +To conjure clean away the gold they touch, +Conveying worthless dross into its place; +Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. +Strange! that a creature rational, and cast +In human mould, should brutalise by choice +His nature, and, though capable of arts +By which the world might profit and himself, +Self-banished from society, prefer +Such squalid sloth to honourable toil. +Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft +They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, +And vex their flesh with artificial sores, +Can change their whine into a mirthful note +When safe occasion offers, and with dance, +And music of the bladder and the bag, +Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. +Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy +The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; +And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much, +Need other physic none to heal the effects +Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. + +Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd +By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure +Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside +His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn +The manners and the arts of civil life. +His wants, indeed, are many; but supply +Is obvious; placed within the easy reach +Of temperate wishes and industrious hands. +Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; +Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, +And terrible to sight, as when she springs +(If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote +And barbarous climes, where violence prevails, +And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, +By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed, +And all her fruits by radiant truth matured. +War and the chase engross the savage whole; +War followed for revenge, or to supplant +The envied tenants of some happier spot; +The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! +His hard condition with severe constraint +Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth +Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns +Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, +Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. +Thus fare the shivering natives of the north, +And thus the rangers of the western world, +Where it advances far into the deep, +Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles +So lately found, although the constant sun +Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, +Can boast but little virtue; and inert +Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain +In manners, victims of luxurious ease. +These therefore I can pity, placed remote +From all that science traces, art invents, +Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed +In boundless oceans, never to be passed +By navigators uninformed as they, +Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again. +But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, +Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee +Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, +Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw +Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here +With what superior skill we can abuse +The gifts of Providence, and squander life. +The dream is past. And thou hast found again +Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams, +And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found +Their former charms? And, having seen our state, +Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp +Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, +And heard our music; are thy simple friends, +Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights +As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys +Lost nothing by comparison with ours? +Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude +And ignorant, except of outward show), +I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart +And spiritless, as never to regret +Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. +Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, +And asking of the surge that bathes the foot +If ever it has washed our distant shore. +I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, +A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad +At thought of her forlorn and abject state, +From which no power of thine can raise her up. +Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, +Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. +She tells me too that duly every morn +Thou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eye +Exploring far and wide the watery waste, +For sight of ship from England. Every speck +Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale +With conflict of contending hopes and fears. +But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, +And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared +To dream all night of what the day denied. +Alas, expect it not. We found no bait +To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, +Disinterested good, is not our trade. +We travel far, 'tis true, but not for naught; +And must be bribed to compass earth again +By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours. + +But though true worth and virtue, in the mild +And genial soil of cultivated life +Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, +Yet not in cities oft. In proud and gay +And gain-devoted cities, thither flow, +As to a common and most noisome sewer, +The dregs and feculence of every land. +In cities, foul example on most minds +Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds +In gross and pampered cities sloth and lust, +And wantonness and gluttonous excess. +In cities, vice is hidden with most ease, +Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught +By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there, +Beyond the achievement of successful flight. +I do confess them nurseries of the arts, +In which they flourish most; where, in the beams +Of warm encouragement, and in the eye +Of public note, they reach their perfect size. +Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaimed +The fairest capital in all the world, +By riot and incontinence the worst. +There, touched by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes +A lucid mirror, in which nature sees +All her reflected features. Bacon there +Gives more than female beauty to a stone, +And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. +Nor does the chisel occupy alone +The powers of sculpture, but the style as much; +Each province of her art her equal care. +With nice incision of her guided steel +She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil +So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, +The richest scenery and the loveliest forms. +Where finds philosophy her eagle eye, +With which she gazes at yon burning disk +Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? +In London. Where her implements exact, +With which she calculates, computes, and scans +All distance, motion, magnitude, and now +Measures an atom, and now girds a world? +In London. Where has commerce such a mart, +So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so supplied, +As London, opulent, enlarged, and still +Increasing London? Babylon of old +Not more the glory of the earth, than she +A more accomplished world's chief glory now. + +She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two +That so much beauty would do well to purge; +And show this queen of cities, that so fair +May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. +It is not seemly, nor of good report, +That she is slack in discipline; more prompt +To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: +That she is rigid in denouncing death +On petty robbers, and indulges life +And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, +To peculators of the public gold: +That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts +Into his overgorged and bloated purse +The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. +Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, +That through profane and infidel contempt +Of holy writ, she has presumed to annul +And abrogate, as roundly as she may, +The total ordinance and will of God; +Advancing fashion to the post of truth, +And centring all authority in modes +And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites +Have dwindled into unrespected forms, +And knees and hassocks are wellnigh divorced. + +God made the country, and man made the town. +What wonder, then, that health and virtue, gifts +That can alone make sweet the bitter draught +That life holds out to all, should most abound +And least be threatened in the fields and groves? +Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about +In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue +But that of idleness, and taste no scenes +But such as art contrives, possess ye still +Your element; there only ye can shine, +There only minds like yours can do no harm. +Our groves were planted to console at noon +The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve +The moonbeam, sliding softly in between +The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, +Birds warbling all the music. We can spare +The splendour of your lamps, they but eclipse +Our softer satellite. Your songs confound +Our more harmonious notes. The thrush departs +Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. +There is a public mischief in your mirth; +It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, +Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, +Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done, +Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, +A mutilated structure, soon to fall. + + + +BOOK II. + +THE TIMEPIECE. + +Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, +Some boundless contiguity of shade, +Where rumour of oppression and deceit, +Of unsuccessful or successful war, +Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, +My soul is sick with every day's report +Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. +There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, +It does not feel for man. The natural bond +Of brotherhood is severed as the flax +That falls asunder at the touch of fire. +He finds his fellow guilty of a skin +Not coloured like his own, and having power +To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause +Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. +Lands intersected by a narrow frith +Abhor each other. Mountains interposed +Make enemies of nations, who had else +Like kindred drops been mingled into one. +Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; +And worse than all, and most to be deplored, +As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, +Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat +With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, +Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. +Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, +And having human feelings, does not blush +And hang his head, to think himself a man? +I would not have a slave to till my ground, +To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, +And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth +That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. +No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's +Just estimation prized above all price, +I had much rather be myself the slave +And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. +We have no slaves at home--then why abroad? +And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave +That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. +Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs +Receive our air, that moment they are free, +They touch our country and their shackles fall. +That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud +And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, +And let it circulate through every vein +Of all your empire; that where Britain's power +Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. + +Sure there is need of social intercourse, +Benevolence and peace and mutual aid, +Between the nations, in a world that seems +To toll the death-bell to its own decease; +And by the voice of all its elements +To preach the general doom. When were the winds +Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? +When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap +Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? +Fires from beneath and meteors from above, +Portentous, unexampled, unexplained, +Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old +And crazy earth has had her shaking fits +More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. +Is it a time to wrangle, when the props +And pillars of our planet seem to fail, +And nature with a dim and sickly eye +To wait the close of all? But grant her end +More distant, and that prophecy demands +A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; +Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak +Displeasure in His breast who smites the earth +Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. +And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve +And stand exposed by common peccancy +To what no few have felt, there should be peace, +And brethren in calamity should love. + +Alas for Sicily, rude fragments now +Lie scattered where the shapely column stood. +Her palaces are dust. In all her streets +The voice of singing and the sprightly chord +Are silent. Revelry and dance and show +Suffer a syncope and solemn pause, +While God performs, upon the trembling stage +Of His own works, His dreadful part alone. +How does the earth receive Him?--With what signs +Of gratulation and delight, her King? +Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, +Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, +Disclosing paradise where'er He treads? +She quakes at His approach. Her hollow womb, +Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps +And fiery caverns roars beneath His foot. +The hills move lightly and the mountains smoke, +For He has touched them. From the extremest point +Of elevation down into the abyss, +His wrath is busy and His frown is felt. +The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise, +The rivers die into offensive pools, +And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross +And mortal nuisance into all the air. +What solid was, by transformation strange +Grows fluid, and the fixed and rooted earth +Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, +Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl +Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense +The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs +And agonies of human and of brute +Multitudes, fugitive on every side, +And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene +Migrates uplifted, and, with all its soil +Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out +A new possessor, and survives the change. +Ocean has caught the frenzy, and upwrought +To an enormous and o'erbearing height, +Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice +Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore +Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, +Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, +Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng +That pressed the beach and hasty to depart +Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, +Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, +A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, +And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes +Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume +Life in the unproductive shades of death, +Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, +And, happy in their unforeseen release +From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy +The terrors of the day that sets them free. +Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, +Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, +That even a judgment, making way for thee, +Seems in their eyes a mercy, for thy sake. + +Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame +Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, +And, in the furious inquest that it makes +On God's behalf, lays waste His fairest works. +The very elements, though each be meant +The minister of man to serve his wants, +Conspire against him. With his breath he draws +A plague into his blood; and cannot use +Life's necessary means, but he must die. +Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds +Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, +And, needing none assistance of the storm, +Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. +The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, +Or make his house his grave; nor so content, +Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, +And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. +What then--were they the wicked above all, +And we the righteous, whose fast-anchored isle +Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff, +The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, +And none than we more guilty. But where all +Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts +Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose His mark, +May punish, if He please, the less, to warn +The more malignant. If He spared not them, +Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, +Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee! + +Happy the man who sees a God employed +In all the good and ill that chequer life! +Resolving all events, with their effects +And manifold results, into the will +And arbitration wise of the Supreme. +Did not His eye rule all things, and intend +The least of our concerns (since from the least +The greatest oft originate), could chance +Find place in His dominion, or dispose +One lawless particle to thwart His plan, +Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen +Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb +The smooth and equal course of His affairs. +This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed +In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; +And, having found His instrument, forgets +Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, +Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims +His hot displeasure against foolish men +That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven +In tempests, quits His grasp upon the winds +And gives them all their fury; bids a plague +Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, +And putrefy the breath of blooming health. +He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend +Blows mildew from between his shrivelled lips, +And taints the golden ear. He springs His mines, +And desolates a nation at a blast. +Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells +Of homogeneal and discordant springs +And principles; of causes how they work +By necessary laws their sure effects; +Of action and reaction. He has found +The source of the disease that nature feels, +And bids the world take heart and banish fear. +Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause +Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God +Still wrought by means since first He made the world, +And did He not of old employ His means +To drown it? What is His creation less +Than a capacious reservoir of means +Formed for His use, and ready at His will? +Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of Him, +Or ask of whomsoever He has taught, +And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. + +England, with all thy faults, I love thee still-- +My country! and while yet a nook is left, +Where English minds and manners may be found, +Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime +Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed +With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, +I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies +And fields without a flower, for warmer France +With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves +Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. +To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime +Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire +Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; +But I can feel thy fortune, and partake +Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart +As any thunderer there. And I can feel +Thy follies too, and with a just disdain +Frown at effeminates, whose very looks +Reflect dishonour on the land I love. +How, in the name of soldiership and sense, +Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth +And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er +With odours, and as profligate as sweet, +Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, +And love when they should fight; when such as these +Presume to lay their hand upon the ark +Of her magnificent and awful cause? +Time was when it was praise and boast enough +In every clime, and travel where we might, +That we were born her children. Praise enough +To fill the ambition of a private man, +That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, +And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. +Farewell those honours, and farewell with them +The hope of such hereafter. They have fallen +Each in his field of glory; one in arms, +And one in council;--Wolfe upon the lap +Of smiling victory that moment won, +And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame. +They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still +Consulting England's happiness at home, +Secured it by an unforgiving frown +If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, +Put so much of his heart into his act, +That his example had a magnet's force, +And all were swift to follow whom all loved. +Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! +Or all that we have left is empty talk +Of old achievements, and despair of new. + +Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float +Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck +With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, +That no rude savour maritime invade +The nose of nice nobility. Breathe soft, +Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes, +That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds +May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. +True, we have lost an empire--let it pass. +True, we may thank the perfidy of France +That picked the jewel out of England's crown, +With all the cunning of an envious shrew. +And let that pass--'twas but a trick of state. +A brave man knows no malice, but at once +Forgets in peace the injuries of war, +And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. +And shamed as we have been, to the very beard +Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved +Too weak for those decisive blows that once +Insured us mastery there, we yet retain +Some small pre-eminence, we justly boast +At least superior jockeyship, and claim +The honours of the turf as all our own. +Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, +And show the shame ye might conceal at home, +In foreign eyes!--be grooms, and win the plate, +Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!-- +'Tis generous to communicate your skill +To those that need it. Folly is soon learned, +And, under such preceptors, who can fail? + +There is a pleasure in poetic pains +Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, +The expedients and inventions multiform +To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms +Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- +To arrest the fleeting images that fill +The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, +And force them sit, till he has pencilled off +A faithful likeness of the forms he views; +Then to dispose his copies with such art +That each may find its most propitious light, +And shine by situation, hardly less +Than by the labour and the skill it cost, +Are occupations of the poet's mind +So pleasing, and that steal away the thought +With such address from themes of sad import, +That, lost in his own musings, happy man! +He feels the anxieties of life, denied +Their wonted entertainment, all retire. +Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, +Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. +Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps +Aware of nothing arduous in a task +They never undertook, they little note +His dangers or escapes, and haply find +There least amusement where he found the most. +But is amusement all? studious of song +And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, +I would not trifle merely, though the world +Be loudest in their praise who do no more. +Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? +It may correct a foible, may chastise +The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, +Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; +But where are its sublimer trophies found? +What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaimed +By rigour, or whom laughed into reform? +Alas, Leviathan is not so tamed. +Laughed at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, +Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, +That fear no discipline of human hands. + +The pulpit therefore--and I name it, filled +With solemn awe, that bids me well beware +With what intent I touch that holy thing-- +The pulpit, when the satirist has at last, +Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, +Spent all his force, and made no proselyte-- +I say the pulpit, in the sober use +Of its legitimate peculiar powers, +Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, +The most important and effectual guard, +Support, and ornament of virtue's cause. +There stands the messenger of truth; there stands +The legate of the skies; his theme divine, +His office sacred, his credentials clear. +By him, the violated Law speaks out +Its thunders, and by him, in strains as sweet +As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. +He stablishes the strong, restores the weak, +Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, +And, armed himself in panoply complete +Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms +Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule +Of holy discipline, to glorious war, +The sacramental host of God's elect. +Are all such teachers? would to heaven all were! +But hark--the Doctor's voice--fast wedged between +Two empirics he stands, and with swollen cheeks +Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far +Than all invective is his bold harangue, +While through that public organ of report +He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, +Announces to the world his own and theirs, +He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, +And colleges, untaught; sells accents, tone, +And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer +The adagio and andante it demands. +He grinds divinity of other days +Down into modern use; transforms old print +To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes +Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.-- +Are there who purchase of the Doctor's ware? +Oh name it not in Gath!--it cannot be, +That grave and learned Clerks should need such aid. +He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, +Assuming thus a rank unknown before, +Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church. + +I venerate the man whose heart is warm, +Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, +Coincident, exhibit lucid proof +That he is honest in the sacred cause. +To such I render more than mere respect, +Whose actions say that they respect themselves. +But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, +In conversation frivolous, in dress +Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse, +Frequent in park with lady at his side, +Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes, +But rare at home, and never at his books +Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; +Constant at routs, familiar with a round +Of ladyships, a stranger to the poor; +Ambitions of preferment for its gold, +And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, +By infidelity and love o' the world, +To make God's work a sinecure; a slave +To his own pleasures and his patron's pride.-- +From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, +Preserve the Church! and lay not careless hands +On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. + +Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, +Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, +Paul should himself direct me. I would trace +His master-strokes, and draw from his design. +I would express him simple, grave, sincere; +In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, +And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, +And natural in gesture; much impressed +Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, +And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds +May feel it too; affectionate in look +And tender in address, as well becomes +A messenger of grace to guilty men. +Behold the picture!--Is it like?--Like whom? +The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, +And then skip down again; pronounce a text, +Cry--Hem; and reading what they never wrote, +Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, +And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. + +In man or woman, but far most in man, +And most of all in man that ministers +And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe +All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; +Object of my implacable disgust. +What!--will a man play tricks, will he indulge +A silly fond conceit of his fair form +And just proportion, fashionable mien, +And pretty face, in presence of his God? +Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, +As with the diamond on his lily hand, +And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, +When I am hungry for the Bread of Life? +He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames +His noble office, and, instead of truth, +Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! +Therefore, avaunt, all attitude and stare +And start theatric, practised at the glass. +I seek divine simplicity in him +Who handles things divine; and all beside, +Though learned with labour, and though much admired +By curious eyes and judgments ill-informed, +To me is odious as the nasal twang +Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, +Misled by custom, strain celestial themes +Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. +Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, +That task performed, relapse into themselves, +And having spoken wisely, at the close +Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye-- +Whoe'er was edified themselves were not. +Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke +An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; +Then with an air, most gracefully performed, +Fall back into our seat; extend an arm, +And lay it at its ease with gentle care, +With handkerchief in hand, depending low: +The better hand, more busy, gives the nose +Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye +With opera glass to watch the moving scene, +And recognise the slow-retiring fair. +Now this is fulsome, and offends me more +Than in a Churchman slovenly neglect +And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind +May be indifferent to her house of clay, +And slight the hovel as beneath her care. +But how a body so fantastic, trim, +And quaint in its deportment and attire, +Can lodge a heavenly mind--demands a doubt. + +He that negotiates between God and man, +As God's ambassador, the grand concerns +Of judgment and of mercy, should beware +Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful +To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; +To break a jest, when pity would inspire +Pathetic exhortation; and to address +The skittish fancy with facetious tales, +When sent with God's commission to the heart. +So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip +Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, +And I consent you take it for your text, +Your only one, till sides and benches fail. +No: he was serious in a serious cause, +And understood too well the weighty terms +That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop +To conquer those by jocular exploits, +Whom truth and soberness assailed in vain. + +Oh, popular applause! what heart of man +Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? +The wisest and the best feel urgent need +Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; +But swelled into a gust--who then, alas! +With all his canvas set, and inexpert, +And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? +Praise from the riveled lips of toothless, bald +Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean +And craving poverty, and in the bow +Respectful of the smutched artificer, +Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb +The bias of the purpose. How much more, +Poured forth by beauty splendid and polite, +In language soft as adoration breathes? +Ah, spare your idol! think him human still; +Charms he may have, but he has frailties too; +Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. + +All truth is from the sempiternal source +Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome +Drew from the stream below. More favoured, we +Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head. +To them it flowed much mingled and defiled +With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams +Illusive of philosophy, so called, +But falsely. Sages after sages strove, +In vain, to filter off a crystal draught +Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced +The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred +Intoxication and delirium wild. +In vain they pushed inquiry to the birth +And spring-time of the world; asked, Whence is man? +Why formed at all? and wherefore as he is? +Where must he find his Maker? With what rites +Adore Him? Will He hear, accept, and bless? +Or does He sit regardless of His works? +Has man within him an immortal seed? +Or does the tomb take all? If he survive +His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? +Knots worthy of solution, which alone +A Deity could solve. Their answers vague, +And all at random, fabulous and dark, +Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, +Defective and unsanctioned, proved too weak +To bind the roving appetite, and lead +Blind nature to a God not yet revealed. +'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, +Explains all mysteries, except her own, +And so illuminates the path of life, +That fools discover it, and stray no more. +Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, +My man of morals, nurtured in the shades +Of Academus, is this false or true? +Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? +If Christ, then why resort at every turn +To Athens or to Rome for wisdom short +Of man's occasions, when in Him reside +Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathomed store? +How oft when Paul has served us with a text, +Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preached! +Men that, if now alive, would sit content +And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, +Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, +Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. + +And thus it is. The pastor, either vain +By nature, or by flattery made so, taught +To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt +Absurdly, not his office, but himself; +Or unenlightened, and too proud to learn, +Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach, +Perverting often, by the stress of lewd +And loose example, whom he should instruct, +Exposes and holds up to broad disgrace +The noblest function, and discredits much +The brightest truths that man has ever seen. +For ghostly counsel, if it either fall +Below the exigence, or be not backed +With show of love, at least with hopeful proof +Of some sincerity on the giver's part; +Or be dishonoured in the exterior form +And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks +As move derision, or by foppish airs +And histrionic mummery, that let down +The pulpit to the level of the stage; +Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. +The weak perhaps are moved, but are not taught, +While prejudice in men of stronger minds +Takes deeper root, confirmed by what they see. +A relaxation of religion's hold +Upon the roving and untutored heart +Soon follows, and the curb of conscience snapt, +The laity run wild.--But do they now? +Note their extravagance, and be convinced. + +As nations, ignorant of God, contrive +A wooden one, so we, no longer taught +By monitors that Mother Church supplies, +Now make our own. Posterity will ask +(If e'er posterity sees verse of mine), +Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, +What was a monitor in George's days? +My very gentle reader, yet unborn, +Of whom I needs must augur better things, +Since Heaven would sure grow weary of a world +Productive only of a race like us, +A monitor is wood--plank shaven thin. +We wear it at our backs. There, closely braced +And neatly fitted, it compresses hard +The prominent and most unsightly bones, +And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use +Sovereign and most effectual to secure +A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, +From rickets and distortion, else, our lot. +But thus admonished we can walk erect, +One proof at least of manhood; while the friend +Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. +Our habits costlier than Lucullus wore, +And, by caprice as multiplied as his, +Just please us while the fashion is at full, +But change with every moon. The sycophant, +That waits to dress us, arbitrates their date, +Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; +Finds one ill made, another obsolete, +This fits not nicely, that is ill conceived; +And, making prize of all that he condemns, +With our expenditure defrays his own. +Variety's the very spice of life, +That gives it all its flavour. We have run +Through every change that fancy, at the loom +Exhausted, has had genius to supply, +And, studious of mutation still, discard +A real elegance, a little used, +For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. +We sacrifice to dress, till household joys +And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, +And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires, +And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, +Where peace and hospitality might reign. +What man that lives, and that knows how to live, +Would fail to exhibit at the public shows +A form as splendid as the proudest there, +Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? +A man o' the town dines late, but soon enough, +With reasonable forecast and despatch, +To ensure a side-box station at half-price. +You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, +His daily fare as delicate. Alas! +He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems +With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet. +The rout is folly's circle which she draws +With magic wand. So potent is the spell, +That none decoyed into that fatal ring, +Unless by Heaven's peculiar grace, escape. +There we grow early gray, but never wise; +There form connections, and acquire no friend; +Solicit pleasure hopeless of success; +Waste youth in occupations only fit +For second childhood, and devote old age +To sports which only childhood could excuse. +There they are happiest who dissemble best +Their weariness; and they the most polite, +Who squander time and treasure with a smile, +Though at their own destruction. She that asks +Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, +And hates their coming. They (what can they less?) +Make just reprisals, and, with cringe and shrug +And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. +All catch the frenzy, downward from her Grace, +Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, +And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass, +To her who, frugal only that her thrift +May feed excesses she can ill afford, +Is hackneyed home unlackeyed; who, in haste +Alighting, turns the key in her own door, +And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, +Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. +Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, +On Fortune's velvet altar offering up +Their last poor pittance--Fortune, most severe +Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far +Than all that held their routs in Juno's heaven.-- +So fare we in this prison-house the world. +And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see +So many maniacs dancing in their chains. +They gaze upon the links that hold them fast +With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot, +Then shake them in despair, and dance again. + +Now basket up the family of plagues +That waste our vitals. Peculation, sale +Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds +By forgery, by subterfuge of law, +By tricks and lies, as numerous and as keen +As the necessities their authors feel; +Then cast them, closely bundled, every brat +At the right door. Profusion is its sire. +Profusion unrestrained, with all that's base +In character, has littered all the land, +And bred within the memory of no few +A priesthood such as Baal's was of old, +A people such as never was till now. +It is a hungry vice:--it eats up all +That gives society its beauty, strength, +Convenience, and security, and use; +Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapped +And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws +Can seize the slippery prey; unties the knot +Of union, and converts the sacred band +That holds mankind together to a scourge. +Profusion, deluging a state with lusts +Of grossest nature and of worst effects, +Prepares it for its ruin; hardens, blinds, +And warps the consciences of public men +Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools +That trust them; and, in the end, disclose a face +That would have shocked credulity herself, +Unmasked, vouchsafing this their sole excuse;-- +Since all alike are selfish, why not they? +This does Profusion, and the accursed cause +Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. + +In colleges and halls, in ancient days, +When learning, virtue, piety, and truth +Were precious, and inculcated with care, +There dwelt a sage called Discipline. His head, +Not yet by time completely silvered o'er, +Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, +But strong for service still, and unimpaired. +His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile +Played on his lips, and in his speech was heard +Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. +The occupation dearest to his heart +Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke +The head of modest and ingenuous worth, +That blushed at its own praise, and press the youth +Close to his side that pleased him. Learning grew +Beneath his care, a thriving, vigorous plant; +The mind was well informed, the passions held +Subordinate, and diligence was choice. +If e'er it chanced, as sometimes chance it must, +That one among so many overleaped +The limits of control, his gentle eye +Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke; +His frown was full of terror, and his voice +Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe +As left him not, till penitence had won +Lost favour back again, and closed the breach. +But Discipline, a faithful servant long, +Declined at length into the vale of years; +A palsy struck his arm, his sparkling eye +Was quenched in rheums of age, his voice unstrung +Grew tremulous, and moved derision more +Than reverence in perverse, rebellious youth. +So colleges and halls neglected much +Their good old friend, and Discipline at length, +O'erlooked and unemployed, fell sick and died. +Then study languished, emulation slept, +And virtue fled. The schools became a scene +Of solemn farce, where ignorance in stilts, +His cap well lined with logic not his own, +With parrot tongue performed the scholar's part, +Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. +Then compromise had place, and scrutiny +Became stone-blind, precedence went in truck, +And he was competent whose purse was so. +A dissolution of all bonds ensued, +The curbs invented for the mulish mouth +Of headstrong youth were broken; bars and bolts +Grew rusty by disuse, and massy gates +Forgot their office, opening with a touch; +Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; +The tasselled cap and the spruce band a jest, +A mockery of the world. What need of these +For gamesters, jockeys, brothellers impure, +Spendthrifts and booted sportsmen, oftener seen +With belted waist, and pointers at their heels, +Than in the bounds of duty? What was learned, +If aught was learned in childhood, is forgot, +And such expense as pinches parents blue +And mortifies the liberal hand of love, +Is squandered in pursuit of idle sports +And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, +That sits a stigma on his father's house, +And cleaves through life inseparably close +To him that wears it. What can after-games +Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, +The lewd vain world that must receive him soon, +Add to such erudition thus acquired, +Where science and where virtue are professed? +They may confirm his habits, rivet fast +His folly, but to spoil him is a task +That bids defiance to the united powers +Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. +Now, blame we most the nurselings, or the nurse? +The children crooked and twisted and deformed +Through want of care, or her whose winking eye +And slumbering oscitancy mars the brood? +The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her charge, +She needs herself correction; needs to learn +That it is dangerous sporting with the world, +With things so sacred as a nation's trust; +The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. + +All are not such. I had a brother once-- +Peace to the memory of a man of worth, +A man of letters and of manners too-- +Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, +When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. +He graced a college in which order yet +Was sacred, and was honoured, loved, and wept, +By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. +Some minds are tempered happily, and mixt +With such ingredients of good sense and taste +Of what is excellent in man, they thirst +With such a zeal to be what they approve, +That no restraints can circumscribe them more +Than they themselves by choice, for wisdom's sake. +Nor can example hurt them. What they see +Of vice in others but enhancing more +The charms of virtue in their just esteem. +If such escape contagion, and emerge +Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad, +And give the world their talents and themselves, +Small thanks to those whose negligence or sloth +Exposed their inexperience to the snare, +And left them to an undirected choice. + +See, then, the quiver broken and decayed, +In which are kept our arrows. Rusting there +In wild disorder and unfit for use, +What wonder if discharged into the world +They shame their shooters with a random flight, +Their points obtuse and feathers drunk with wine. +Well may the Church wage unsuccessful war +With such artillery armed. Vice parries wide +The undreaded volley with a sword of straw, +And stands an impudent and fearless mark. + +Have we not tracked the felon home, and found +His birthplace and his dam? The country mourns-- +Mourns, because every plague that can infest +Society, that saps and worms the base +Of the edifice that Policy has raised, +Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, +And suffocates the breath at every turn. +Profusion breeds them. And the cause itself +Of that calamitous mischief has been found, +Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts +Of the robed pedagogue. Else, let the arraigned +Stand up unconscious and refute the charge. +So, when the Jewish leader stretched his arm +And waved his rod divine, a race obscene, +Spawned in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth +Polluting Egypt. Gardens, fields, and plains +Were covered with the pest. The streets were filled; +The croaking nuisance lurked in every nook, +Nor palaces nor even chambers 'scaped, +And the land stank, so numerous was the fry. + + + +BOOK III. + +THE GARDEN. + +As one who, long in thickets and in brakes +Entangled, winds now this way and now that +His devious course uncertain, seeking home; +Or, having long in miry ways been foiled +And sore discomfited, from slough to slough +Plunging, and half despairing of escape, +If chance at length he find a greensward smooth +And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, +He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, +And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; +So I, designing other themes, and called +To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due, +To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams, +Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat +Of academic fame, howe'er deserved, +Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. +But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road +I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, +Courageous, and refreshed for future toil, +If toil await me, or if dangers new. + +Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect +Most part an empty ineffectual sound, +What chance that I, to fame so little known, +Nor conversant with men or manners much, +Should speak to purpose, or with better hope +Crack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far +For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes, +And charmed with rural beauty, to repose, +Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine +My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; +Or when rough winter rages, on the soft +And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air +Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth; +There, undisturbed by folly, and apprised +How great the danger of disturbing her, +To muse in silence, or at least confine +Remarks that gall so many to the few, +My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed +Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault +Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. + +Domestic happiness, thou only bliss +Of Paradise that has survived the fall! +Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure, +Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm +Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets +Unmixed with drops of bitter, which neglect +Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. +Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms +She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, +Heaven-born, and destined to the skies again. +Thou art not known where Pleasure is adored, +That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist +And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm +Of Novelty, her fickle frail support; +For thou art meek and constant, hating change, +And finding in the calm of truth-tried love +Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. +Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made +Of honour, dignity, and fair renown, +Till prostitution elbows us aside +In all our crowded streets, and senates seem +Convened for purposes of empire less, +Than to release the adult'ress from her bond. +The adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse, +What provocation to the indignant heart +That feels for injured love! but I disdain +The nauseous task to paint her as she is, +Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame. +No; let her pass, and charioted along +In guilty splendour shake the public ways; +The frequency of crimes has washed them white, +And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch +Whom matrons now of character unsmirched +And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own. +Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time +Not to be passed; and she that had renounced +Her sex's honour, was renounced herself +By all that prized it; not for prudery's sake, +But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. +'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif +Desirous to return, and not received; +But was a wholesome rigour in the main, +And taught the unblemished to preserve with care +That purity, whose loss was loss of all. +Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, +And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped, +And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained, +Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold +His country, or was slack when she required +His every nerve in action and at stretch, +Paid with the blood that he had basely spared +The price of his default. But now,--yes, now, +We are become so candid and so fair, +So liberal in construction, and so rich +In Christian charity (good-natured age!) +That they are safe, sinners of either sex, +Transgress what laws they may. Well dressed, well bred, +Well equipaged, is ticket good enough +To pass us readily through every door. +Hypocrisy, detest her as we may +(And no man's hatred ever wronged her yet), +May claim this merit still--that she admits +The worth of what she mimics with such care, +And thus gives virtue indirect applause; +But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, +Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts +And specious semblances have lost their use. + +I was a stricken deer that left the herd +Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt +My panting side was charged, when I withdrew +To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. +There was I found by one who had himself +Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, +And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. +With gentle force soliciting the darts +He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live. +Since then, with few associates, in remote +And silent woods I wander, far from those +My former partners of the peopled scene, +With few associates, and not wishing more. +Here much I ruminate, as much I may, +With other views of men and manners now +Than once, and others of a life to come. +I see that all are wanderers, gone astray +Each in his own delusions; they are lost +In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd +And never won. Dream after dream ensues, +And still they dream that they shall still succeed, +And still are disappointed: rings the world +With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, +And add two-thirds of the remaining half, +And find the total of their hopes and fears +Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay +As if created only, like the fly +That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon, +To sport their season and be seen no more. +The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, +And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. +Some write a narrative of wars, and feats +Of heroes little known, and call the rant +A history; describe the man, of whom +His own coevals took but little note, +And paint his person, character, and views, +As they had known him from his mother's womb; +They disentangle from the puzzled skein, +In which obscurity has wrapped them up, +The threads of politic and shrewd design +That ran through all his purposes, and charge +His mind with meanings that he never had, +Or, having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore +The solid earth, and from the strata there +Extract a register, by which we learn +That He who made it and revealed its date +To Moses, was mistaken in its age. +Some, more acute and more industrious still, +Contrive creation; travel nature up +To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, +And tell us whence the stars; why some are fixt, +And planetary some; what gave them first +Rotation, from what fountain flowed their light. +Great contest follows, and much learned dust +Involves the combatants, each claiming truth, +And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend +The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp +In playing tricks with nature, giving laws +To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. +Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums +Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight +Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, +That having wielded the elements, and built +A thousand systems, each in his own way, +They should go out in fume and be forgot? +Ah, what is life thus spent? and what are they +But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke-- +Eternity for bubbles proves at last +A senseless bargain. When I see such games +Played by the creatures of a Power who swears +That He will judge the earth, and call the fool +To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain, +And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, +And prove it in the infallible result +So hollow and so false--I feel my heart +Dissolve in pity, and account the learned, +If this be learning, most of all deceived. +Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps +While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. +Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, +From reveries so airy, from the toil +Of dropping buckets into empty wells, +And growing old in drawing nothing up! + +'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, +Terribly arched and aquiline his nose, +And overbuilt with most impending brows, +'Twere well could you permit the world to live +As the world pleases. What's the world to you?-- +Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk +As sweet as charity from human breasts. +I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, +And exercise all functions of a man. +How then should I and any man that lives +Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, +Take of the crimson stream meandering there, +And catechise it well. Apply your glass, +Search it, and prove now if it be not blood +Congenial with thine own; and if it be, +What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose +Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, +To cut the link of brotherhood, by which +One common Maker bound me to the kind? +True; I am no proficient, I confess, +In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift +And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, +And bid them hide themselves in the earth beneath; +I cannot analyse the air, nor catch +The parallax of yonder luminous point +That seems half quenched in the immense abyss: +Such powers I boast not--neither can I rest +A silent witness of the headlong rage, +Or heedless folly, by which thousands die, +Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. + +God never meant that man should scale the heavens +By strides of human wisdom. In His works, +Though wondrous, He commands us in His Word +To seek Him rather where His mercy shines. +The mind indeed, enlightened from above, +Views Him in all; ascribes to the grand cause +The grand effect; acknowledges with joy +His manner, and with rapture tastes His style. +But never yet did philosophic tube, +That brings the planets home into the eye +Of observation, and discovers, else +Not visible, His family of worlds, +Discover Him that rules them; such a veil +Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, +And dark in things divine. Full often too +Our wayward intellect, the more we learn +Of nature, overlooks her Author more; +From instrumental causes proud to draw +Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake: +But if His Word once teach us, shoot a ray +Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal +Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, +Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised +In the pure fountain of eternal love, +Has eyes indeed; and, viewing all she sees +As meant to indicate a God to man, +Gives HIM His praise, and forfeits not her own. +Learning has borne such fruit in other days +On all her branches. Piety has found +Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer +Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews. +Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! +Sagacious reader of the works of God, +And in His Word sagacious. Such too thine, +Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, +And fed on manna. And such thine, in whom +Our British Themis gloried with just cause, +Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised, +And sound integrity not more, than famed +For sanctity of manners undefiled. + +All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades +Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind; +Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream; +The man we celebrate must find a tomb, +And we that worship him, ignoble graves. +Nothing is proof against the general curse +Of vanity, that seizes all below. +The only amaranthine flower on earth +Is virtue; the only lasting treasure, truth. +But what is truth? 'twas Pilate's question put +To truth itself, that deigned him no reply. +And wherefore? will not God impart His light +To them that ask it?--Freely--'tis His joy, +His glory, and His nature to impart. +But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, +Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. +What's that which brings contempt upon a book +And him that writes it, though the style be neat, +The method clear, and argument exact? +That makes a minister in holy things +The joy of many, and the dread of more, +His name a theme for praise and for reproach?-- +That, while it gives us worth in God's account, +Depreciates and undoes us in our own? +What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy, +That learning is too proud to gather up, +But which the poor and the despised of all +Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? +Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth. + +Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man, +Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, +Domestic life in rural leisure passed! +Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, +Though many boast thy favours, and affect +To understand and choose thee for their own. +But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss, +Even as his first progenitor, and quits, +Though placed in paradise, for earth has still +Some traces of her youthful beauty left, +Substantial happiness for transient joy. +Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse +The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, +By every pleasing image they present, +Reflections such as meliorate the heart, +Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; +Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight +To fill with riot and defile with blood. +Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes +We persecute, annihilate the tribes +That draw the sportsman over hill and dale +Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; +Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, +Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; +Could pageantry, and dance, and feast, and song +Be quelled in all our summer months' retreats; +How many self-deluded nymphs and swains, +Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, +Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen, +And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! +They love the country, and none else, who seek +For their own sake its silence and its shade; +Delights which who would leave, that has a heart +Susceptible of pity, or a mind +Cultured and capable of sober thought, +For all the savage din of the swift pack, +And clamours of the field? Detested sport, +That owes its pleasures to another's pain, +That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks +Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued +With eloquence, that agonies inspire, +Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs! +Vain tears, alas! and sighs that never find +A corresponding tone in jovial souls. +Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare +Has never heard the sanguinary yell +Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. +Innocent partner of my peaceful home, +Whom ten long years' experience of my care +Has made at last familiar, she has lost +Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, +Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. +Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand +That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor +At evening, and at night retire secure +To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; +For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged +All that is human in me to protect +Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. +If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, +And when I place thee in it, sighing say, +I knew at least one hare that had a friend. + +How various his employments, whom the world +Calls idle, and who justly in return +Esteems that busy world an idler, too! +Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, +Delightful industry enjoyed at home, +And nature in her cultivated trim +Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad-- +Can he want occupation who has these? +Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? +Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease, +Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, +Not waste it; and aware that human life +Is but a loan to be repaid with use, +When He shall call His debtors to account, +From whom are all our blessings; business finds +Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve, +At least neglect not, or leave unemployed, +The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack +Too oft, and much impeded in its work +By causes not to be divulged in vain, +To its just point--the service of mankind. +He that attends to his interior self, +That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind +That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks +A social, not a dissipated life, +Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve +No unimportant, though a silent task. +A life all turbulence and noise may seem, +To him that leads it, wise and to be praised; +But wisdom is a pearl with most success +Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies. +He that is ever occupied in storms, +Or dives not for it or brings up instead, +Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize. + +The morning finds the self-sequestered man +Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. +Whether inclement seasons recommend +His warm but simple home, where he enjoys, +With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, +Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph +Which neatly she prepares; then to his book +Well chosen, and not sullenly perused +In selfish silence, but imparted oft +As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, +Or turn to nourishment digested well. +Or if the garden with its many cares, +All well repaid, demand him, he attends +The welcome call, conscious how much the hand +Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, +Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen, +Or misapplying his unskilful strength. +Nor does he govern only or direct, +But much performs himself; no works indeed +That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, +Servile employ--but such as may amuse, +Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. +Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees +That meet, no barren interval between, +With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, +Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel. +These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge, +No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, +None but his steel approach them. What is weak, +Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, +Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand +Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft +And succulent that feeds its giant growth, +But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs +Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick +With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left +That may disgrace his art, or disappoint +Large expectation, he disposes neat +At measured distances, that air and sun +Admitted freely may afford their aid, +And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. +Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence, +And hence even Winter fills his withered hand +With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, +Fair recompense of labour well bestowed +And wise precaution, which a clime so rude +Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child +Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods +Discovering much the temper of her sire. +For oft, as if in her the stream of mild +Maternal nature had reversed its course, +She brings her infants forth with many smiles, +But, once delivered, kills them with a frown. +He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies +Her want of care, screening and keeping warm +The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep +His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft +As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild, +The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev'ry beam, +And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day. + +To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd, +So grateful to the palate, and when rare +So coveted, else base and disesteemed-- +Food for the vulgar merely--is an art +That toiling ages have but just matured, +And at this moment unessayed in song. +Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, +Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, +And these the Grecian in ennobling strains; +And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye +The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, +Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame! +The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers +Presuming an attempt not less sublime, +Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste +Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, +A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. + +The stable yields a stercoraceous heap +Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, +And potent to resist the freezing blast. +For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf +Deciduous, and when now November dark +Checks vegetation in the torpid plant +Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. +Warily therefore, and with prudent heed +He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds +The agglomerated pile, his frame may front +The sun's meridian disk, and at the back +Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge +Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread +Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe +The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, +And lightly, shaking it with agile hand +From the full fork, the saturated straw. +What longest binds the closest, forms secure +The shapely side, that as it rises takes +By just degrees an overhanging breadth, +Sheltering the base with its projected eaves. +The uplifted frame compact at every joint, +And overlaid with clear translucent glass, +He settles next upon the sloping mount, +Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure +From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls. +He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. +Thrice must the voluble and restless earth +Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth +Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass +Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold! +A pestilent and most corrosive steam, +Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, +And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, +Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged +And drenched conservatory breathes abroad, +In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank, +And purified, rejoices to have lost +Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage +The impatient fervour which it first conceives +Within its reeking bosom, threatening death +To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. +Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft +The way to glory by miscarriage foul, +Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch +The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat, +Friendly to vital motion, may afford +Soft fermentation, and invite the seed. +The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth +And glossy, he commits to pots of size +Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared +And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, +And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds: +These on the warm and genial earth that hides +The smoking manure, and o'erspreads it all, +He places lightly, and, as time subdues +The rage of fermentation, plunges deep +In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. +Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick +And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first +Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon, +If fanned by balmy and nutritious air +Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green. +Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, +Cautious he pinches from the second stalk +A pimple, that portends a future sprout, +And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed +The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, +Prolific all, and harbingers of more. +The crowded roots demand enlargement now +And transplantation in an ampler space. +Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply +Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, +Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. +These have their sexes, and when summer shines +The bee transports the fertilising meal +From flower to flower, and even the breathing air +Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. +Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art +Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass +The glad espousals and insures the crop. + +Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have +His dainties, and the world's more numerous half +Lives by contriving delicates for you), +Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, +The vigilance, the labour, and the skill +That day and night are exercised, and hang +Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, +That ye may garnish your profuse regales +With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns. +Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart +The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, +Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies +Minute as dust and numberless, oft work +Dire disappointment that admits no cure, +And which no care can obviate. It were long, +Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts +Which he, that fights a season so severe, +Devises, while he guards his tender trust, +And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise +Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song +Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit +Of too much labour, worthless when produced. + +Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too. +Unconscious of a less propitious clime +There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, +While the winds whistle and the snows descend. +The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf +Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast +Of Portugal and Western India there, +The ruddier orange and the paler lime, +Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, +And seem to smile at what they need not fear. +The amomum there with intermingling flowers +And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts +Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, +Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, +All plants, of every leaf, that can endure +The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, +Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, +Levantine regions these; the Azores send +Their jessamine; her jessamine remote +Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, +They form one social shade, as if convened +By magic summons of the Orphean lyre. +Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass +But by a master's hand, disposing well +The gay diversities of leaf and flower, +Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms, +And dress the regular yet various scene. +Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van +The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still +Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. +So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, +A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage; +And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, +The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose +Some note of Nature's music from his lips, +And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen +In every flash of his far-beaming eye. +Nor taste alone and well-contrived display +Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace +Of their complete effect. Much yet remains +Unsung, and many cares are yet behind +And more laborious; cares on which depends +Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored. +The soil must be renewed, which often washed +Loses its treasure of salubrious salts, +And disappoints the roots; the slender roots, +Close interwoven where they meet the vase, +Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch +Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf +Must be detached, and where it strews the floor +Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else +Contagion, and disseminating death. +Discharge but these kind offices (and who +Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) +Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased, +The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, +Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad +Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets. + +So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, +All healthful, are the employs of rural life, +Reiterated as the wheel of time +Runs round, still ending, and beginning still. +Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll +That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears +A flowery island from the dark green lawn +Emerging, must be deemed a labour due +To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. +Here also grateful mixture of well-matched +And sorted hues (each giving each relief, +And by contrasted beauty shining more) +Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, +May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, +But elegance, chief grace the garden shows +And most attractive, is the fair result +Of thought, the creature of a polished mind. +Without it, all is Gothic as the scene +To which the insipid citizen resorts, +Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, +But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, +Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons +Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil, +And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. +He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed +Sightly and in just order, ere he gives +The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, +Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene +Shall break into its preconceived display, +Each for itself, and all as with one voice +Conspiring, may attest his bright design. +Nor even then, dismissing as performed +His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. +Few self-supported flowers endure the wind +Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid +Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied +Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, +For interest sake, the living to the dead. +Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused +And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair; +Like virtue, thriving most where little seen. +Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub +With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, +Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon +And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well +The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. +All hate the rank society of weeds, +Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust +The impoverished earth; an overbearing race, +That, like the multitude made faction-mad, +Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. + +Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world, +Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat +Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore +Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; +But it has peace, and much secures the mind +From all assaults of evil; proving still +A faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with ease +By vicious custom raging uncontrolled +Abroad and desolating public life. +When fierce temptation, seconded within +By traitor appetite, and armed with darts +Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast, +To combat may be glorious, and success +Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe. +Had I the choice of sublunary good, +What could I wish that I possess not here? +Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace, +No loose or wanton though a wandering muse, +And constant occupation without care. +Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; +Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds +And profligate abusers of a world +Created fair so much in vain for them, +Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe, +Allured by my report; but sure no less +That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, +And what they will not taste, must yet approve. +What we admire we praise; and when we praise +Advance it into notice, that, its worth +Acknowledged, others may admire it too. +I therefore recommend, though at the risk +Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, +The cause of piety and sacred truth +And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained +Should best secure them and promote them most; +Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive +Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. +Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, +And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol. +Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, +Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, +To grace the full pavilion. His design +Was but to boast his own peculiar good, +Which all might view with envy, none partake. +My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, +And she that sweetens all my bitters, too, +Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form +And lineaments divine I trace a hand +That errs not, and find raptures still renewed, +Is free to all men--universal prize. +Strange that so fair a creature should yet want +Admirers, and be destined to divide +With meaner objects even the few she finds. +Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers, +She loses all her influence. Cities then +Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, +Abandoned, as unworthy of our love. +But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed +By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt, +And groves, if unharmonious yet secure +From clamour and whose very silence charms, +To be preferred to smoke--to the eclipse +That Metropolitan volcanoes make, +Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long, +And to the stir of commerce, driving slow, +And thundering loud with his ten thousand wheels? +They would be, were not madness in the head +And folly in the heart; were England now +What England was, plain, hospitable, kind, +And undebauched. But we have bid farewell +To all the virtues of those better days, +And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once +Knew their own masters, and laborious hands +That had survived the father, served the son. +Now the legitimate and rightful lord +Is but a transient guest, newly arrived +And soon to be supplanted. He that saw +His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, +Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price +To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again. +Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, +Then advertised, and auctioneered away. +The country starves, and they that feed the o'er-charged +And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, +By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. +The wings that waft our riches out of sight +Grow on the gamester's elbows, and the alert +And nimble motion of those restless joints, +That never tire, soon fans them all away. +Improvement too, the idol of the age, +Is fed with many a victim. Lo! he comes-- +The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears. +Down falls the venerable pile, the abode +Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race, +But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, +But in a distant spot; where more exposed +It may enjoy the advantage of the North +And aguish East, till time shall have transformed +Those naked acres to a sheltering grove. +He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, +Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, +And streams, as if created for his use, +Pursue the track of his directed wand +Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, +Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades, +Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles. +'Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems, +Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, +A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. +Drained to the last poor item of his wealth, +He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan +That he has touched and retouched, many a day +Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, +Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven +He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy. +And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, +When having no stake left, no pledge to endear +Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause +A moment's operation on his love, +He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal +To serve his country. Ministerial grace +Deals him out money from the public chest, +Or, if that mine be shut, some private purse +Supplies his need with an usurious loan, +To be refunded duly, when his vote, +Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. +Oh, innocent compared with arts like these, +Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball +Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds +One drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup, +Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well-content, +So he may wrap himself in honest rags +At his last gasp; but could not for a world +Fish up his dirty and dependent bread +From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, +Sordid and sickening at his own success. + +Ambition, avarice, penury incurred +By endless riot, vanity, the lust +Of pleasure and variety, despatch, +As duly as the swallows disappear, +The world of wandering knights and squires to town; +London engulfs them all. The shark is there, +And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech +That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he +That with bare-headed and obsequious bows +Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail +And groat per diem if his patron frown. +The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp +Were charactered on every statesman's door, +'BATTERED AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE.' +These are the charms that sully and eclipse +The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe +That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, +The hope of better things, the chance to win, +The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, +That, at the sound of Winter's hoary wing, +Unpeople all our counties of such herds +Of fluttering, loitering, cringing, begging, loose +And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast +And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. + +Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, +Chequered with all complexions of mankind, +And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see +Much that I love, and more that I admire, +And all that I abhor; thou freckled fair +That pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh +And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, +Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee! +Ten righteous would have saved a city once, +And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee-- +That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, +And therefore more obnoxious at this hour +Than Sodom in her day had power to be, +For whom God heard his Abram plead in vain. + + + +BOOK IV. + +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 spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, +News from all nations lumbering at his back. +True to his charge the close-packed load behind, +Yet careless what he brings, his one concern +Is to conduct it to the destined inn, +And, having dropped the 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 indifferent 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 amorous sighs of absent swains, +Or nymphs responsive, equally affect +His horse and him, unconscious of them all. +But oh, the important budget! ushered in +With such heart-shaking music, who can say +What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? +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 jewelled 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 imprisoned wranglers free, +And give them voice and utterance 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 squeezed +And bored 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 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? +Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge +That tempts ambition. On the summit, see, +The seals of office glitter in his eyes; +He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels, +Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, +And with a dextrous 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 plundered of their sweets. +Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, +Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs, +Ethereal 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. +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 makes 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 scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, +Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks +Fringed with a beard made white with other snows +Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, +A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne +A sliding car indebted to no wheels, +But 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, and fixing thought +Not less 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 undisturbed retirement, and the hours +Of long uninterrupted evening know. +No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; +No powdered pert proficients in the art +Of sounding an alarm, assault 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 curly 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. +The volume closed, the customary rites +Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal, +Such as the mistress of the world once found +Delicious, when her patriots of high note, +Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, +And under an old oak's domestic shade, +Enjoyed--spare feast!--a radish and an egg. +Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, +Nor such as with a frown forbids the play +Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth; +Nor do we madly, like an impious world, +Who deem religion frenzy, and the God +That made them an intruder on their joys, +Start at His awful name, or deem His praise +A jarring note; themes of a graver tone +Exciting oft our gratitude and love, +While we retrace with memory's pointing wand +That calls the past to our exact review, +The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare, +The disappointed foe, deliverance found +Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored, +Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:-- +Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed +The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply, +More to be prized and coveted than yours, +As more illumined and with nobler truths, +That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. + +Is Winter hideous in a garb like this? +Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, +The pent-up breath of an unsavoury 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 controlled them all, +Relaxed into an universal grin, +Sees not a countenance there that speaks a 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 unfurnished brain, +To palliate dulness and give time a shove. +Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, +Unsoiled 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 mast +Well does the work of his destructive scythe. +Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds +To his true worth, most pleased when idle most, +Whose only happy are their wasted hours. +Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore +The back-string 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. +But truce with censure. Roving as I rove, +Where shall I find an end, or how proceed? +As he that travels far, oft turns aside +To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower, +Which seen 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 mixed for a far different use, +Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing +That fancy finds in her excursive flights. + +Come, Evening, once again, season of peace, +Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! +Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, +With matron-step slow moving, while the night +Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed +In letting fall the curtain of repose +On bird and beast, the other charged for man +With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; +Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, +Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems, +A star or two just twinkling on thy brow +Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine +No less than hers, not worn indeed on high +With ostentatious pageantry, but set +With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, +Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. +Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, +Or make me so. Composure is thy gift; +And whether I devote thy gentle hours +To books, to music, or to poet's toil, +To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit, +Or twining silken threads round ivory reels +When they command whom man was born to please, +I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. + +Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze +With lights, by clear reflection multiplied +From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, +Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk +Whole without stooping, towering crest and all, +My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps +The glowing hearth may satisfy a while +With faint illumination, that uplifts +The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits +Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame. +Not undelightful is an hour to me +So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom +Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind, +The mind contemplative, with some new theme +Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all. +Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers +That never feel a stupor, know no pause, +Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess. +Fearless, a soul that does not always think. +Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild +Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers, +Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed +In the red cinders, while with poring eye +I gazed, myself creating what I saw. +Nor less amused have I quiescent watched +The sooty films that play upon the bars +Pendulous, and foreboding in the view +Of superstition, prophesying still, +Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach. +'Tis thus the understanding takes repose +In indolent vacuity of thought, +And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face +Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask +Of deep deliberation, as the man +Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost. +Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour +At evening, till at length the freezing blast +That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home +The recollected powers, and, snapping short +The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves +Her brittle toys, restores me to myself. +How calm is my recess! and how the frost +Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear +The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! +I saw the woods and fields at close of day +A variegated show; the meadows green +Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved +The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, +Upturned so lately by the forceful share; +I saw far off the weedy fallows smile +With verdure not unprofitable, grazed +By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each +His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves +That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue, +Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve. +To-morrow brings a change, a total change, +Which even now, though silently performed +And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face +Of universal nature undergoes. +Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes, +Descending and with never-ceasing lapse +Softly alighting upon all below, +Assimilate all objects. Earth receives +Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green +And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast, +Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil. + +In such a world, so thorny, and where none +Finds happiness unblighted, or if found, +Without some thistly sorrow at its side, +It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin +Against the law of love, to measure lots +With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus +We may with patience bear our moderate ills, +And sympathise with others, suffering more. +Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks +In ponderous boots beside his reeking team; +The wain goes heavily, impeded sore +By congregating loads adhering close +To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, +Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. +The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, +While every breath, by respiration strong +Forced downward, is consolidated soon +Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear +The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, +With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth +Presented bare against the storm, plods on; +One hand secures his hat, save when with both +He brandishes his pliant length of whip, +Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. +Oh happy, and, in my account, denied +That sensibility of pain with which +Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! +Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed +The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; +The learned finger never need explore +Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, +That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone +Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. +Thy days roll on exempt from household care, +Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, +That drag the dull companion to and fro, +Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. +Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, +Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, +With needless hurry whirled from place to place, +Humane as they would seem, not always show. + +Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, +Such claim compassion in a night like this, +And have a friend in every feeling heart. +Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long +They brave the season, and yet find at eve, +Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. +The frugal housewife trembles when she lights +Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, +But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; +The few small embers left she nurses well. +And while her infant race with outspread hands +And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, +Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. +The man feels least, as more inured than she +To winter, and the current in his veins +More briskly moved by his severer toil; +Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. +The taper soon extinguished, which I saw +Dangled along at the cold finger's end +Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf +Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce +Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still, +Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, +Where penury is felt the thought is chained, +And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. +With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care +Ingenious parsimony takes, but just +Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, +Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. +They live, and live without extorted alms +From grudging hands, but other boast have none +To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, +Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. +I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, +For ye are worthy; choosing rather far +A dry but independent crust, hard-earned +And eaten with a sigh, than to endure +The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs +Of knaves in office, partial in their work +Of distribution; liberal of their aid +To clamorous importunity in rags, +But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush +To wear a tattered garb however coarse, +Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; +These ask with painful shyness, and, refused +Because deserving, silently retire. +But be ye of good courage! Time itself +Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, +And all your numerous progeny, well trained, +But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, +And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want +What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, +Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. +I mean the man, who when the distant poor +Need help, denies them nothing but his name. + +But poverty with most, who whimper forth +Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, +The effect of laziness or sottish waste. +Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad +For plunder; much solicitous how best +He may compensate for a day of sloth, +By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, +Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge +Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes +Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength +Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame +To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil-- +An ass's burden,--and when laden most +And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away. +Nor does the boarded hovel better guard +The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots +From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave +Unwrenched the door, however well secured, +Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps +In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch +He gives the princely bird with all his wives +To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, +And loudly wondering at the sudden change. +Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse +Did pity of their sufferings warp aside +His principle, and tempt him into sin +For their support, so destitute; but they +Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more +Exposed than others, with less scruple made +His victims, robbed of their defenceless all. +Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst +Of ruinous ebriety that prompts +His every action, and imbrutes the man. +Oh for a law to noose the villain's neck +Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood +He gave them in his children's veins, and hates +And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love. + +Pass where we may, through city, or through town, +Village or hamlet of this merry land, +Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace +Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff +Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes +That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel. +There sit involved and lost in curling clouds +Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor, +The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there +Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil; +Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, +And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike, +All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams +Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed +Its wasted tones and harmony unheard; +Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, +Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, +Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand +Her undecisive scales. In this she lays +A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride, +And smiles delighted with the eternal poise. +Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound +The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised +As ornamental, musical, polite, +Like those which modern senators employ, +Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame. +Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, +Once simple, are initiated in arts +Which some may practise with politer grace, +But none with readier skill! 'Tis here they learn +The road that leads from competence and peace +To indigence and rapine; till at last +Society, grown weary of the load, +Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out. +But censure profits little. Vain the attempt +To advertise in verse a public pest, +That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds +His hungry acres, stinks and is of use. +The excise is fattened with the rich result +Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, +For ever dribbling out their base contents, +Touched by the Midas finger of the state, +Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away. +Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids! +Gloriously drunk, obey the important call, +Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;-- +Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. + +Would I had fallen upon those happier days +That poets celebrate; those golden times +And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings, +And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose. +Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts +That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems, +From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves; +The footsteps of simplicity, impressed +Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing), +Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane +And manners profligate were rarely found, +Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed. +Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams +Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand, +Imparting substance to an empty shade, +Imposed a gay delirium for a truth. +Grant it: I still must envy them an age +That favoured such a dream, in days like these +Impossible, when virtue is so scarce +That to suppose a scene where she presides +Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. +No. We are polished now. The rural lass, +Whom once her virgin modesty and grace, +Her artless manners and her neat attire, +So dignified, that she was hardly less +Than the fair shepherdess of old romance, +Is seen no more. The character is lost. +Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft +And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised +And magnified beyond all human size, +Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand +For more than half the tresses it sustains; +Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form +Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed +(But that the basket dangling on her arm +Interprets her more truly) of a rank +Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs; +Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, +No longer blushing for her awkward load, +Her train and her umbrella all her care. + +The town has tinged the country; and the stain +Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, +The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs +Down into scenes still rural, but alas, +Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now. +Time was when in the pastoral retreat +The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch +To invade another's right, or guard their own. +Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared +By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale +Of midnight murder was a wonder heard +With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes +But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, +And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep, +See that your polished arms be primed with care, +And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad, +And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat +May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear +To horrid sounds of hostile feet within. +Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk +Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once +Of other tenants than melodious birds, +Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. +Lamented change! to which full many a cause +Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. +The course of human things from good to ill, +From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. +Increase of power begets increase of wealth; +Wealth luxury, and luxury excess; +Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague +That seizes first the opulent, descends +To the next rank contagious, and in time +Taints downward all the graduated scale +Of order, from the chariot to the plough. +The rich, and they that have an arm to check +The licence of the lowest in degree, +Desert their office; and themselves, intent +On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus +To all the violence of lawless hands +Resign the scenes their presence might protect. +Authority itself not seldom sleeps, +Though resident, and witness of the wrong. +The plump convivial parson often bears +The magisterial sword in vain, and lays +His reverence and his worship both to rest +On the same cushion of habitual sloth. +Perhaps timidity restrains his arm, +When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, +Himself enslaved by terror of the band, +The audacious convict whom he dares not bind. +Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, +He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove +Less dainty than becomes his grave outside +In lucrative concerns. Examine well +His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean-- +But here and there an ugly smutch appears. +Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He has touched +Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here +Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, +Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds. + +But faster far and more than all the rest +A noble cause, which none who bears a spark +Of public virtue ever wished removed, +Works the deplored and mischievous effect. +'Tis universal soldiership has stabbed +The heart of merit in the meaner class. +Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage +Of those that bear them, in whatever cause, +Seem most at variance with all moral good, +And incompatible with serious thought. +The clown, the child of nature, without guile, +Blest with an infant's ignorance of all +But his own simple pleasures, now and then +A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair, +Is balloted, and trembles at the news. +Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears +A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please, +To do he knows not what. The task performed, +That instant he becomes the serjeant's care, +His pupil, and his torment, and his jest; +His awkward gait, his introverted toes, +Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, +Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, +Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff, +He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, +Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well. +He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk, +He steps right onward, martial in his air, +His form and movement; is as smart above +As meal and larded locks can make him: wears +His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace, +And, his three years of heroship expired, +Returns indignant to the slighted plough. +He hates the field in which no fife or drum +Attends him, drives his cattle to a march, +And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. +'Twere well if his exterior change were all-- +But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost +His ignorance and harmless manners too. +To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home +By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, +The great proficiency he made abroad, +To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, +To break some maiden's and his mother's heart, +To be a pest where he was useful once, +Are his sole aim, and all his glory now! +Man in society is like a flower +Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone +His faculties expanded in full bloom +Shine out, there only reach their proper use. +But man associated and leagued with man +By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond +For interest sake, or swarming into clans +Beneath one head for purposes of war, +Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound +And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, +Fades rapidly, and by compression marred +Contracts defilement not to be endured. +Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues, +And burghers, men immaculate perhaps +In all their private functions, once combined, +Become a loathsome body, only fit +For dissolution, hurtful to the main. +Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin +Against the charities of domestic life, +Incorporated, seem at once to lose +Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard +For mercy and the common rights of man, +Build factories with blood, conducting trade +At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe +Of innocent commercial justice red. +Hence too the field of glory, as the world +Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, +With all the majesty of thundering pomp, +Enchanting music and immortal wreaths, +Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught +On principle, where foppery atones +For folly, gallantry for every vice. + +But slighted as it is, and by the great +Abandoned, and, which still I more regret, +Infected with the manners and the modes +It knew not once, the country wins me still. +I never framed a wish or formed a plan +That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, +But there I laid the scene. There early strayed +My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice +Had found me, or the hope of being free. +My very dreams were rural, rural too +The first-born efforts of my youthful muse, +Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells +Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers. +No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned +To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats +Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe +Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang +The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech. +Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms: +New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed +The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue +To speak its excellence; I danced for joy. +I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age +As twice seven years, his beauties had then first +Engaged my wonder, and admiring still, +And still admiring, with regret supposed +The joy half lost because not sooner found. +Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved, +Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit +Determined, and possessing it at last +With transports such as favoured lovers feel, +I studied, prized, and wished that I had known, +Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed +By modern lights from an erroneous taste, +I cannot but lament thy splendid wit +Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools. +I still revere thee, courtly though retired, +Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers, +Not unemployed, and finding rich amends +For a lost world in solitude and verse. +'Tis born with all. The love of Nature's works +Is an ingredient in the compound, man, +Infused at the creation of the kind. +And though the Almighty Maker has throughout +Discriminated each from each, by strokes +And touches of His hand, with so much art +Diversified, that two were never found +Twins at all points--yet this obtains in all, +That all discern a beauty in His works, +And all can taste them: minds that have been formed +And tutored, with a relish more exact, +But none without some relish, none unmoved. +It is a flame that dies not even there, +Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds, +Nor habits of luxurious city life, +Whatever else they smother of true worth +In human bosoms, quench it or abate. +The villas, with which London stands begirt +Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, +Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, +The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer +The citizen, and brace his languid frame! +Even in the stifling bosom of the town, +A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms +That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled +That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, +Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well +He cultivates. These serve him with a hint +That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green +Is still the livery she delights to wear, +Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. +What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, +The prouder sashes fronted with a range +Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, +The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs +That man, immured in cities, still retains +His inborn inextinguishable thirst +Of rural scenes, compensating his loss +By supplemental shifts, the best he may? +The most unfurnished with the means of life, +And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds +To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, +Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head +Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick +And watered duly. There the pitcher stands +A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; +Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets +The country, with what ardour he contrives +A peep at nature, when he can no more. + +Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease +And contemplation, heart-consoling joys +And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode +Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life! +Address himself who will to the pursuit +Of honours, or emolument, or fame, +I shall not add myself to such a chase, +Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. +Some must be great. Great offices will have +Great talents. And God gives to every man +The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, +That lifts him into life, and lets him fall +Just in the niche he was ordained to fill. +To the deliverer of an injured land +He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart +To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs; +To monarchs dignity, to judges sense; +To artists ingenuity and skill; +To me an unambitious mind, content +In the low vale of life, that early felt +A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long +Found here that leisure and that ease I wished. + + + +BOOK V. + + + +THE WINTER MORNING WALK. + +'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb +Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds, +That crowd away before the driving wind, +More ardent as the disk emerges more, +Resemble most some city in a blaze, +Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray +Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, +And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, +From every herb and every spiry blade +Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field, +Mine, spindling into longitude immense, +In spite of gravity, and sage remark +That I myself am but a fleeting shade, +Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance +I view the muscular proportioned limb +Transformed to a lean shank; the shapeless pair, +As they designed to mock me, at my side +Take step for step, and, as I near approach +The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, +Preposterous sight, the legs without the man. +The verdure of the plain lies buried deep +Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents +And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, +Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine +Conspicuous, and, in bright apparel clad, +And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. +The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence +Screens them, and seem, half petrified, to sleep +In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait +Their wonted fodder, not, like hungering man, +Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek, +And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. +He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, +Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft +His broad keen knife into the solid mass: +Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, +With such undeviating and even force +He severs it away: no needless care, +Lest storms should overset the leaning pile +Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. +Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned +The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe +And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, +From morn to eve his solitary task. +Shaggy and lean and shrewd, with pointed ears +And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, +His dog attends him. Close behind his heel +Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk, +Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow +With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; +Then shakes his powdered coat and barks for joy. +Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl +Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, +But now and then, with pressure of his thumb, +To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube, +That fumes beneath his nose; the trailing cloud +Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. +Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale, +Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam +Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, +Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call +The feathered tribes domestic; half on wing, +And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, +Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. +The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves +To seize the fair occasion; well they eye +The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved +To escape the impending famine, often scared +As oft return, a pert, voracious kind. +Clean riddance quickly made, one only care +Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, +Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned +To sad necessity the cock foregoes +His wonted strut, and, wading at their head +With well-considered steps, seems to resent +His altered gait, and stateliness retrenched. +How find the myriads, that in summer cheer +The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, +Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? +Earth yields them naught: the imprisoned worm is safe +Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs +Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns +That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), +Afford the smaller minstrel no supply. +The long-protracted rigour of the year +Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes +Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, +As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die. +The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, +Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now +Repays their labour more; and perched aloft +By the way-side, or stalking in the path, +Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track, +Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, +Of voided pulse, or half-digested grain. +The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, +O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood +Indurated and fixed the snowy weight +Lies undissolved, while silently beneath +And unperceived the current steals away; +Not so where, scornful of a check, it leaps +The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, +And wantons in the pebbly gulf below. +No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force +Can but arrest the light and smoky mist +That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. +And see where it has hung the embroidered banks +With forms so various, that no powers of art, +The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene! +Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high +(Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof +Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees +And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops +That trickle down the branches, fast congealed, +Shoot into pillars of pellucid length +And prop the pile they but adorned before. +Here grotto within grotto safe defies +The sunbeam. There imbossed and fretted wild, +The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes +Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain +The likeness of some object seen before. +Thus nature works as if to mock at art, +And in defiance of her rival powers; +By these fortuitous and random strokes +Performing such inimitable feats, +As she with all her rules can never reach. +Less worthy of applause though more admired, +Because a novelty, the work of man, +Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ, +Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, +The wonder of the North. No forest fell +When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores +To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods, +And make thy marble of the glassy wave. +In such a palace Aristaeus found +Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale +Of his lost bees to her maternal ear. +In such a palace poetry might place +The armoury of winter, where his troops, +The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, +Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, +And snow that often blinds the traveller's course, +And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. +Silently as a dream the fabric rose. +No sound of hammer or of saw was there. +Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts +Were soon conjoined, nor other cement asked +Than water interfused to make them one. +Lamps gracefully disposed, and of all hues, +Illumined every side. A watery light +Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed +Another moon new-risen, or meteor fallen +From heaven to earth, of lambent flame serene. +So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth +And slippery the materials, yet frost-bound +Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within +That royal residence might well befit, +For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths +Of flowers, that feared no enemy but warmth, +Blushed on the panels. Mirror needed none +Where all was vitreous, but in order due +Convivial table and commodious seat +(What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, +Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. +The same lubricity was found in all, +And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene +Of evanescent glory, once a stream, +And soon to slide into a stream again. +Alas, 'twas but a mortifying stroke +Of undesigned severity, that glanced +(Made by a monarch) on her own estate, +On human grandeur and the courts of kings +'Twas transient in its nature, as in show +'Twas durable; as worthless, as it seemed +Intrinsically precious; to the foot +Treacherous and false; it smiled, and it was cold. + +Great princes have great playthings. Some have played +At hewing mountains into men, and some +At building human wonders mountain high. +Some have amused the dull sad years of life +(Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad) +With schemes of monumental fame, and sought +By pyramids and mausoleum pomp, +Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones. +Some seek diversion in the tented field, +And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. +But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, +Kings should not play at. Nations would do well +To extort their truncheons from the puny hands +Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds +Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil, +Because men suffer it, their toy the world. + +When Babel was confounded, and the great +Confederacy of projectors wild and vain +Was split into diversity of tongues, +Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, +These to the upland, to the valley those, +God drave asunder and assigned their lot +To all the nations. Ample was the boon +He gave them, in its distribution fair +And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. +Peace was a while their care. They ploughed and sowed, +And reaped their plenty without grudge or strife, +But violence can never longer sleep +Than human passions please. In every heart +Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war, +Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. +Cain had already shed a brother's blood: +The Deluge washed it out; but left unquenched +The seeds of murder in the breast of man. +Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line +Of his descending progeny was found +The first artificer of death; the shrewd +Contriver who first sweated at the forge, +And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel +To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. +Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, +The sword and falchion their inventor claim, +And the first smith was the first murderer's son. +His art survived the waters; and ere long, +When man was multiplied and spread abroad +In tribes and clans, and had begun to call +These meadows and that range of hills his own, +The tasted sweets of property begat +Desire of more; and industry in some +To improve and cultivate their just demesne, +Made others covet what they saw so fair. +Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil, +And those in self-defence. Savage at first +The onset, and irregular. At length +One eminent above the rest, for strength, +For stratagem, or courage, or for all, +Was chosen leader. Him they served in war, +And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds +Reverenced no less. Who could with him compare? +Or who so worthy to control themselves +As he, whose prowess had subdued their foes? +Thus war, affording field for the display +Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, +Which have their exigencies too, and call +For skill in government, at length made king. +King was a name too proud for man to wear +With modesty and meekness, and the crown, +So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, +Was sure to intoxicate the brows it bound. +It is the abject property of most, +That being parcel of the common mass, +And destitute of means to raise themselves, +They sink and settle lower than they need. +They know not what it is to feel within +A comprehensive faculty, that grasps +Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields, +Almost without an effort, plans too vast +For their conception, which they cannot move. +Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk +With gazing, when they see an able man +Step forth to notice; and besotted thus +Build him a pedestal and say--Stand there, +And be our admiration and our praise. +They roll themselves before him in the dust, +Then most deserving in their own account +When most extravagant in his applause, +As if exalting him they raised themselves. +Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound +And sober judgment that he is but man, +They demi-deify and fume him so +That in due season he forgets it too. +Inflated and astrut with self-conceit +He gulps the windy diet, and ere long, +Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks +The world was made in vain if not for him. +Thenceforth they are his cattle: drudges, born +To bear his burdens, drawing in his gears, +And sweating in his service. His caprice +Becomes the soul that animates them all. +He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, +Spent in the purchase of renown for him +An easy reckoning, and they think the same. +Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings +Were burnished into heroes, and became +The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; +Storks among frogs, that have but croaked and died. +Strange that such folly, as lifts bloated man +To eminence fit only for a god, +Should ever drivel out of human lips, +Even in the cradled weakness of the world! +Still stranger much, that when at length mankind +Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth, +And could discriminate and argue well +On subjects more mysterious, they were yet +Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear +And quake before the gods themselves had made. +But above measure strange, that neither proof +Of sad experience, nor examples set +By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed, +Can even now, when they are grown mature +In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps +Familiar, serve to emancipate the rest! +Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone +To reverence what is ancient, and can plead +A course of long observance for its use, +That even servitude, the worst of ills, +Because delivered down from sire to son, +Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. +But is it fit, or can it bear the shock +Of rational discussion, that a man, +Compounded and made up like other men +Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust +And folly in as ample measure meet, +As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, +Should be a despot absolute, and boast +Himself the only freeman of his land? +Should when he pleases, and on whom he will, +Wage war, with any or with no pretence +Of provocation given, or wrong sustained, +And force the beggarly last doit, by means +That his own humour dictates, from the clutch +Of poverty, that thus he may procure +His thousands, weary of penurious life, +A splendid opportunity to die? +Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old +Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees +In politic convention) put your trust +I' th' shadow of a bramble, and recline +In fancied peace beneath his dangerous branch, +Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway, +Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs +Your self-denying zeal that holds it good +To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang +His thorns with streamers of continual praise? +We too are friends to loyalty; we love +The king who loves the law, respects his bounds. +And reigns content within them; him we serve +Freely and with delight, who leaves us free; +But recollecting still that he is man, +We trust him not too far. King though he be, +And king in England, too, he may be weak +And vain enough to be ambitious still, +May exercise amiss his proper powers, +Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: +Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, +To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, +But not to warp or change it. We are his, +To serve him nobly in the common cause +True to the death, but not to be his slaves. +Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love +Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. +We love the man; the paltry pageant you: +We the chief patron of the commonwealth; +You the regardless author of its woes: +We, for the sake of liberty, a king; +You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. + +Our love is principle, and has its root +In reason, is judicious, manly, free; +Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, +And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. +Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, +Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, +I would not be a king to be beloved +Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, +Where love is more attachment to the throne, +Not to the man who fills it as he ought. + +Whose freedom is by sufferance, and at will +Of a superior, he is never free. +Who lives, and is not weary of a life +Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. +The state that strives for liberty, though foiled +And forced to abandon what she bravely sought, +Deserves at least applause for her attempt, +And pity for her loss. But that's a cause +Not often unsuccessful; power usurped +Is weakness when opposed; conscious of wrong, +'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. +But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought +Of freedom, in that hope itself possess +All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, +The scorn of danger, and united hearts, +The surest presage of the good they seek. * + +* The author hopes that he shall not be censured for +unnecessary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware +that it is become almost fashionable to stigmatise such +sentiments as no better than empty declamation. But it is an +ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.-C. + +Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more +To France than all her losses and defeats, +Old or of later date, by sea or land, +Her house of bondage worse than that of old +Which God avenged on Pharaoh--the Bastille! +Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, +Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, +That monarchs have supplied from age to age +With music such as suits their sovereign ears, +The sighs and groans of miserable men! +There's not an English heart that would not leap +To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know +That even our enemies, so oft employed +In forging chains for us, themselves were free. +For he that values liberty, confines +His zeal for her predominance within +No narrow bounds; her cause engages him +Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. +There dwell the most forlorn of humankind, +Immured though unaccused, condemned untried, +Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. +There, like the visionary emblem seen +By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, +And filleted about with hoops of brass, +Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. +To count the hour bell and expect no change; +And ever as the sullen sound is heard, +Still to reflect that though a joyless note +To him whose moments all have one dull pace, +Ten thousand rovers in the world at large +Account it music; that it summons some +To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; +The wearied hireling finds it a release +From labour, and the lover, that has chid +Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke +Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight;-- +To fly for refuge from distracting thought +To such amusements as ingenious woe +Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools;-- +To read engraven on the mouldy walls, +In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, +A sad memorial, and subjoin his own;-- +To turn purveyor to an overgorged +And bloated spider, till the pampered pest +Is made familiar, watches his approach, +Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend;-- +To wear out time in numbering to and fro +The studs that thick emboss his iron door, +Then downward and then upward, then aslant +And then alternate, with a sickly hope +By dint of change to give his tasteless task +Some relish, till the sum, exactly found +In all directions, he begins again:-- +Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around +With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel +And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? +That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, +Abridge him of his just and native rights, +Eradicate him, tear him from his hold +Upon the endearments of domestic life +And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, +And doom him for perhaps a heedless word +To barrenness and solitude and tears, +Moves indignation; makes the name of king +(Of king whom such prerogative can please) +As dreadful as the Manichean god, +Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. + +'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower +Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, +And we are weeds without it. All constraint, +Except what wisdom lays on evil men, +Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes +Their progress in the road of science; blinds +The eyesight of discovery, and begets, +In those that suffer it, a sordid mind +Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit +To be the tenant of man's noble form. +Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, +With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed +By public exigence, till annual food +Fails for the craving hunger of the state, +Thee I account still happy, and the chief +Among the nations, seeing thou art free, +My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, +Replete with vapours, and disposes much +All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine; +Thine unadulterate manners are less soft +And plausible than social life requires. +And thou hast need of discipline and art +To give thee what politer France receives +From Nature's bounty--that humane address +And sweetness, without which no pleasure is +In converse, either starved by cold reserve, +Or flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl; +Yet, being free, I love thee; for the sake +Of that one feature, can be well content, +Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, +To seek no sublunary rest beside. +But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure +Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, +Where I am free by birthright, not at all. +Then what were left of roughness in the grain +Of British natures, wanting its excuse +That it belongs to freemen, would disgust +And shock me. I should then with double pain +Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; +And, if I must bewail the blessing lost +For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, +I would at least bewail it under skies +Milder, among a people less austere, +In scenes which, having never known me free, +Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. +Do I forebode impossible events, +And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may, +But the age of virtuous politics is past, +And we are deep in that of cold pretence. +Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, +And we too wise to trust them. He that takes +Deep in his soft credulity the stamp +Designed by loud declaimers on the part +Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, +Incurs derision for his easy faith +And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. +For when was public virtue to be found, +Where private was not? Can he love the whole +Who loves no part? he be a nation's friend +Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there? +Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, +Who slights the charities for whose dear sake +That country, if at all, must be beloved? +--'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad +For England's glory, seeing it wax pale +And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts +So loose to private duty, that no brain, +Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, +Can dream them trusty to the general weal. +Such were not they of old whose tempered blades +Dispersed the shackles of usurped control, +And hewed them link from link. Then Albion's sons +Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart +Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs, +And shining each in his domestic sphere, +Shone brighter still once called to public view. +'Tis therefore many, whose sequestered lot +Forbids their interference, looking on, +Anticipate perforce some dire event; +And seeing the old castle of the state, +That promised once more firmness, so assailed +That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, +Stand motionless expectants of its fall. +All has its date below. The fatal hour +Was registered in heaven ere time began. +We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works +Die too. The deep foundations that we lay, +Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains. +We build with what we deem eternal rock; +A distant age asks where the fabric stood; +And in the dust, sifted and searched in vain, +The undiscoverable secret sleeps. + +But there is yet a liberty unsung +By poets, and by senators unpraised, +Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power +Of earth and hell confederate take away; +A liberty, which persecution, fraud, +Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind, +Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more: +'Tis liberty of heart, derived from heaven, +Bought with His blood who gave it to mankind, +And sealed with the same token. It is held +By charter, and that charter sanctioned sure +By the unimpeachable and awful oath +And promise of a God. His other gifts +All bear the royal stamp that speaks them His, +And are august, but this transcends them all. +His other works, this visible display +Of all-creating energy and might, +Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the Word +That, finding an interminable space +Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, +And made so sparkling what was dark before. +But these are not His glory. Man, 'tis true, +Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, +Might well suppose the Artificer Divine +Meant it eternal, had He not Himself +Pronounced it transient, glorious as it is, +And still designing a more glorious far, +Doomed it, as insufficient for His praise. +These, therefore, are occasional, and pass; +Formed for the confutation of the fool +Whose lying heart disputes against a God; +That office served, they must be swept away. +Not so the labours of His love; they shine +In other heavens than these that we behold, +And fade not. There is Paradise that fears +No forfeiture, and of its fruits He sends +Large prelibation oft to saints below. +Of these the first in order, and the pledge +And confident assurance of the rest, +Is liberty; a flight into His arms +Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way, +A clear escape from tyrannising lust, +And fill immunity from penal woe. + +Chains are the portion of revolted man, +Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves +The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, +Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. +Propense his heart to idols, he is held +In silly dotage on created things +Careless of their Creator. And that low +And sordid gravitation of his powers +To a vile clod, so draws him with such force +Resistless from the centre he should seek, +That he at last forgets it. All his hopes +Tend downward, his ambition is to sink, +To reach a depth profounder still, and still +Profounder, in the fathomless abyss +Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. +But ere he gain the comfortless repose +He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, +In heaven renouncing exile, he endures +What does he not? from lusts opposed in vain, +And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees +The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, +Fortune, and dignity; the loss of all +That can ennoble man, and make frail life, +Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, +Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins +Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes +Ages of hopeless misery; future death, +And death still future; not a hasty stroke, +Like that which sends him to the dusty grave, +But unrepealable enduring death. +Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: +What none can prove a forgery, may be true; +What none but bad men wish exploded, must. +That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud +Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst +Of laughter his compunctions are sincere, +And he abhors the jest by which he shines. +Remorse begets reform. His master-lust +Falls first before his resolute rebuke, +And seems dethroned and vanquished. Peace ensues, +But spurious and short-lived, the puny child +Of self-congratulating Pride, begot +On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, +And fights again; but finds his best essay, +A presage ominous, portending still +Its own dishonour by a worse relapse, +Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foiled +So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, +Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now +Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause, +Perversely, which of late she so condemned; +With shallow shifts and old devices, worn +And tattered in the service of debauch, +Covering his shame from his offended sight. + +"Hath God indeed given appetites to man, +And stored the earth so plenteously with means +To gratify the hunger of His wish, +And doth He reprobate and will He damn +The use of His own bounty? making first +So frail a kind, and then enacting laws +So strict, that less than perfect must despair? +Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth, +Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. +Do they themselves, who undertake for hire +The teacher's office, and dispense at large +Their weekly dole of edifying strains, +Attend to their own music? have they faith +In what, with such solemnity of tone +And gesture, they propound to our belief? +Nay--conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice +Is but an instrument on which the priest +May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, +The unequivocal authentic deed, +We find sound argument, we read the heart." + +Such reasonings (if that name must needs belong +To excuses in which reason has no part) +Serve to compose a spirit well inclined +To live on terms of amity with vice, +And sin without disturbance. Often urged +(As often as, libidinous discourse +Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes +Of theological and grave import), +They gain at last his unreserved assent, +Till, hardened his heart's temper in the forge +Of lust and on the anvil of despair, +He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, +Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; +Vain tampering has but fostered his disease, +'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. +Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. +Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear +Of rectitude and fitness: moral truth +How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, +Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps +Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. +Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the powers +Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise, +Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, +And with poetic trappings grace thy prose +Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.-- +Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass +Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm +The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, +And chills and darkens a wide-wandering soul. +The still small voice is wanted. He must speak, +Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect, +Who calls for things that are not, and they come. + +Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change +That turns to ridicule the turgid speech +And stately tone of moralists, who boast, +As if, like him of fabulous renown, +They had indeed ability to smooth +The shag of savage nature, and were each +An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. +But transformation of apostate man +From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, +Is work for Him that made him. He alone, +And He, by means in philosophic eyes +Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves +The wonder; humanising what is brute +In the lost kind, extracting from the lips +Of asps their venom, overpowering strength +By weakness, and hostility by love. + +Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause +Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, +Receive proud recompense. We give in charge +Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, +Proud of the treasure, marches with it down +To latest times; and sculpture, in her turn, +Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, +To guard them, and to immortalise her trust. +But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, +To those who, posted at the shrine of truth, +Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood +Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed, +And for a time ensure to his loved land, +The sweets of liberty and equal laws; +But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, +And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed +In confirmation of the noblest claim, +Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, +To walk with God, to be divinely free, +To soar, and to anticipate the skies! +Yet few remember them. They lived unknown, +Till persecution dragged them into fame +And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew +--No marble tells us whither. With their names +No bard embalms and sanctifies his song, +And history, so warm on meaner themes, +Is cold on this. She execrates indeed +The tyranny that doomed them to the fire, +But gives the glorious sufferers little praise. + +He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, +And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain +That hellish foes confederate for his harm +Can wind around him, but he casts it off +With as much ease as Samson his green withes. +He looks abroad into the varied field +Of Nature, and, though poor perhaps compared +With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, +Calls the delightful scenery all his own. +His are the mountains, and the valleys his, +And the resplendent river's. His to enjoy +With a propriety that none can feel, +But who, with filial confidence inspired, +Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, +And smiling say--My Father made them all! +Are they not his by a peculiar right, +And by an emphasis of interest his, +Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, +Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind +With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love +That planned, and built, and still upholds a world +So clothed with beauty, for rebellious man? +Yes--ye may fill your garners, ye that reap +The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good +In senseless riot; but ye will not find +In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, +A liberty like his, who, unimpeached +Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, +Appropriates nature as his Father's work, +And has a richer use of yours, than you. +He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth +Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills +Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea +With all his roaring multitude of waves. +His freedom is the same in every state; +And no condition of this changeful life +So manifold in cares, whose every day +Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. +For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, +Nor penury, can cripple or confine. +No nook so narrow but he spreads them there +With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds +His body bound, but knows not what a range +His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; +And that to bind him is a vain attempt, +Whom God delights in, and in whom He dwells. + +Acquaint thyself with God if thou wouldst taste +His works. Admitted once to His embrace, +Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; +Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart, +Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight +Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. +Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone, +And eyes intent upon the scanty herb +It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, +Ruminate, heedless of the scene outspread +Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away +From inland regions to the distant main. +Man views it and admires, but rests content +With what he views. The landscape has his praise, +But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed +The paradise he sees, he finds it such, +And such well pleased to find it, asks no more. +Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, +And in the school of sacred wisdom taught +To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, +Fair as it is, existed ere it was. +Nor for its own sake merely, but for His +Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise; +Praise that from earth resulting as it ought +To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once +Its only just proprietor in Him. +The soul that sees Him, or receives sublimed +New faculties or learns at least to employ +More worthily the powers she owned before; +Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze +Of ignorance, till then she overlooked, +A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms +Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute +The unambiguous footsteps of the God +Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing +And wheels His throne upon the rolling worlds. +Much conversant with heaven, she often holds +With those fair ministers of light to man +That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp +Sweet conference; inquires what strains were they +With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste +To gratulate the new-created earth, +Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God +Shouted for joy.--"Tell me, ye shining hosts +That navigate a sea that knows no storms, +Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, +If from your elevation, whence ye view +Distinctly scenes invisible to man +And systems of whose birth no tidings yet +Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race +Favoured as ours, transgressors from the womb +And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise +And to possess a brighter heaven than yours? +As one who, long detained on foreign shores, +Pants to return, and when he sees afar +His country's weather-bleached and battered rocks, +From the green wave emerging, darts an eye +Radiant with joy towards the happy land; +So I with animated hopes behold, +And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, +That show like beacons in the blue abyss, +Ordained to guide the embodied spirit home +From toilsome life to never-ending rest. +Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires +That give assurance of their own success, +And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend." + +So reads he Nature whom the lamp of truth +Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word! +Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost +With intellect bemazed in endless doubt, +But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, +With means that were not till by Thee employed, +Worlds that had never been, hadst Thou in strength +Been less, or less benevolent than strong. +They are Thy witnesses, who speak Thy power +And goodness infinite, but speak in ears +That hear not, or receive not their report. +In vain Thy creatures testify of Thee +Till Thou proclaim Thyself. Theirs is indeed +A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of Thine +That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, +And with the boon gives talents for its use. +Till Thou art heard, imaginations vain +Possess the heart, and fables, false as hell, +Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death +The uninformed and heedless souls of men. +We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, +The glory of Thy work, which yet appears +Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, +Challenging human scrutiny, and proved +Then skilful most when most severely judged. +But chance is not; or is not where Thou reign'st: +Thy providence forbids that fickle power +(If power she be that works but to confound) +To mix her wild vagaries with Thy laws. +Yet thus we dote, refusing, while we can, +Instruction, and inventing to ourselves +Gods such as guilt makes welcome--gods that sleep, +Or disregard our follies, or that sit +Amused spectators of this bustling stage. +Thee we reject, unable to abide +Thy purity, till pure as Thou art pure, +Made such by Thee, we love Thee for that cause +For which we shunned and hated Thee before. +Then we are free: then liberty, like day, +Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heaven +Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. +A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not +Till Thou hast touched them; 'tis the voice of song, +A loud Hosanna sent from all Thy works, +Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, +And adds his rapture to the general praise. +In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide +Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile +The Author of her beauties, who, retired +Behind His own creation, works unseen +By the impure, and hears His power denied. +Thou art the source and centre of all minds, +Their only point of rest, eternal Word! +From Thee departing, they are lost and rove +At random, without honour, hope, or peace. +From Thee is all that soothes the life of man, +His high endeavour, and his glad success, +His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. +But, oh, Thou Bounteous Giver of all good, +Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown! +Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor, +And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. + + + +BOOK VI. + + + +THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. + +There is in souls a sympathy with sounds, +And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased +With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; +Some chord in unison with what we hear +Is touched within us, and the heart replies. +How soft the music of those village bells +Falling at intervals upon the ear +In cadence sweet, now dying all away, +Now pealing loud again, and louder still, +Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on. +With easy force it opens all the cells +Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard +A kindred melody, the scene recurs, +And with it all its pleasures and its pains. +Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, +That in a few short moments I retrace +(As in a map the voyager his course) +The windings of my way through many years. +Short as in retrospect the journey seems, +It seemed not always short; the rugged path, +And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, +Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. +Yet feeling present evils, while the past +Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, +How readily we wish time spent revoked, +That we might try the ground again, where once +(Through inexperience as we now perceive) +We missed that happiness we might have found. +Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend +A father, whose authority, in show +When most severe, and mustering all its force, +Was but the graver countenance of love; +Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower, +And utter now and then an awful voice, +But had a blessing in its darkest frown, +Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. +We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand +That reared us. At a thoughtless age allured +By every gilded folly, we renounced +His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent +That converse which we now in vain regret. +How gladly would the man recall to life +The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, +That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, +Might he demand them at the gates of death. +Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed +The playful humour; he could now endure +(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) +And feel a parent's presence no restraint. +But not to understand a treasure's worth +Till time has stolen away the slighted good, +Is cause of half the poverty we feel, +And makes the world the wilderness it is. +The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss, +And, seeking grace to improve the prize they hold, +Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. + +The night was winter in his roughest mood, +The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon +Upon the southern side of the slant hills, +And where the woods fence off the northern blast, +The season smiles, resigning all its rage, +And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue +Without a cloud, and white without a speck +The dazzling splendour of the scene below. +Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, +And through the trees I view the embattled tower +Whence all the music. I again perceive +The soothing influence of the wafted strains, +And settle in soft musings, as I tread +The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, +Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. +The roof, though movable through all its length, +As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, +And, intercepting in their silent fall +The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. +No noise is here, or none that hinders thought: +The redbreast warbles still, but is content +With slender notes and more than half suppressed. +Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light +From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes +From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, +That tinkle in the withered leaves below. +Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, +Charms more than silence. Meditation here +May think down hours to moments. Here the heart +May give an useful lesson to the head, +And learning wiser grow without his books. +Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, +Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells +In heads replete with thoughts of other men; +Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. +Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, +The mere materials with which wisdom builds, +Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, +Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. +Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much, +Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. +Books are not seldom talismans and spells +By which the magic art of shrewder wits +Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. +Some to the fascination of a name +Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style +Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds +Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. +While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear +The insupportable fatigue of thought, +And swallowing therefore without pause or choice +The total grist unsifted, husks and all. +But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course +Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, +And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, +And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time +Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, +Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, +Not shy as in the world, and to be won +By slow solicitation, seize at once +The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. + +What prodigies can power divine perform +More grand than it produces year by year, +And all in sight of inattentive man? +Familiar with the effect we slight the cause, +And in the constancy of Nature's course, +The regular return of genial months, +And renovation of a faded world, +See nought to wonder at. Should God again, +As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race +Of the undeviating and punctual sun, +How would the world admire! but speaks it less +An agency divine, to make him know +His moment when to sink and when to rise +Age after age, than to arrest his course? +All we behold is miracle: but, seen +So duly, all is miracle in vain. +Where now the vital energy that moved, +While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph +Through the imperceptible meandering veins +Of leaf and flower? It sleeps: and the icy touch +Of unprolific winter has impressed +A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. +But let the months go round, a few short months, +And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, +Barren as lances, among which the wind +Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, +Shall put their graceful foliage on again, +And more aspiring and with ampler spread +Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. +Then, each in its peculiar honours clad, +Shall publish even to the distant eye +Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich +In streaming gold; syringa ivory pure; +The scented and the scentless rose; this red +And of a humbler growth, the other tall, +And throwing up into the darkest gloom +Of neighbouring cypress, or more sable yew, +Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf +That the wind severs from the broken wave; +The lilac various in array, now white, +Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set +With purple spikes pyramidal, as if +Studious of ornament, yet unresolved +Which hue she most approved, she chose them all; +Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, +But well compensating their sickly looks +With never-cloying odours, early and late; +Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm +Of flowers like flies, clothing her slender rods, +That scarce a leaf appears; mezereon too, +Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset +With blushing wreaths investing every spray; +Althaea with the purple eye; the broom, +Yellow and bright as bullion unalloyed +Her blossoms; and luxuriant above all +The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, +The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf +Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more +The bright profusion of her scattered stars.-- +These have been, and these shall be in their day, +And all this uniform uncoloured scene +Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, +And flush into variety again. +From dearth to plenty, and from death to life, +Is Nature's progress when she lectures man +In heavenly truth; evincing, as she makes +The grand transition, that there lives and works +A soul in all things, and that soul is God. +The beauties of the wilderness are His, +That make so gay the solitary place +Where no eye sees them. And the fairer forms +That cultivation glories in, are His. +He sets the bright procession on its way, +And marshals all the order of the year. +He marks the bounds which Winter may not pass, +And blunts his pointed fury. In its case, +Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ +Uninjured, with inimitable art, +And, ere one flowery season fades and dies, +Designs the blooming wonders of the next. + +Some say that in the origin of things, +When all creation started into birth, +The infant elements received a law +From which they swerve not since; that under force +Of that controlling ordinance they move, +And need not His immediate hand, who first +Prescribed their course, to regulate it now. +Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God +The encumbrance of His own concerns, and spare +The great Artificer of all that moves +The stress of a continual act, the pain +Of unremitted vigilance and care, +As too laborious and severe a task. +So man the moth is not afraid, it seems, +To span Omnipotence, and measure might +That knows no measure, by the scanty rule +And standard of his own, that is to-day, +And is not ere to-morrow's sun go down. +But how should matter occupy a charge +Dull as it is, and satisfy a law +So vast in its demands, unless impelled +To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force, +And under pressure of some conscious cause? +The Lord of all, Himself through all diffused +Sustains and is the life of all that lives. +Nature is but a name for an effect +Whose cause is God. He feeds the secret fire +By which the mighty process is maintained, +Who sleeps not, is not weary; in whose sight +Slow-circling ages are as transient days; +Whose work is without labour, whose designs +No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts, +And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. +Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, +With self-taught rites and under various names +Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, +And Flora and Vertumnus; peopling earth +With tutelary goddesses and gods +That were not, and commending as they would +To each some province, garden, field, or grove. +But all are under One. One spirit--His +Who bore the platted thorns with bleeding brows-- +Rules universal nature. Not a flower +But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, +Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires +Their balmy odours and imparts their hues, +And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, +In grains as countless as the sea-side sands, +The forms with which He sprinkles all the earth. +Happy who walks with Him! whom, what he finds +Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower, +Or what he views of beautiful or grand +In nature, from the broad majestic oak +To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, +Prompts with remembrance of a present God. +His presence, who made all so fair, perceived, +Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene +Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please. +Though winter had been none had man been true, +And earth be punished for its tenant's sake, +Yet not in vengeance; as this smiling sky, +So soon succeeding such an angry night, +And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream, +Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. + +Who then, that has a mind well strung and tuned +To contemplation, and within his reach +A scene so friendly to his favourite task, +Would waste attention at the chequered board, +His host of wooden warriors to and fro +Marching and counter-marching, with an eye +As fixt as marble, with a forehead ridged +And furrowed into storms, and with a hand +Trembling, as if eternity were hung +In balance on his conduct of a pin? +Nor envies he aught more their idle sport, +Who pant with application misapplied +To trivial toys, and, pushing ivory balls +Across the velvet level, feel a joy +Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds +Its destined goal of difficult access. +Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his noon +To Miss, the Mercer's plague, from shop to shop +Wandering, and littering with unfolded silks +The polished counter, and approving none, +Or promising with smiles to call again. +Nor him, who, by his vanity seduced, +And soothed into a dream that he discerns +The difference of a Guido from a daub, +Frequents the crowded auction. Stationed there +As duly as the Langford of the show, +With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, +And tongue accomplished in the fulsome cant +And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease, +Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls +He notes it in his book, then raps his box, +Swears 'tis a bargain, rails at his hard fate +That he has let it pass--but never bids. + +Here unmolested, through whatever sign +The sun proceeds, I wander; neither mist, +Nor freezing sky, nor sultry, checking me, +Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy. +Even in the spring and play-time of the year +That calls the unwonted villager abroad +With all her little ones, a sportive train, +To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, +And prank their hair with daisies, or to pick +A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook, +These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, +Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, +Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove unalarmed +Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends +His long love-ditty for my near approach. +Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm +That age or injury has hollowed deep, +Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves +He has outslept the winter, ventures forth +To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, +The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play. +He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, +Ascends the neighbouring beech; there whisks his brush, +And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud, +With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, +And anger insignificantly fierce. + +The heart is hard in nature, and unfit +For human fellowship, as being void +Of sympathy, and therefore dead alike +To love and friendship both, that is not pleased +With sight of animals enjoying life, +Nor feels their happiness augment his own. +The bounding fawn that darts across the glade +When none pursues, through mere delight of heart, +And spirits buoyant with excess of glee; +The horse, as wanton and almost as fleet, +That skims the spacious meadow at full speed, +Then stops and snorts, and throwing high his heels +Starts to the voluntary race again; +The very kine that gambol at high noon, +The total herd receiving first from one, +That leads the dance, a summons to be gay, +Though wild their strange vagaries, and uncouth +Their efforts, yet resolved with one consent +To give such act and utterance as they may +To ecstasy too big to be suppressed-- +These, and a thousand images of bliss, +With which kind nature graces every scene +Where cruel man defeats not her design, +Impart to the benevolent, who wish +All that are capable of pleasure pleased, +A far superior happiness to theirs, +The comfort of a reasonable joy. + +Man scarce had risen, obedient to His call +Who formed him from the dust, his future grave, +When he was crowned as never king was since. +God set His diadem upon his head, +And angel choirs attended. Wondering stood +The new-made monarch, while before him passed, +All happy and all perfect in their kind, +The creatures, summoned from their various haunts +To see their sovereign, and confess his sway. +Vast was his empire, absolute his power, +Or bounded only by a law whose force +'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel +And own, the law of universal love. +He ruled with meekness, they obeyed with joy. +No cruel purpose lurked within his heart, +And no distrust of his intent in theirs. +So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, +Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole +Begat a tranquil confidence in all, +And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. +But sin marred all; and the revolt of man, +That source of evils not exhausted yet, +Was punished with revolt of his from him. +Garden of God, how terrible the change +Thy groves and lawns then witnessed! every heart, +Each animal of every name, conceived +A jealousy and an instinctive fear, +And, conscious of some danger, either fled +Precipitate the loathed abode of man, +Or growled defiance in such angry sort, +As taught him too to tremble in his turn. +Thus harmony and family accord +Were driven from Paradise; and in that hour +The seeds of cruelty, that since have swelled +To such gigantic and enormous growth, +Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil. +Hence date the persecution and the pain +That man inflicts on all inferior kinds, +Regardless of their plaints. To make him sport, +To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, +Or his base gluttony, are causes good +And just in his account, why bird and beast +Should suffer torture, and the streams be dyed +With blood of their inhabitants impaled. +Earth groans beneath the burden of a war +Waged with defenceless innocence, while he, +Not satisfied to prey on all around, +Adds tenfold bitterness to death by pangs +Needless, and first torments ere he devours. +Now happiest they that occupy the scenes +The most remote from his abhorred resort, +Whom once as delegate of God on earth +They feared, and as His perfect image loved. +The wilderness is theirs with all its caves, +Its hollow glens, its thickets, and its plains +Unvisited by man. There they are free, +And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrolled, +Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. +Woe to the tyrant, if he dare intrude +Within the confines of their wild domain; +The lion tells him, "I am monarch here;" +And if he spares him, spares him on the terms +Of royal mercy, and through generous scorn +To rend a victim trembling at his foot. +In measure, as by force of instinct drawn, +Or by necessity constrained, they live +Dependent upon man, those in his fields, +These at his crib, and some beneath his roof; +They prove too often at how dear a rate +He sells protection. Witness, at his foot +The spaniel dying for some venial fault, +Under dissection of the knotted scourge; +Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yells +Driven to the slaughter, goaded as he runs +To madness, while the savage at his heels +Laughs at the frantic sufferer's fury spent +Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. +He too is witness, noblest of the train +That wait on man, the flight-performing horse: +With unsuspecting readiness he takes +His murderer on his back, and, pushed all day, +With bleeding sides, and flanks that heave for life, +To the far-distant goal, arrives and dies. +So little mercy shows who needs so much! +Does law, so jealous in the cause of man, +Denounce no doom on the delinquent? None. +He lives, and o'er his brimming beaker boasts +(As if barbarity were high desert) +The inglorious feat, and, clamorous in praise +Of the poor brute, seems wisely to suppose +The honours of his matchless horse his own. +But many a crime, deemed innocent on earth, +Is registered in heaven, and these, no doubt, +Have each their record, with a curse annexed. +Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, +But God will never. When He charged the Jew +To assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise, +And when the bush-exploring boy that seized +The young, to let the parent bird go free, +Proved He not plainly that His meaner works +Are yet His care, and have an interest all, +All, in the universal Father's love? +On Noah, and in him on all mankind, +The charter was conferred by which we hold +The flesh of animals in fee, and claim, +O'er all we feed on, power of life and death. +But read the instrument, and mark it well; +The oppression of a tyrannous control +Can find no warrant there. Feed then, and yield +Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, +Feed on the slain, but spare the living brute. + +The Governor of all, Himself to all +So bountiful, in whose attentive ear +The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp +Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs +Of hunger unassuaged, has interposed, +Not seldom, His avenging arm, to smite +The injurious trampler upon nature's law, +That claims forbearance even for a brute. +He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart, +And, prophet as he was, he might not strike +The blameless animal, without rebuke, +On which he rode. Her opportune offence +Saved him, or the unrelenting seer had died. +He sees that human equity is slack +To interfere, though in so just a cause, +And makes the task His own; inspiring dumb +And helpless victims with a sense so keen +Of injury, with such knowledge of their strength, +And such sagacity to take revenge, +That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man. +An ancient, not a legendary tale, +By one of sound intelligence rehearsed, +(If such, who plead for Providence may seem +In modern eyes) shall make the doctrine clear. + +Where England, stretched towards the setting sun, +Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, +Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he +Of God and goodness, atheist in ostent, +Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. +He journeyed, and his chance was, as he went, +To join a traveller of far different note-- +Evander, famed for piety, for years +Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. +Fame had not left the venerable man +A stranger to the manners of the youth, +Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. +Their way was on the margin of the land, +O'er the green summit of the rocks whose base +Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. +The charity that warmed his heart was moved +At sight of the man-monster. With a smile +Gentle and affable, and full of grace, +As fearful of offending whom he wished +Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths +Not harshly thundered forth or rudely pressed, +But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. +"And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man +Exclaimed, "that me the lullabies of age, +And fantasies of dotards such as thou, +Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? +Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave +Need no such aids as superstition lends +To steel their hearts against the dread of death." +He spoke, and to the precipice at hand +Pushed with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, +And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought +Of such a gulf as he designed his grave. +But though the felon on his back could dare +The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed +Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round, +Or ere his hoof had pressed the crumbling verge, +Baffled his rider, saved against his will. +The frenzy of the brain may be redressed +By medicine well applied, but without grace +The heart's insanity admits no cure. +Enraged the more by what might have reformed +His horrible intent, again he sought +Destruction, with a zeal to be destroyed, +With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood. +But still in vain. The Providence that meant +A longer date to the far nobler beast, +Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. +And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere, +Incurable obduracy evinced, +His rage grew cool; and, pleased perhaps to have earned +So cheaply the renown of that attempt, +With looks of some complacence he resumed +His road, deriding much the blank amaze +Of good Evander, still where he was left +Fixed motionless, and petrified with dread. +So on they fared; discourse on other themes +Ensuing, seemed to obliterate the past, +And tamer far for so much fury shown +(As is the course of rash and fiery men) +The rude companion smiled as if transformed. +But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, +An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. +The impious challenger of power divine +Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, +Is never with impunity defied. +His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, +Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, +Unbidden, and not now to be controlled, +Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood. +At once the shock unseated him; he flew +Sheer o'er the craggy barrier, and, immersed +Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, +The death he had deserved, and died alone. +So God wrought double justice; made the fool +The victim of his own tremendous choice, +And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. + +I would not enter on my list of friends +(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, +Yet wanting sensibility) the man +Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. +An inadvertent step may crush the snail +That crawls at evening in the public path; +But he that has humanity, forewarned, +Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. +The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, +And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes +A visitor unwelcome into scenes +Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, +The chamber, or refectory, may die. +A necessary act incurs no blame. +Not so when, held within their proper bounds +And guiltless of offence, they range the air, +Or take their pastime in the spacious field. +There they are privileged; and he that hunts +Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, +Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, +Who, when she formed, designed them an abode. +The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, +Or safety interfere, his rights and claims +Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. +Else they are all--the meanest things that are-- +As free to live and to enjoy that life, +As God was free to form them at the first, +Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. +Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons +To love it too. The spring-time of our years +Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most +By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand +To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, +If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, +Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. +Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule +And righteous limitation of its act, +By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man; +And he that shows none, being ripe in years, +And conscious of the outrage he commits, +Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. + +Distinguished much by reason, and still more +By our capacity of grace divine, +From creatures that exist but for our sake, +Which having served us, perish, we are held +Accountable, and God, some future day, +Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse +Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. +Superior as we are, they yet depend +Not more on human help, than we on theirs. +Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given +In aid of our defects. In some are found +Such teachable and apprehensive parts, +That man's attainments in his own concerns, +Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, +Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind. +Some show that nice sagacity of smell, +And read with such discernment, in the port +And figure of the man, his secret aim, +That oft we owe our safety to a skill +We could not teach, and must despair to learn. +But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop +To quadruped instructors, many a good +And useful quality, and virtue too, +Rarely exemplified among ourselves; +Attachment never to be weaned, or changed +By any change of fortune, proof alike +Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; +Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat +Can move or warp; and gratitude for small +And trivial favours, lasting as the life, +And glistening even in the dying eye. + +Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms +Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit +Patiently present at a sacred song, +Commemoration-mad; content to hear +(Oh wonderful effect of music's power!) +Messiah's eulogy, for Handel's sake. +But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve-- +(For was it less? What heathen would have dared +To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath +And hang it up in honour of a man?) +Much less might serve, when all that we design +Is but to gratify an itching ear, +And give the day to a musician's praise. +Remember Handel! who, that was not born +Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, +Or can, the more than Homer of his age? +Yes--we remember him; and, while we praise +A talent so divine, remember too +That His most holy Book from whom it came +Was never meant, was never used before +To buckram out the memory of a man. +But hush!--the muse perhaps is too severe, +And with a gravity beyond the size +And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed +Less impious than absurd, and owing more +To want of judgment than to wrong design. +So in the chapel of old Ely House, +When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third, +Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, +The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, +And eke did rear right merrily, two staves, +Sung to the praise and glory of King George. +--Man praises man; and Garrick's memory next, +When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made +The idol of our worship while he lived +The god of our idolatry once more, +Shall have its altar; and the world shall go +In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. +The theatre, too small, shall suffocate +Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits +Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return +Ungratified. For there some noble lord +Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard's bunch, +Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak, +And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare, +To show the world how Garrick did not act, +For Garrick was a worshipper himself; +He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites +And solemn ceremonial of the day, +And called the world to worship on the banks +Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof +That piety has still in human hearts +Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct. +The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths, +The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance, +The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs, +And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree +Supplied such relics as devotion holds +Still sacred, and preserves with pious care. +So 'twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned, +And mirth without offence. No few returned +Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed. +--Man praises man. The rabble all alive, +From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes, +Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day, +A pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes; +Some shout him, and some hang upon his car +To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave +Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy +While others not so satisfied unhorse +The gilded equipage, and, turning loose +His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve. +Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state? +No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. +Enchanting novelty, that moon at full +That finds out every crevice of the head +That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs +Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near, +And his own cattle must suffice him soon. +Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise, +And dedicate a tribute, in its use +And just direction sacred, to a thing +Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there. +Encomium in old time was poet's work; +But, poets having lavishly long since +Exhausted all materials of the art, +The task now falls into the public hand; +And I, contented with a humble theme, +Have poured my stream of panegyric down +The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds +Among her lovely works, with a secure +And unambitious course, reflecting clear +If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes. +And I am recompensed, and deem the toil +Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine +May stand between an animal and woe, +And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. + +The groans of Nature in this nether world, +Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. +Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, +Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, +The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes. +Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh +Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course +Over a sinful world; and what remains +Of this tempestuous state of human things, +Is merely as the working of a sea +Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. +For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds +The dust that waits upon His sultry march, +When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot, +Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend +Propitious, in His chariot paved with love, +And what His storms have blasted and defaced +For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. + +Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet +Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch; +Nor can the wonders it records be sung +To meaner music, and not suffer loss. +But when a poet, or when one like me, +Happy to rove among poetic flowers, +Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last +On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair, +Such is the impulse and the spur he feels +To give it praise proportioned to its worth, +That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems +The labour, were a task more arduous still. + +Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, +Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see, +Though but in distant prospect, and not feel +His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy? +Rivers of gladness water all the earth, +And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach +Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field +Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean, +Or fertile only in its own disgrace, +Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. +The various seasons woven into one, +And that one season an eternal spring, +The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, +For there is none to covet, all are full. +The lion and the libbard and the bear +Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon +Together, or all gambol in the shade +Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. +Antipathies are none. No foe to man +Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees, +And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand +Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm, +To stroke his azure neck, or to receive +The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. +All creatures worship man, and all mankind +One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; +That creeping pestilence is driven away, +The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart +No passion touches a discordant string, +But all is harmony and love. Disease +Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood +Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. +One song employs all nations; and all cry, +"Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!" +The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks +Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops +From distant mountains catch the flying joy, +Till nation after nation taught the strain, +Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. +Behold the measure of the promise filled, +See Salem built, the labour of a God! +Bright as a sun the sacred city shines; +All kingdoms and all princes of the earth +Flock to that light; the glory of all lands +Flows into her, unbounded is her joy +And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, +Nebaioth,* and the flocks of Kedar there; +The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, +And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. +Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls, +And in her streets, and in her spacious courts +Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there +Kneels with the native of the farthest West, +And AEthiopia spreads abroad the hand, +And worships. Her report has travelled forth +Into all lands. From every clime they come +To see thy beauty and to share thy joy, +O Sion! an assembly such as earth +Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see. + +* Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of +the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to may be +reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at +large.--C. + +Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once +Perfect, and all must be at length restored. +So God has greatly purposed; who would else +In His dishonoured works Himself endure +Dishonour, and be wronged without redress. +Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, +Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see +(A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) +A world that does not dread and hate His laws, +And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair +The creature is that God pronounces good, +How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. +Here every drop of honey hides a sting; +Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, +And even the joy, that haply some poor heart +Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, +Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint +From touch of human lips, at best impure. +Oh for a world in principle as chaste +As this is gross and selfish! over which +Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway, +That govern all things here, shouldering aside +The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her +To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife +In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men, +Where violence shall never lift the sword, +Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong, +Leaving the poor no remedy but tears; +Where he that fills an office, shall esteem +The occasion it presents of doing good +More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak +Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts, +And equity, not jealous more to guard +A worthless form, than to decide aright; +Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, +Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) +With lean performance ape the work of love. + +Come then, and added to Thy many crowns +Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth, +Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine +By ancient covenant, ere nature's birth, +And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since, +And overpaid its value with Thy blood. +Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts +Thy title is engraven with a pen +Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. +Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay +Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see +The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired, +Would creep into the bowels of the hills, +And flee for safety to the falling rocks. +The very spirit of the world is tired +Of its own taunting question, asked so long, +"Where is the promise of your Lord's approach?" +The infidel has shot his bolts away, +Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none, +He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled, +And aims them at the shield of truth again. +The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands, +That hides divinity from mortal eyes; +And all the mysteries to faith proposed, +Insulted and traduced, are cast aside, +As useless, to the moles and to the bats. +They now are deemed the faithful and are praised, +Who, constant only in rejecting Thee, +Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, +And quit their office for their error's sake. +Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these +Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel, +Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man! +So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare, +The world takes little thought; who will may preach, +And what they will. All pastors are alike +To wandering sheep resolved to follow none. +Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain; +For these they live, they sacrifice to these, +And in their service wage perpetual war +With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts, +And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth +To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce, +High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace. +Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down +The features of the last degenerate times, +Exhibit every lineament of these. +Come then, and added to Thy many crowns +Receive yet one as radiant as the rest, +Due to Thy last and most effectual work, +Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world. + +He is the happy man, whose life even now +Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; +Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, +Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, +Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit +Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, +Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one +Content indeed to sojourn while he must +Below the skies, but having there his home. +The world o'erlooks him in her busy search +Of objects more illustrious in her view; +And occupied as earnestly as she, +Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. +She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; +He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. +He cannot skim the ground like summer birds +Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems +Her honours, her emoluments, her joys; +Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, +Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth +She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, +And shows him glories yet to be revealed. +Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, +And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams +Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird +That flutters least is longest on the wing. +Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, +Or what achievements of immortal fame +He purposes, and he shall answer--None. +His warfare is within. There unfatigued +His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, +And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, +And never-withering wreaths, compared with which +The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. +Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, +That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks, +Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see, +Deems him a cipher in the works of God, +Receives advantage from his noiseless hours +Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes +Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring +And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes +When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint +Walks forth to meditate at eventide, +And think on her who thinks not for herself. +Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns +Of little worth, and idler in the best, +If, author of no mischief and some good, +He seeks his proper happiness by means +That may advance, but cannot hinder thine. +Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, +Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, +Account him an encumbrance on the state, +Receiving benefits, and rendering none. +His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere +Shine with his fair example, and though small +His influence, if that influence all be spent +In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, +In aiding helpless indigence, in works +From which at least a grateful few derive +Some taste of comfort in a world of woe, +Then let the supercilious great confess +He serves his country; recompenses well +The state beneath the shadow of whose vine +He sits secure, and in the scale of life +Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. +The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, +Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise; +But he may boast, what few that win it can, +That if his country stand not by his skill, +At least his follies have not wrought her fall. +Polite refinement offers him in vain +Her golden tube, through which a sensual world +Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, +The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. +Not that he peevishly rejects a mode +Because that world adopts it. If it bear +The stamp and clear impression of good sense, +And be not costly more than of true worth, +He puts it on, and for decorum sake +Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. +She judges of refinement by the eye, +He by the test of conscience, and a heart +Not soon deceived; aware that what is base +No polish can make sterling, and that vice, +Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed, +Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, +Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far +For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. +So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, +More golden than that age of fabled gold +Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care, +Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved +Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. + +So glide my life away! and so at last, +My share of duties decently fulfilled, +May some disease, not tardy to perform +Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, +Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat +Beneath the turf that I have often trod. +It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called +To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse, +I played awhile, obedient to the fair, +With that light task, but soon to please her more, +Whom flowers alone I knew would little please, +Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit; +Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, 'tis true, +Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof, +But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some +To palates that can taste immortal truth; +Insipid else, and sure to be despised. +But all is in His hand whose praise I seek, +In vain the poet sings, and the world hears, +If He regard not, though divine the theme. +'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime +And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre, +To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart; +Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, +Whose approbation--prosper even mine. + + + +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 Mistress Gilpin, "That's well said; + And, for that wine is dear, +We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + +John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O'erjoyed 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 allowed +To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + +So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; +Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + +Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, + Were never folk so glad; +The stones did rattle underneath + As if Cheapside were mad. + +John Gilpin at his horse's side + Seized fast the flowing mane, +And up he got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + +For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, +When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + +So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, +Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + +'Twas long before the customers + Were suited to their mind. +When Betty, screaming, came down stairs, + "The wine is left behind!" + +"Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, +In which I bear my trusty sword, + When I do exercise." + +Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, +To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + +Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, +And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + +Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, +His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + +Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, +Full slowly pacing o'er the stones + With caution and good heed! + +But, finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, +The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + +So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; +That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + +So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, +He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + +His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, +What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + +Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; + Away went hat and wig; +He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + +The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, +Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + +Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; +A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + +The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; +And every soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + +Away went Gilpin--who but he? + His fame soon spread around-- +He carries weight! he rides a race! + 'Tis for a thousand pound! + +And still, as fast as he drew near, + 'Twas wonderful to view +How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. + +And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, +The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + +Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, +Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + +But still he seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; +For all might see the bottle-necks + Still dangling at his waist. + +Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols he did play, +And till he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay. + +And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, +Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + +At Edmonton, his loving wife + From the bal-cony spied +Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + +"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--here's the house!" + They all at once did cry; +"The dinner waits, and we are tired." + Said Gilpin, "So am I!" + +But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; +For why?--his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware. + +So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; +So did he fly--which brings me to + The middle of my song. + +Away went Gilpin, out of breath, + And sore against his will, +Till at his friend the Calender's + His horse at last stood still. + +The Calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, +Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him:-- + +"What news? what news? your tidings tell: + Tell me you must and shall-- +Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all." + +Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; +And thus unto the Calender + In merry guise he spoke: + +"I came because your horse would come; + And if I well forebode, +My hat and wig will soon be here; + They are upon the road." + +The Calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, +Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + +Whence straight he came with hat and wig, + A wig that flowed behind, +A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + +He held them up, and, in his turn, + Thus showed his ready wit,-- +"My head is twice as big as yours; + They therefore needs must fit. + +"But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; +And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + +Says John, "It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, +If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware." + +So turning to his horse, he said, + "I am in haste to dine; +'Twas for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." + +Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; +For while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + +Whereat his horse did snort as he + Had heard a lion roar, +And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + +Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig; +He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big. + +Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down +Into the country far away, + She pulled out half-a-crown. + +And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to "The Bell," +"This shall be yours when you bring back + My husband safe and well." + +The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain, +Whom in a trice he tried to stop + By catching at his rein; + +But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, +The frighted steed he frighted more, + And made him faster run. + +Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, +The postboy's horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + +Six gentlemen upon the road + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, +With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry: + +"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" + Not one of them was mute; +And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + +And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space, +The tollmen thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + +And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; +Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + +Now let us sing, "Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; +And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see!" + + + +AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. + +DEAR JOSEPH,--five and twenty years ago-- +Alas, how time escapes!--'tis even so-- +With frequent intercourse, and always sweet +And always friendly, we were wont to cheat +A tedious hour--and now we never meet. +As some grave gentleman in Terence says +('Twas therefore much the same in ancient days), +"Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-- +Strange fluctuation of all human things!" +True. Changes will befall, and friends may part, +But distance only cannot change the heart: +And were I called to prove the assertion true, +One proof should serve--a reference to you. + +Whence comes it, then, that in the wane of life, +Though nothing have occurred to kindle strife, +We find the friends we fancied we had won, +Though numerous once, reduced to few or none? +Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch? +No. Gold they seemed, but they were never such. +Horatio's servant once, with bow and cringe, +Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge, +Dreading a negative, and overawed +Lest he should trespass, begged to go abroad. +"Go, fellow!--whither?"--turning short about-- +"Nay. Stay at home; you're always going out."-- +"'Tis but a step, sir; just at the street's end." +"For what?"--"An please you, sir, to see a friend." +"A friend!" Horatio cried, and seemed to start; +"Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart-- +And fetch my cloak, for though the night be raw +I'll see him too--the first I ever saw." + +I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, +And was his plaything often when a child; +But somewhat at that moment pinched him close, +Else he was seldom bitter or morose. +Perhaps, his confidence just then betrayed, +His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; +Perhaps 'twas mere good-humour gave it birth, +The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. +Howe'er it was, his language in my mind +Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. + +But not to moralise too much, and strain +To prove an evil of which all complain +(I hate long arguments, verbosely spun), +One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. +Once on a time, an emperor, a wise man. +No matter where, in China or Japan, +Decreed that whosoever should offend +Against the well-known duties of a friend, +Convicted once, should ever after wear +But half a coat, and show his bosom bare; +The punishment importing this, no doubt, +That all was naught within and all found out. + +Oh happy Britain! we have not to fear +Such hard and arbitrary measure here; +Else could a law, like that which I relate, +Once have the sanction of our triple state, +Some few that I have known in days of old +Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold. +While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, +Might traverse England safely to and fro, +An honest man, close buttoned to the chin, +Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within. + + + +TO MARY. + +The twentieth year is well-nigh past +Since first our sky was overcast, +Ah, would that this might be the last! + My Mary! + +Thy spirits have a fainter flow, +I see thee daily weaker grow-- +'Twas my distress that brought thee low, + My Mary! + +Thy needles, once a shining store, +For my sake restless heretofore, +Now rust disused, and shine no more, + My Mary! + +For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil +The same kind office for me still, +Thy sight now seconds not thy will, + My Mary! + +But well thou playedst the housewife's part, +And all thy threads with magic art +Have wound themselves about this heart, + My Mary! + +Thy indistinct expressions seem +Like language uttered in a dream; +Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, + My Mary! + +Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, +Are still more lovely in my sight +Than golden beams of orient light, + My Mary! + +For could I view nor them nor thee, +What sight worth seeing could I see? +The sun would rise in vain for me, + My Mary! + +Partakers of thy sad decline, +Thy hands their little force resign; +Yet gently prest, press gently mine, + My Mary! + +Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, +That now at every step thou mov'st +Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, + My Mary! + +And still to love, though prest with ill, +In wintry age to feel no chill, +With me, is to be lovely still, + My Mary! + +But ah! by constant heed I know, +How oft the sadness that I show, +Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, + My Mary! + +And should my future lot be cast +With much resemblance of the past, +Thy worn-out heart will break at last, + My Mary! + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Task and Other Poems, by William Cowper + diff --git a/old/ttask10.zip b/old/ttask10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e0415bc --- /dev/null +++ b/old/ttask10.zip |
