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WILLIAM COWPEK, ESQ 
 
 POEMS 
 
 WITH 
 
 A NEW MEMOIR. 
 
 COMPILED FKOM JOHNSON, SOUTHEY An 
 OTHER SOURCES. 
 
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 tun* Naval Academy 
 April 16^193]. 
 
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CONTENTS. 
 
 Fag* 
 
 Memoir of Cowper .5 
 
 The Task 
 
 Book I.— The Sofa 33 
 
 Book II— Tlie Time Piece ... 61 
 
 Book III— The Garden 90 
 
 BookIV.— The Winter Evening ^i . . 119 
 Book V.— The Winter Morning "Walk . 
 
 Book VI.— The Winter Walk at Noon . 177 
 
 John Gilpin 213 
 
 On a Spaniel called Beau killing a 
 
 Young Bird 224 
 
 Beau's Reply 225 
 
 From a Letter to the Rev. M. Newton . 227 
 
 To Mary 229 
 
 The Cast-away ....... 232 
 
 The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time in . 
 
 Essex 235 
 
 Verses, Supposed to be written by Alexander 
 
 Selkirk 239 
 
 Report of an adjudged Case not to be found 
 
 in any of the Books . . , , 242 
 
 Catherina, . . . . . 244 
 
 JP^l 
 
 n 
 
Page 
 On the Loss of the Royal George 247 
 
 The Needless Alarm ... .249 
 
 A Poetical Epistle to Lady Austen . . . 255 
 Pairing Time Anticipated . . 259 
 
 The Rose .... ... 259 
 
 The Negro's Complaint . . . . . 263 
 
 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture . 266 
 
 Gratitude, addressed to Lady Hesketh . . 271 
 The Dog and the Water Lily . . . .274 
 
 Song 276 
 
 Epitaph on a Hare 278 
 
 Epitaphium Alternum 280 
 
 Od the Treatment of Harei .... 861 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OF 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 William Cowper was boru on the 15th of November, 
 (old style,) 1731, in the Rectory of Great Berkha.nstead, 
 Hertlordslure. His father, the Rector of the parish, was 
 John Cowper, D. D., son of Spencer Cowper, Chief Jus- 
 tice of the Common Pleas, and next brother to the first earl 
 Cowper, Lord Clmncellor. His mother, the daughter of 
 Roger Donne, Esq., of Norfolk, was of noble, and re- 
 motely of royal descent. It is not, however, for her gene- 
 alogy, but for being the mother of a great poet, that this 
 lady will be remembered. She died at the age of thirty- 
 four, leaving of several children, only two sons. '' I can 
 truly say," said Cowper, nearly fifty years after her death, 
 that not a week passes, (perhaps I might witi, equal ve- 
 racity say a day,) in which I do not think of her ; such 
 was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though 
 ^ the opportunity she had for showing it was so short." At 
 /J the time of her death, Cowper was but six years old ; but 
 
 4n W ^"""'^ ^' '" '''^'' '"' '""'^ ^'' ^°'' "<'*' poignantly, and has 
 \h J' recorded his feelings on the occasion of her loss, in the 
 
 most beautiful of his minor poems. 
 
 Soon after his mother's death, Cowper was sent to a 
 boarding-school, where he suffered much from tie cruelty 
 of one of the elder boys. « Such was his savage treatment 
 
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 >^^^Q 
 

 ''-^ 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 of me," says he, " that I well remember being afraid to lift 
 my eyes higher than his knees, and 1 knew him better by 
 his shoe-buckles than by any other part of his dress." His 
 infancy is said to have been "delicate in no common degree," 
 and his constitution appears early to have discovered a mor- 
 bid tendency to despondency. When Cowper was ten years 
 old, he was sent to Westminster School, where he re- 
 mained eight years. At Westminster he obtained an ex- 
 cellent classical education, and was much beloved by his 
 companions, among whom were Lloyd, Colman, Churchill, 
 and Warren Hastings ; but he complains much of his 
 want of religious instruction at this school. " At the ag6 
 of eighteen," he says, " being tolerably well furnished 
 with grammatical knowledge, but as ignorant of all kinds 
 of religion as the satchel at my back, I was taken from 
 Westminster." 
 
 He was now placed with an attorney, and had for his 
 fellow clerk Thurlow, the after Lord Chaiuellor. He, 
 however, made but little progress in the study of the law. 
 " I did actually live," he writes his cousin Lady Hesketh, 
 many years afterwards, " three years with a Solicitor ; 
 that is to say, I slept three years in his liouse ; but I lived, 
 that is to say, I spent my days, in Southampton Row, as 
 you well remember. There was I, and the future Lord 
 Cliancellor, constantly employed from morning to night, in 
 giggling and making giggle, instead of studying the law." 
 
 In 1752, at the age of tv.enty-one, Cowper took cham- 
 bers in the Temple ; and in a Memoir which he wrote 
 some years afterwards, he thus describes the commence- 
 ment of that malady which embittered so much of his 
 future life. " Not long after my settlement in the Temple, 
 I was struck with such a dejection of spirits, as none but 
 they who have felt the same, can have any conception of. 
 Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down in horror 
 and rising up in despair In this state of mind I 
 
 t^.i 
 
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I 
 
 continued near a twelve-month ; when having experienced 
 the iuefficacy of all human means, i, at length, betook my- 
 self to God in prayer." Shortly after this, as he was 
 walking in the country, " I felt," he continues, " the 
 weight of all my misery taken off, and my heart became 
 
 light and joyful in a moment. But Satan, and my 
 
 own wicked heart, soon persuaded me that I was indebted 
 for my deliverance, to nothing but a change of scene, and 
 on this hellish principle I burnt my prayers, and away 
 went all my thoughts of devotion." 
 
 For ten years arter being called to the bar, Cowper con- 
 tinued to reside in the Temple, amusing himself with 
 literature and society, and making little or no effort to 
 pursue his profession. He belonged to the " Nonsense 
 Club," consisting of seven Westminster men, among wliom 
 were Lloyd, Colman, and Bonnell Thornton ; assisted the 
 two latter in the "Connoisseur," and "though he wrote 
 and published," says Hayley, " both verse and prose, it 
 was as the concealed assistant of less ditfident authors." 
 
 Meantime, he had fixed his affections on Theodora Jane, 
 the daughter of his uncle, Ashley Cowper ; one of those 
 ladies with whom he used to "giggle and make giggle," 
 in Southampton R,ow. She is described as a lady of great 
 personal and mental attractions ; and their affection was 
 mutual. But her father objected to their union, both on 
 the score of means and consanguinitj*. AVTien it was found 
 that his decision was final, the lovers never met again. It 
 does not appear that this disappointment had any influence 
 in inducing the return of his malady. In respect to love, 
 as well as friendship and fame, few poets, and perhaps few 
 men, have possessed feelings more sane and healthy, than 
 Cowper. In after life, he said to Lady Hesketh, " I still 
 look back to the memory of your sister and regret her ; 
 but how strange it is ; if we were to meet now, we should 
 not know each oUier." It was different with Theodora. 
 
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 MEMCIR OF COWPEK. 
 
 She lired unmarried, to extreme old age, and carefully 
 preserved the poems which he had given her during their 
 intercourse, to the end of her life. 
 
 At the age of thirty-one, the little patrimony, which had 
 been left Cowper by his father, was well nigh spent. At 
 this time, his uncle, who had the place at his disposal, 
 offered him the clerkship of the Journals of the House of 
 Lords. Cowper gladly accepted the offer, as the business 
 being transacted in private, would be especially suited to 
 his disposition, which was shy and reserved to a remark- 
 able degree. But some political opposition arising, it was 
 found necessary that he should prepare himself for an ex- 
 amination at the bar of the House. And now began a 
 course of mental suffering, such as, perhaps, has never 
 been described, except in his own fearful " Memoir." " I 
 knew" says he, " to demonstration, that on these terms, 
 the clerkship of the Journals was no place for me, to whom 
 a public exhibition of myself on any occasion, was mortal 
 poison." As the time for his examination approached, his 
 distress of mind increased. He even hoped, and expected, 
 that his intellect would fail him, in time to excuse his ap- 
 pearance at the bar. " But the day of decision drew 
 near" he continues, "and I was still in my senses. At 
 last came the grand temptation ; — the point, to which Sa- 
 tan had all the time been driving me ; the dark and hellish 
 purpose of self-murder." In short, after several irresolute 
 attempts at suicide, by poison and drowning, Cowper 
 actually hanged himself to the door of his chamber ; and 
 only escaped death by the breaking of his garter, by which 
 he was suspended. All thoughts of the office were now, 
 of course, given up. His insanity remained, but its form 
 was somewhat modified. He was no longer disposed to 
 suicide, but " conviction of sin, and especially of that just 
 committed," and despair of God's mercy, were now never 
 absent from his thoughts. In every book tliat he opened he 
 
 \1 
 
 •^ 
 
 <^.. 
 
^^i 
 
 AIE3101R ^F COWPER. 9 
 
 found something which struck him to the heart. He ahnost 
 believed that the " voice of his conscience was loud enough 
 for any one to hear ;" and he thought that " the people in 
 the street stared and laughed" at him. When he attempted 
 to repeal the creed, which he did, in experiment of his faith, 
 he felt a sensation in his brain, " like a tremulous vibra- 
 tion of all its fibres," and thus lost the words ; and he 
 therefore concluded, in unspeakable agony, that he had 
 committed the unpardonable sin. At length, he became 
 a raving madman, and his friends now placed him at 
 St. Albans, under the care of Dr. Cotton, a skilful and 
 humane physician. Sometime previous to his removal to 
 St. Albans, Cowper wrote tlie following Stanzas, descrip- 
 tive of his state of mind : 
 
 Hatred and vengeance — my eternal portion 
 Scarce can endure delay of execution — 
 Wait with impatient readiness to seize my 
 
 Soul in a moment. 
 
 Damned below Judas ; more abhorred than he was 
 "WTio for a few pence sold his holy Master ! 
 Twice betrayed Jesus me, the last delinquent, 
 
 Deems the profainest. 
 
 Man disavows, and Deity disowns me. 
 Hell might aftbrd my miseries a shelter ; 
 Therefore, Htll keeps htr ever-hungry mouths all 
 Bolted against me. 
 
 Hard lot! encompassed with a thousand dangers, 
 Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors, 
 I'm called in anp-uish to receive a sentence 
 
 Worst than Abiram's. 
 
 " This," sa3-s Southey, " was the chai'acter of his mad- 
 ness — the most dreadl'ul in which madness can present 
 itself. He threw away the Bible, as a book in which he 
 no Lager had any iiUerest or portion. A vein of self 
 
 
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 MEMOIR OF Tow PER. 
 
 loathing and abhorrence ran through all his insanity, and 
 he passed some months in continual expectation that the 
 Divine vengeance would instantly plunge him into the bot- 
 tomless pit. But horrors iu madness are like those in 
 dreams ; the maniac and the dreamer seem to undergo 
 what could not possibly be undergone by one awake or in 
 his senses." With Dr. Cotton, Cowper remained five 
 months, without amendment; but after discovering va 
 rious symptoms of returning reason, during the next three 
 " my despair," he says, " suddenly took wings, and left 
 me in joy unspeakable, and full of glory." 
 
 When his recovery was considered complete, his 
 relatives subscribed an annual allowance, just sufficient, 
 with his own small means, to support him respectably in 
 retirement, and sent him to reside at Huntingdon. Here 
 he soon became greatly attached to the family of Mr. 
 Unwin, a clergyman, in whose house he finally took up 
 his abode. From this excellent family he never separated, 
 until death dissolved their connexion. Mrs. Unwin, the 
 " Mary" of one of his most popular minor poems, was his 
 friend in health, and his nurse in sickness, for more than 
 twenty years. 
 
 Of his way of life at Huntingdon, he thus writes : " As 
 to what the world calls amusements, we have none. We 
 refuse to take part in them, and by so doing have acquired 
 the name of Methodists. We breakfast between eight and 
 nine : till eleven we read the Scriptures or the sermons 
 of some faithful preacher, when we attend divine service, 
 which is performed here, twice every day." Walking, 
 gardening, reading, religious conversation, and singing 
 hymns, filled up the interval till evening, when they again 
 had a sermon or hymns, and closed the day with family 
 worship. " I need not say," he continues, " that such a 
 life as this is consistent with the utmost cheerfuhiess; ac- 
 cordingly we are all happy." At this time Cowper had 
 
 V~ 
 

 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 little communication vfith his relatives, and none with his 
 former companions. 
 
 In July 1767, Mr. Unwin died ; his children had pre- 
 viously settled in life ; and Cowper and Mrs. Unwin unit- 
 ing their means of living, now much reduced, went to 
 reside at Olney. Here they lived many years under the 
 pastoral care of the celebrated Mr. Newton, with whom 
 they were in the strictest habits of personal intimacy. 
 
 " Mr. jVewton," says Southey, '• was a man, whom it 
 •was impossible not to admire for his strength and sincerity 
 of heart, vigorous intellect, and sterling worth. A sin- 
 cerer friend Cowper could not have found : he might have 
 found a more discreet one." Cowper's religious duties 
 and exercises were now much more arduous than at Hunt- 
 ingdon. This " man of trembling sensibilities" attended 
 the sick, and administered consolation to the dying; and 
 so constantly was he employed in ofRces of this kind, that 
 he was considered as a sort of curate to Mr. IVewton. In 
 the prayer-meetings which Mr. Newton established, Cow- 
 per, to whom " public txhibition of himself was mortal 
 poison," was expected to take a part. '•' I have heard him 
 say," says Mr. Greatheed, in Cowper's funeral sermon, 
 « that when he was expected to take the lead in your so- 
 cial worship, his mind was always greatly agitaied for 
 some hours preceding." 
 
 Cowper's correspondence with his friends was now even 
 more restricted than heretofore. This was partly owing 
 to his engagements with Mr. Newton, from whom he was 
 seldom " seven waking hours apart;" but it was the ten- 
 dency of those engagements to restrict his sj-mpathies, and 
 render his friendships torpid. "A letter on any other subject 
 thia that of religion," he writes at this time, "is more 
 insipid to me, than even my task was when a school-boy." 
 He read little, and had little society except that of Mr. 
 Newton and Mrs. Unwin ; and the only really intellectual 
 
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 ii 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 occupation, in which he was engaged for nearly seven 
 rears, was the composition of some of the " Olney 
 Hymns." This, Hayley represents as a " perilous employ- 
 ment" for a mind like Cowper's ; " and if," says Southey, 
 ' Cowper expressed his own state of mind in these hymns, 
 (and that he did so, who can doubt) Hayley has drawn the 
 right conclusion from the fact." 
 
 His malady was now about to return. Its recur- 
 rence has been referred to various causes ; — the death of 
 his brother, and a supposed engagement of marriage with 
 Mrs. Unwin, have both been adduced, as the probable oc 
 casions ; the latter of which, Southey considers as utterly 
 unfounded. 
 
 Cowper's mind was, doubtless,-at all times, highly sus- 
 ceptible of derangement from several causes. The disease, 
 which was inherent to his constitution, only required some 
 untoward circumstance to develop it. And the chief dis- 
 turbing influence at this time, appears to have been reli- 
 gious excitement. His tender, willing, and easily-troubled 
 spirit, had so often thrilled with the exstasies of devotion ; 
 and had eo often been agitated and repulsed by those of its 
 duties, which were uncongenial, and to him, even revolt- 
 ing, that it at last became epileptic. He sometimes speaks 
 of his heart as if it •vvas paralized ; and the moaning burden 
 of his later hymns is that he "cannot feel." According to 
 Mr. JVewton's own account of himself, " his name was up 
 through the country, for preaching people mad ;" it would 
 therefore seem to follow, that he should have been the last 
 person in the world, to take spiritual charge of one, who 
 had once been a madman. But from whatever cause, in 
 January, 1773, Cowper's case had become one of decided 
 insanity. Medical advice was not sought until eight months 
 after this time ; as Mr. Newton, believing his disease to 
 he entirely the work of the Enemy, expected his cure onlv 
 by the special interposition of Providence. " From what 
 
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MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 I told Dr. Cotton," Mr. Newton writes in August, "he 
 seemed to think it a difficult case. It maybe so according 
 to medical rules ; but I still hope the Great Physi- 
 cian win cure him eitlier by giving a blessing to means, 
 or immediately by His own hand." But Cowper still 
 continued to grow worse, and in the following Octo- 
 ber, he attempted suicide. A remarkable characteristic of 
 his delirium, at this time, and one which shows how 
 strongly, even in insanity, Cowper was influenced by con- 
 science, was his perfect submission to what he believed to 
 be the will of God. " And he believed," says Mr. New- 
 ton, " that it was the wiU of God, he should, after the ex- 
 ample of Abraham, perform an expensive act of obedience, 
 and offer not a son, but himself." He again believed, as 
 heretofore, that, by a sort of special act, he had been ex- 
 cluded from salvation, and all the gifts of the spirit ; and 
 
 with " deplorable consistency, 
 
 Mr. Greatheed, 
 
 "abstained not only from public and domestic worship, 
 but also from private prayer." 
 
 In this state of hopeless misery he remained till the en- 
 suing May, when he began to manifes't symptoms of amend- 
 ment. " Yesterday," writes Mr. IVewton, May 14th, 
 " as he was feeding chickens, — for he is always busy if he 
 can get out of doors, — some little incident made him smile 
 I am pretty sure it was the first smile that has been seen 
 upon his face for more than sixteen months." Soon after 
 this he began to pay some attention to gardening : and in 
 gardening, and other light occupations, he continued to 
 employ himself nearly two years, gradually improving in 
 health and spirits, but incapable of being entertained either 
 by books or company. It was at this -.iterval that Cowper 
 amused himself with the far-famed hares, Tiney, Puss 
 and Bess, which he has immortalized, both in verse and 
 prose. 
 
 But in the autu>nn of 1777, though his fatal delusion re- 
 
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 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
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 specting his spiritual welfare continued, 1 is intellect and 
 social feelings awoke to activity. He now renewed hii 
 correspondence with some of his old friends, his love of 
 reading revived, and he occasionally produced a small 
 poem. Mrs. Unwin, observing the happy effect of com- 
 position on his health and spirits, now' excited him to more 
 decided literary exertion ; and, at her suggestion, he com- 
 menced his Moral Satires. So eagerly did he pursue his 
 new employment, that the first of these poems was written 
 in December, 1780, and the last in the following March. 
 
 These productions met with the approbation of his 
 friends, and by them, — for Cowper was almost indifferent 
 on the subject, — it was finally determined to publish 
 them. 
 
 Mr. IVewton had the year previous, much to Cowper's 
 regret, removed to London. But the loss of his society, 
 was for a time, more than made up by a new acquaintance. 
 This was Lady Austen, a highly intelligent and agreeable 
 woman, the widow of a baronet, who, while Cowper was 
 preparing his volume for the press, visited Olney; and the 
 acquaintance wliich was then formed, soon ripened into such 
 warm friendship, between Cowper and Mrs. Unwin, and 
 herself, that shr ultimately, in consequence, came to Olney 
 to reside. Their kindly intercourse, however, after con- 
 tinuing about two years, was unhappily broken off; and 
 love and jealousy have been mentioned as among the causes 
 of their estrangement. That there may have been jealousy 
 of attention and of influence between " two women con- 
 stantly in the society of one man," and that man, Cowper, 
 all, who know the female heart, will readily believe. But 
 it iocs not appear, as has been asserted, that there was any 
 expectation of marriage entertained by eimer of the parlies. 
 Cowper, and Mrs. Unwin, who was considerably older 
 than himself, liad now liAtd together some years on joint 
 income; and no pecuniary abjection existed to tlieir union. 
 
 \1 
 
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 ^^■^^ 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 But the only union, that either iksired, had long since been 
 formed. It was a union purely of the nobler sympathies— 
 of religious and social ft clings — of self-sacrificing devoted- 
 ness, a;id of consequent grateful affection ; — such as must, 
 almost of necessity, arise between a man and a woman, 
 possessed of the highest moral qualities, and rela- 
 tively situated, as they were to each other, but which the 
 vulgar and censorious (great and small) cannot or will not 
 understand. As to Lady Austen, Cowper's own account 
 of the matter is, that she had too much vivacity for their 
 staid course of life, that the attentions she exacted inter- 
 fered with his studies, and that she was too easily offended ; 
 hence a coldness ensued, and finally a separation. But 
 while the intimacy continued, Lady Austen undoubtedly 
 exercised a highly valuable influence on Cowper's literary 
 efforts. " Had it not been for Mrs. Unwin," says Southey, 
 "Cowper would probably never have appeared in his own 
 person as an author; had it not been for Lady Austen, he 
 would never have been a popular one." His first volume 
 of Poems, which was published in 1783, obtained but little 
 notice, except among his friends ; but to please his friends 
 was sufficient for Cowper, and he continued to write, not- 
 withstanding the disregard of the public. Lady Austen, 
 whose conversation, for a time, is said to have had "aa 
 happy an effect on his spirits as the harp of David upon 
 Saul," one afternoon, when he was unusually depressed, 
 told him the story of John Gilpin, which she had heard in 
 her childhocil. The story amused him greatly, and before 
 the next morning, he had turned it into a ballad. This 
 soon found its way into the newspapers, and sometime af- 
 terwards, it was recited, with wonderful effect, by Hen- 
 derson, the actor, who was then delivering public recita 
 tions at Freemason's Hall. The ballad now became sud- 
 denly popular, and Gilpin was to be seen in every print- 
 «hop, while th<i author wai? unknowp. Meantime the 
 
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 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
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 Task, suggejted also by Lady Austen, and far the best 
 and most popular of his longer poems, had been comf4\ted ; 
 it was published in 1785, and with it, was printed John 
 Gilpin. Cowper was therefore known to be its author ; and 
 those who had been amused with the ballad, now read the 
 Task, and inquired for his previous volume, and Cowper 
 became, at once, the most popular poet of the day. 
 
 In November, 1784, immediately after the completion 
 of the Task, Cowper began the translation of Homer. 
 He had now found by experience that regular employmeni 
 was essential to his well-being ; — employment too, of a 
 really intellectual nature, such as would call into activity, 
 without too much exciting, the best powers of his mind- 
 " A long and perplexing thought," he said, " buzzed about 
 m his brain, till it seemed to be breaking all the fibres of 
 it." "Plaything-avocations" wearied him; while such 
 as engaged him much, and attached him closely, were rather 
 serviceable than otherwise. 
 
 The unfaithfulness of Pope's translation of Homer had 
 long been universally acknowledged by scholars, and Cow- 
 per, who was well qualified for the task, after translating 
 one book, as he says, for want of employment, " became 
 convinced that he could render an acceptable service to the 
 literary world by translating the whole." The under 
 taking thus commenced, he availed himself of the Gentle- 
 man's Magazine to produce on the public, an impression 
 favorable to his design, and issued proposals to publish by 
 subscription. His Poems had been given away, and when 
 publislied, he had been careless of popular favor in respect 
 to them. But fame, coming, as it did, unexpectedly, was 
 not the less welcome to him ; and he was now, not only 
 anxious to sustain it, by the success of his present un- 
 dertaking, but also to secure a profitable result to him- 
 self. " Five hundred names," he writes, " at three guineas, 
 will put about a thousand pounds in my purse ; ai^d 1 
 
 
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 MEMOIR OF COWP£K. 
 
 am doing my best to obtain them." And again, to Lady 
 Htiketh, " I am not ashamed to confess that having com- 
 menced author, 1 am most abundantly desirous to succeed 
 as such. I have (what perhaps you little sxispcct me of) 
 Ui my nfjture, an infinite share of ambition. But with it, 
 I have at tlie same time, as you well know, an equal share 
 (if diffidence. To this combination of opposite qualities, 
 it has been owing, tliat till lately, I stole through life with- 
 out undertaking anything, yet always wishing to distin- 
 guish myself." 
 
 During this and the following year, Cowper advanced 
 steadily with his translation, receiving much attentioa and 
 encouragement from his friends. Through the kindness 
 of Lady HeskeUi, and his neighbor, Sir John Throck- 
 morton, he and Mrs. Unwin were enabled to remove to 
 the Lodge, at Weston- Undtirwood, about a mile from 
 Oluey, which was far more commodious and healthful, 
 than thtir habitation at Olney. 
 
 Lady Hesketh's occasional visits, at this time, were also 
 a source of much enjoyment to him, and his grateful and 
 affectionate heart was strongly moved and interested by 
 the singular kindness manifested for him by an anonymous 
 correspondent. " Hours and hours and hours," he 
 writes Lady Hesketh, in reference to this subject, "have 
 1 spent in endeavors, altog'-'lier fruitless, to trace the 
 writer of the letter that I send, by a minute examination 
 of the character, and never did it strike me, till this 
 moment, that your father wrote it." This suspicion, 
 Lady Hesketh, who was apparently in the secret, did not 
 confirm. The letter in question was, evidently, from some 
 one minutely acquainted with the circumstances of Cow- 
 per's early life; and after many expressions of kindness 
 and encouragement, the writer concludes by presenting 
 him with an annuity of fifty pounds. After receiving 
 another letter itom the same source, Cowper wrilesi 
 2 
 
 \1 
 

 *v< 
 
 MEMOIR OF :;OWPER. 
 
 "Anonymous is come again. May God bless him, who- 
 CTer he may be ;" and he adds, in a postscript, " I kept my 
 letter unsealed to the last moment, that I might give you 
 an account of the expected parcel. It is, at all points, 
 worthy of the letter-writer. SnufiT-box, purse, notes — 
 Bess, Puss, Tiney — all safe. Again may God bless him !" 
 On the snuflF-box, was a view of the " Peasant's Nest," as 
 described in the Task, with the figures of three hares in 
 the foreground. And for these " womanly presents," as 
 Southey calls them, he appoints Lady Hesketh his " re- 
 ceiver general of thanks ;" as " it is very pleasant, my dear 
 cousin," he says, " to receive presents, so delicately con- 
 veyed, but it is also very painful to have nobody to thank 
 for them." " Alas, the love of woman !" Southey conjec- 
 tures that Anonymous was no other than Theodora, the 
 object of Cowper's early love, whom he had not seen for 
 five-and-twenty years. 
 
 In one of those sincere, aflfectionate, and inimitably 
 graceful letters, written, about this time, to his favorite 
 cousin, Lady Hesketh, which have secured to Cowper the 
 title of " the best of English letter-writers," he gives the 
 following retrospect of his state of mind : — 
 
 " You do not ask me, my dear, for an explanation of 
 what I could mean by nns^uish of mind. Because you do 
 not ask, and because your reason for not asking consists of 
 a delicacy and tenderness peculiar to yourself; for that 
 Tcry cause I will tell you. A wish suppressed is more ir- 
 resistible than many wislies plainly uttered. Know then, 
 that in the year 1773, thetsame scene that was acted at St. 
 A.lban's, opened upon me again at Olney, only covered by 
 a still deef)er shade of melancholy ; and ordained to be of 
 much longer duration. I was suddenly reduced from ray 
 wonted rate of understanding, to an almost childish imbe- 
 cility. I diJ not, indeed, lose my senses, but I lost the 
 power to exercise them. I could re^ am a rational answer, 
 
 t 
 
 M 
 
 y 
 
 3. 
 
?5\ 
 
 .\ 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPEH. 
 
 even to a difficult question ; but a question was necessary, 
 or I never spoke. I believed that every body hated me, 
 and that Mrs. Unwin hated me worst of all, — was con- 
 vinced that all my food was poisoned, together with ten 
 thousand megrims of the same stamp. I would not be 
 more circumstantial than is necessary. Dr. Cotton waa 
 consulted. Pie recommended particular vigilance lest 1 
 should attempt my life,— a caution for which there was the 
 greatest occasion. At the same time that I was convinced 
 of Mrs. Unwin's aversion to me, I could endure no other 
 companion. The whole management of me consequently 
 devolved upon her, and a terrible task she had. She per 
 formed it, however, with a cheerfulness hardly ever equal 
 led on such an occasion ; and I have often heard her say, 
 that if she ever praised God in her life, it was when she 
 found that she was to have all the labor. Methinks I hear 
 you ask,— your affection for me, will, I know, make you 
 wisli to do so,—" Is your n^alady removed ?" I reply, in 
 a great measure, but not quite. Occasionally I am much 
 disti-ess«-d, but that distress becomes continually less fre 
 quent, and, I think, less violent. I find writing, and es 
 pecially poetry my best remedy. Perhaps had I understood 
 music, 1 had never written verse, but had lived on fiddle- 
 strings instead. ... I have been emerging gradually 
 from this pit. As soon as I 1 ecame capable of action, 1 
 commenced carpenter, made cupboards, boxes and stools. 
 I grew weary of this in about a twelvemonth, and address- 
 ed myself to the making of bird-cages. To this employ- 
 ment succeeded that of gardening, which I intermingled 
 with that of drawing; but finding that the latter occupa- 
 tion injured my eyes, I renounced it, and commenced poet. 
 I have given you, my dear, a little history in short hand. 
 I know it v.'ill touch your feelings, but do not let it inte- 
 rest them too much." 
 
 According to Cowper's narrative of his first attack, ho 
 
^ 
 
 20 
 
 MfiMOIR OP CCWPEPw 
 
 believed that his disease was entirely the work of the 
 Enemy, and that his recovery was supernatural. Mr. 
 Newton and Mrs. Unwin were of the same opinion, and 
 many months elapsed, as we have seen, after the com- 
 mencement of the second attack, — much the most violent 
 and protracted, — before they could bring themselves to 
 seek earthly remedies. But Mr. Newton was now away, 
 and Mrs. Unwin, says Southey, "was governed by her na- 
 tural good sense ;" and the i-ational view of his condition 
 which Cowper took at the time of writing this letter, was 
 such as to induce the reasonable hope of his perfect resto- 
 ration. Of the religious impulses by which he had been 
 actuated, while at Olney, he thus speaks : " Good is in- 
 tended, but harm is done too often, by the zeal with which I 
 was at that time animated." 
 
 But despair of salvation never wholly left him after his 
 second attack ; and this feeling discovers itself, more or 
 less strongly, in all his letters to Mr. Newton. 
 
 From a sincere, but mistaken zeal for Cowper's spiritual 
 welfare, Mr. Newton seems to have interferel at this time 
 rather unwarrantably in his domestic affairs. He objected 
 to their removal to Weston ; and because Cowper and Mrs. 
 Unwin had occasionally visited the Throckmorfons and 
 other neighbouring gentry, accused them of deviating into 
 forbidden paths, and seeking worldly amusement and society. 
 In reply to one of his letters of censure, Cowper says : 
 " You say well that there was a time when I was happy at 
 Olney, and I am as happy now as I expect to be anywhere 
 without the presence of God." And again : " Be assured, 
 that notwithstanding all rumors to the contrary, we are 
 exactly what we were when you saw us last ; — I mise- 
 rable on account of God's departure from me, which I 
 believe to be final ; and she seeking his return to me in 
 the path of duty, and by continual prayer." This was 
 his cons'aiit and abiding impression ;— and so constant was 
 
 
 

 MEMOIK OF COWPER. 
 
 It, that in time, it lost something of its gloomy effect on 
 his spirits, Scott, in his Demonology, narrates the case 
 of a man, who was so constantly attended by a frightful 
 spectral illusion, that from the effect of custom, he came 
 at last to speak of it quietly, and was, at times, almost un- 
 conscious of its presence. Cowper's case was, in some 
 respects, similar to this. He sometimes adverts to his 
 jespair as a matter of course, and without much emotion. 
 ■' I would," he writes Mr. JVewton, « that I could see 
 some of the mountains that you have seen ; especially, be- 
 tause Dr. Johnson has pronounced tliat no man is qualified 
 10 be a poet, who has never seen a mountain. But moun- 
 tains I shall never see, unless it be in a dream, or unless 
 there are such in heaven; nor then, unless I receive twice 
 is much mercy as ever yet was shown to any man." 
 
 His disease had now been dormant for some years ; but 
 m January 1787, (a month which he always dreaded,) it 
 again became active. He now once more attempted sui- 
 cide, and would have effected it, but for Mrs. Unwin, who 
 finding him suspended by the neck, possessed presence of 
 mind enough to cut him down. His malady was quite as 
 tevere as on former occasions, but of much shorter dura- 
 lion. There is no other account of it than the little 
 which his own letters furnish, after his recovery. " My 
 indisposition could not be of a worse kind. The sight of 
 any face, except Mrs. Unwin's, was an insupportable grie- 
 vance. From this dreadful condition I emerged suddenly." 
 In about seven months, he Appears to have renewed his 
 intercourse with his neighbours, and resumed his corres- 
 pondence. Writing to Lady Hesketh of his renewed 
 health, he says, "I have but little confidence, in truth 
 none, in so flattering a change, but expect, ivkcn I least 
 ecvpect it, to wither again. The past is a pledge for (he 
 future." And again, to the same: "I continue to write, 
 though in compassion to my pate, you advised me, for the 
 
 \1 
 
 1^ 
 
 :ns 
 

 
 MEMOIR OF COW PER. 
 
 present, to abstain. In reality, I have no need,,at least 1 
 believe not, of any such caution. Those jarrings which 
 made my skull feel like a broken egg-shell, and those 
 twirls which I spoke of, have been removed by an infusion 
 of bark." In another letter, he thus playfully speaks of 
 his diseased sensations : " 1 have a perpetual din in my 
 head, and though I am not deaf, hear nothing aright j 
 neither my own voice, nor that of others. I am under a 
 tub, from which tub, accept my best love. Yours, 
 
 W. C." 
 
 But in the letter -with which he renewed his correspond- 
 ence with Mr. Newton, he still speaks of gloom and de- 
 . pair, and of" the storms of which even the remembrance, 
 makes hope impossible." The same letter also exhibits & 
 peculiar and distinct feature in this most remarkable case ol 
 insanity. " My dear friend," he begins, " after a long but 
 necessary interruption of our correspondenc-e, I return to 
 it again, in one respect at least, better qualified for it than 
 before ; I mean by a belief in your identity, which for 
 thirteen years I did not believe." 
 
 Cowper now resumed his translation, which he pursued 
 during the next four years, with little interruption. In 
 the circumstances of his life at this time, there was much 
 to cheer him. His abode was comfortable, his employ- 
 ment satisfactory, his reputation established and increas- 
 ing, he had renewed his correspondence with his rela- 
 tives, and some of the companions of his early life, by 
 whom he was occasionally visited ; and Lady Hesketh's 
 annual visits, and the society of the Throckmortons, which, 
 notwithstanding Mr. Newton's censure, he and Mrs. 
 Uuwin still continued to enjoy, afforded him the relaxa- 
 tion of happy social intercourse. An incident, too, which 
 with its attendant circumstances, added much to Cowper's 
 happiness during the latter portion of this interval, was 
 the receipt of his mother's picture. " It was his lot^" to 
 
 M 
 
MEMOIU OP COWPER. 
 
 quote Southey'^ Narrative, " happy indeed in this respect, 
 to form new friendships as he advanced in years, instead of 
 having to mourn for the dissolution of old ones by death. 
 During seven-and-twenty years he had held no intercourse 
 with his maternal relations, and knew not whether they 
 vfere living or dead ; the malady which made him with- 
 draw from the world seems, in its milder consequences, to 
 have withheld him from making any inquiry concerning 
 them ; and from their knowledge he had entirely disap- 
 peared till he became known to the public. One of a 
 younger generation was the first to seek him out. Thia 
 was Mr. John Johnson, grandson of his mother's brother. 
 r .... During his visit he observed with what affection 
 
 ~^ Cowper .spoke of his mother ; the only portrait of her 
 
 ^ was in possession of her niece, Mrs. Bodham, who had 
 
 been a favourite cousin of Cowper's in her childhood ; and 
 upon young Johnson's report of his visit, on his return 
 home, this picture was sent to Weston as a present, with 
 a letter from his kinswoman, written in t..e f ilness of her 
 heart. It was replied to with kindred feeling, thus:-'— 
 
 " My dear Rose, whom I thought withered and fallen 
 from the stalk, but whom I find still alive: nothing could 
 give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to learn it 
 from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, 
 and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. 
 Every creature that bears any artinity to my mother is dear 
 10 me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one 
 remove distant from her : I love you, therefore, and love 
 you much, both for her sake and for your own. The 
 world could not have furnished you with a present so ac- 
 ceptable to me as the picture you have so kindly sent me. 
 I received it the night before last, and viev/ed it with a 
 trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I 
 , should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to 
 
 f. 
 
 -Cvj 
 
 ?? 
 

 my embraces. I kissed it and hung it where it is the last 
 object that I see at night, and, of course, the first on which 
 I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I com- 
 pleted my sixth year ; yet I remember her well, and ain 
 occular witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remem- 
 Der, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I 
 received from her, and which have endeared her memory 
 to me beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more 
 of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love all 
 of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love thoiie 
 of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me 
 vehemently to your side. I was thought in the days of my 
 childhood muc.i to resemble my mother ; and in my natu- 
 ral temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be 
 suppose*! to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and 
 my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; 
 and a little, I would hope, both of his and her, — I know 
 not what to call it, without seeming to prafse myself, which 
 is not my intention, — but speaking to i/07<, I will even 
 speak out, and say s;ood nature. Add to this, I deal much 
 in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. 
 Pauls's, and I think I have proved myself a Donne at all 
 points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all. 
 I am much obliged to Mr. Bodham for his kindness to my 
 Homer, and with my love to you all, and Mrs. Unwin's 
 kind respects, am 
 
 My dear, dear Rose, ever yours, 
 
 W. C.» 
 
 About this time, the laureateship became vacant by the 
 death of Warton ; Cowper was always ready at occasional 
 verses ; and his friends were desirous to procure the office 
 for him ; but he declined their services in this matter, in 
 the followina letter to Ladv Hesketh' — 
 
/.v 
 
 '? 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 The Loait. JVlai. 28tA, 1790. 
 My Dearest Coz, 
 
 1 thank thee for the offer ol tny best services on this 
 occasion. But Heaven guard luy brows from the wreath 
 you mention, wliatever wreath beside may hereafter adorn 
 them ! It would be a leaden extinguisher clapped on all 
 the fire of my genius, and I would never more produce a 
 line worth reading. To speak seriously, it would make 
 me miserable, and therefore I am sure thai thou, -^f all my 
 Irifuds, would least wisli me to wear it. 
 
 Adieu, ever thine — in Homer-hurry. 
 
 W. C. 
 
 In the summer of 1791, his Homer was published , and 
 nough it does not now hold that rank among the translated 
 classics, which he and his friends expected it would estab- 
 lish for itself, it was, at the time, well received, its merits 
 as a faitiiful version were allowed ; and on settling with 
 his bookseller, Covvper expressed himself satisfied with the 
 pecuniary result of liis labor. " Few of my concerns," 
 said he, "have been so happily concluded." 
 
 In tlie following August, (179:2,) Cowper made a three- 
 days' journey into Sussex, to visit, at Eartjiam, his friend 
 Haley, the poet, who liad sought and made his acquaint- 
 ance ttie previous year. He was so unaccustomed to travel 
 that the journey was undertaken only at the earnest en- 
 treaty of his friend, and not without many misgivings, 
 " I laugli," he writes Haley, a few days before he set out, 
 " to think what stuff these solicitudes are made of, and 
 what an important thing it is for me to travel, while otiier 
 men steal from their homes, and make no disturbance." 
 Again : — " Fortunately for my intentions, as the day 
 approaches, my terrors abate, tor had tiiey continued what 
 they were a week since, I must, after all, ha/e disappoint- 
 ed you." At Eartliam Gowper met Hw lis, Charlotte 
 
^ 
 
 \i 
 
 
 b- 
 
 (4^ 
 
 f<H3: 
 
 26 MEMOIR CF COWPER. 
 
 Smith, the novelist, and Romney ; to the latter of whom he 
 sat for his portrait. During the first part of the six weeks, 
 wliich he spent with Haley and his friends, their society 
 had a beneficial effect on his spirits ; but at last, he be- 
 gan to be somewhat dejected, and evidently longed for the 
 repose and seclusion of Weston. New scenes and strange 
 objects, he complained, dissipated his powers of thinking, 
 and composition, and even letter-writing became irksome 
 to him. " I am, in truth," he writes, " so unaccountably 
 local in the use of the pen, that, like the man in the fable, 
 who could only leap well at Rhodes, I seem incapable of 
 writing at all, except at Weston. It has an air of snug 
 concealment, in which a disposition like mine is peculiarly 
 gratified." On his way home, he passed but a single 
 night, — and that a gloomy one, — in London, which he had 
 not visited since he left it, a madman, in 1763. This was 
 the only long journey that Cowper ever made. The year 
 previous he wrote Hurdis, " I have not been thirteen 
 miles from home these twenty years, and so far but 
 seldom." 
 
 The translation of Plomer, which occupied him nearly six 
 years, was the last literary undertaking of importance which 
 Cowper lived to finish. At the suggestion of a friend, he 
 commenced a poem on the Four Ages, of which, he at first, 
 had high hopes, but he was unable to make much progress 
 m it. Previously to his engagement with Homer, he had 
 commenced an original work with a similar result. His 
 Task and other poems had been written with ease and ra 
 pidity; but "the mind," he remarked, in reference to this 
 subject, "is not a fountain, but a cistern." The facts, 
 observations, and impressions, which had been accumu- 
 lating in his mind, during the somewhat long period of his 
 life, before he commenced auUior, had gradually become, 
 as it were, crys.alized into thoughts and images of beauti 
 ful clearness ana precision ; <?ud to polish these and arrange 
 
 «r\i 
 
K. 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWPER. 
 
 them into ver«e, was i: healthful and amusing occupation 
 rather than an irksome labor. But his resources for ori- 
 ginal composition appear to have been mainly exhausted 
 when he had finished the Task. For a man of literature, 
 his reading was limited ; he had seen but little ; and though 
 he saw clearly and felt strongly, what he saw and felt at 
 all, and transferred his impressions with admirable dis- 
 tinctness to the minds of others, yet his sympathies were 
 not extensive ; and where he was not attracted, he was too 
 often repulsed. At the request of friends, he wrote a few 
 ballads on Slavery, and he was repeatedly urged to make 
 this the subject of an extended poem ; but he rejected the 
 theme as " odious and disgusting;" one which he could not 
 bear to contemplate. Poet of nature as lieVas, his enjoy- 
 ment, even, of natural scenery was limited ; and he com 
 plained, on his visit to Haley, that the wildness of the 
 hiUs and woods around Eartham oppressed his spirits. 
 " Cowper," says Sir James Mackintosh, " does not describe 
 the most beautiful scenes in nature; he discovers what is 
 most beautiful in ordinary scenes. His poetical eye and 
 nis moral heart detected beauty in the sandy flats of Buck- 
 inghamshire." 
 
 Another design, which he undertook, at the request of 
 Johnson, liis. bookseller, and which was also left unfinish- 
 ed, was a new edition of Milton, which was intended to 
 rival in sphaidor, Boydcll's Shakspeare. But Cowper was 
 now beginning to feel the effects of age as well as of dis- 
 ease. Not only this, but his old and dear friend, and 
 faithful and affectionate nurse, Mrs. Unwin, "who had 
 known no wish but his for the last twenty years," had now 
 fallen into a state of hopeless imbecility. " Their relative 
 situation to each other," says Southey, "was now revers- 
 ed. She was the lielpless person, and he the attentive 
 nurse. As her reasoning faculties decayed, her character 
 underweiit a total change, and she exacted constant atten- 
 
 ^ 
 
/% 
 
 MEMOIR OF COWIER. 
 
 tion from him without the slightest consideration for his 
 health or state of mind. Poor creatures that we are, even 
 the strength of religious principle and virtuous habit, fail 
 us, if reason fails." 
 
 This circumstance sensibly affected his spirits ; and 
 though no sudden and striking change henceforth took 
 place in his demeanor, it now became evident that reason 
 was gradually los.ng its influence over his mind. This 
 was especially shewn by a correspondence which he com- 
 menced, about this time, Avith one Teedon, a poor, con- 
 ceited schoolmaster, of Olney. Cowper had long been 
 troubled, not only with hideous dreams, but with audible 
 illusions. During the night, and on waking in the morn- 
 ing, he frequently heard, as he said, some sentence uttered 
 in a distinct voice, to which he gave implicit credit, as 
 having some relation either to his temporal or spiritual 
 concerns. He had long known Teedon, and understood 
 his character ; and in former days, had sometimes been 
 amused with his vanity and conceit. But he had now, by 
 some means, become persuaded that this man was especi 
 ally favored by Providence ; and to him, the sentences 
 wliich he heard, with an account of his dreams and other 
 nocturnal experiences, were regularly sent off; and the 
 result of these "pitiable consultations," Cowper carefully 
 wrote in a book till he had filled several volumes. The 
 following will serve as specimens of these letters. " Dear 
 Sir — I awoke this morning, with these words relating to 
 my work [Milton] loudly and distinctly spoken — ' '^pply 
 assistance in my case indigent and necessitous.' " Again : 
 " This morning, at my waking, I heard these — ' Fulfil thy 
 promise to me.' " On another occasion, he writes Teedon 
 as follows. — " I have been visited with a horrible dream, 
 in which I seemed to be taking a final leave of my dwell- 
 ing. I felt the tenderest regret at the separation, and 
 looked about fo : something durable to carry witli me tj a 
 
 fT^ 
 
 Mf, 
 
■& 
 
 memorial. The iron hasp of the garden-door presen'ing 
 itself, I was on the point of taking that, but recollecting 
 that the heat of the fire, in whicii I was going to be tor- 
 msnted, would fuse the metal, and that it would only serve 
 *} to increase my insupportable misery, I lell it. I then 
 
 ■\U! avoke in all the horror with which the reality of such 
 
 f circumstances would fill me." Thus, "hunted by spiritual 
 
 1^3^ hounds in the night season," and by day, "forecasting the 
 
 fashion of uncertain evils." the gloom of despair was now 
 settling down on Cowper for the last time. His temporal 
 wants were, however, now amply provided for ; a pension 
 of three hundred pounds having been granted him by 
 government. 
 
 In the summer of 1795, his friends thought it advisable 
 that he and Mrs. Unwin, (for it would have been cruel to 
 separate them,) should visit Uie coast for the benefit of the 
 sea air. After a siiort sojourn at Mundsley, productive of 
 little advantage, they finally went to reside at East Dere- 
 ham, in Norfolk, at the house of Cowper's cousin, the 
 Rev. John Johnson, the relative mentioned in a former 
 part of this narrative, who procured for him the portrait 
 of his mother. Here Cowper remained to the end of his 
 life, and here Mrs. Unwin died some time before him. 
 When his health and spirits would permit, Cowper occu- 
 pied himself at Dereham with the rcvisal of his Homer, 
 and he sometimes wrote a few verses. The last original 
 piece that he composed was the Castaway ; and in the 
 words of Southey, " all circumstances considered, it is one 
 of the most affecting that ever was composed." At length, 
 /// however, he refused either to read or write, and his only 
 ^'V employment afterwards, was in listening to works of fiction 
 — almost the only books that appeared to interest him : and 
 "so happy," says Mr. Johnson, "was the influence of 
 these in r!\eting his attention, that he discovered peculiar 
 satisfactior when any one 5f more than ordinary length 
 
 K^' 
 
 fm^, 
 
MEMOIR OF COWPER- 
 
 was introduced." This being perceived by his kinsman, 
 the novels of Richardson were obtained, and they afforded 
 him the more pleasure on account of his former personal 
 acquaintance with the author. " Perhaps too," Southey 
 adds, " there may be more satisfaction in re-perusing a 
 good book after an interval of many years, than is felt in 
 reading it for the first time." These readings did not, 
 however wholly abstract Cowper's mind from the contem- 
 plation of his own wretched state. In one of the few most 
 melancholy letters which he wrote during these years to 
 Lady Hesketh, he says, " I expect that in six days, at the 
 latest, I shall no longer foresee, but feel the accomplish- 
 ment of all my fears. O, lot of unexampled misery incur- 
 red in a moment ! O wretch ! to whom death and life are 
 alike impossible ! Most miserable at present in this, that 
 being thus miserable I have my senses continued to me, 
 only that I may look forward to the worst. It is certain, 
 at least, that I have them for no other purpose, and but 
 very imperfectly for this. My thoughts are like loose and 
 dry sand, which, the closer it is grasped, slips the sooner 
 away. Mr. Johnson reads to me, but I lose every other 
 sentei.ee through the inevitable wanderings of my mind, 
 and experience, as I have these two years, the yame shat- 
 tered mode of thinking on every subject, and on all occa- 
 sions. If I seem to write witn more connexion, it is only 
 because the gaps do not appear. 
 
 " Adieu. — I shall not be here to receive your answer, 
 neither shall I ever see you more. Such is the expectation 
 of the most desperate, and the most miserable of all beings. 
 
 W. C." 
 
 The last read ing which Cowper heard was that of his own 
 Poems. He listened in silence to Mr. Johnson, till they 
 came to John Gilpin, but this he begged his kinsman to 
 omit. In February, 1800, he was taken with dropsy, 
 which in a short time confined him to his chamber. The 
 
 3l 
 
 CI 
 
■'7 
 
 MEMOm OF COWPER 
 
 ^Iiys'ciau who v/as called to attend him, asking him " how 
 he felt ?" "Feel!" said Cowper, "I feel unutteraWa 
 despair!" To the consolations of religion he refused to 
 listen ; and when, on one occasion, Mr. Johnson spoke to 
 him of a " merciful Redeemer, who had prepared im- 
 gpeakable happiness for all his children, — and therefore 
 for him," Cowper, with passionate entreaties, beg'gcd hinr. 
 to desist from any further observations of a similar kind. 
 A few days after this sad scene, the attendant offering him 
 a cordial, he rejected it, saying, " Wliat can it signify ;" 
 and these were the last words he was heard tR utter. He 
 died on the following morning, the 25th of April, 1800. 
 
 JVo one, it would seem, can read Southey's Biography 
 of this blameless and suffering man of genius, without 
 strong feelings of regret that he did not, earlier m life, re- 
 sort to literature as a serious employment. Full and 
 congenial occupation was absolutely indispensible, not 
 merely, as in ordinary cases, to his enjoyment of 
 life, but to his exemption from the most cruel disease ; 
 and to any other pursuits than those of literature, 
 his wretched nervous system rendered him utterly incom 
 petent. What Goethe says of Hamlet, may, with some 
 modification, apply to Cowper. Any of the common avoca- 
 tions, and any of the onerous and vexatious duties of life, 
 ■were to him as " an oak tree planted in a costly jar, which 
 should have borne only pleasant flowers m its bosom ; the 
 roots expand, the jar is shivered." It is scarcely probable 
 that any combination of circumstances could have availed, 
 wholly to avert the malady which poisoned his existence. 
 His wliolc system, both of mind and body was so peculiar 
 in its organization, — so admirable in some of its parts, and 
 80 feeble and defective in others, — that too much, or *oo 
 little, or any uncongenial action was sure to disturb or 
 destroy its balance. But literature, though tried late, 
 proved to be infinitely the best remedy to soothe and regu- 
 
 -^s' 
 
 f 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 THE SOFA 
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK. 
 
 Historical deduction of seats, from the Stool to the Sofa— 
 A. Schoolboy's ramble— A walk in the country— Th« 
 scene described— tiural sounds as well as sights delight- 
 ful—Another walk — Alislake concerning the charni* 
 of solitude corrected— fjlonnades commended— Alcove, 
 and the view from it— The wilderness— The grove — 
 The liiresh'^r— The necessity and benefit of exercise— 
 The works of naiure superior to, and in some instancei 
 inimitable by, an— The w earisomeness of what is com- 
 monly called a lifeof pleasure— Change of scene some- 
 times expedient— A common described, and the charac- 
 ter of crazy Kate introduced— Gipsies— The bkssingi 
 of civilized life— That state most fiivourable to vinue— 
 The South Sea Islanders compassionate, but chiefly 
 Omai— His present state of mind supposed— Civilized 
 life friendly to vinue. but not great cities— Great cities, 
 and London in particular, allowed their due praise, but 
 censured— Fete champetre— The book concludes with- 
 a reflection on the fatal effects of dissipation and effemi- 
 nacy upon our public meaaures 
 
 ^ 33 
 
 'S, 
 
 K 
 
J 
 
 34 
 
 .^4 
 
 ',i\ 
 
 THE TAS¥ 
 
 I SING the .S'o,^. T, who lately sang 
 Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touch'dwithawa 
 The solemn chord.g, and, with a trembling liand, 
 Escap'd with pain lioin that adveni'rous flight, 
 Now seek repose upon an humbler theme ; 
 The theme, though humble, yet august and 
 
 proud 
 Th' occasion — for the fair commands the song. 
 
 Time was, when clothing, sumptuousor 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 
 Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank 
 Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, 
 Fearless of wrong, repos'd his weary strength. 
 Those barb' rous ages past, succeeded next 
 The birthday of Invention ; weak at first, 
 Dull in design, and clumsy to perfortn. 
 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 svvay'd the sceptre of his infant realms: 
 And such in ancient halls and mansions drear 
 May still be seen; but perforated sore, 
 And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found, 
 By worms voracious eating through and through. 
 
 At length a generation morerefin'd 
 Improv'd the simple plan ; nade t'lree lega four, 
 
 if) 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
Gave them a twisted form vermicular, 
 
 And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding 
 
 stuff"'d, 
 Induc'd a splendid cover, green and blue, 
 Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought 
 And woven close, of needlework sublime. 
 There might ye see the piony 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; sever'd into stripes, 
 That interlac'd each other, these supphed 
 Of texture tirm a lattice-work, that brac'd 
 The new machine, and it became a chair. 
 But restless was the chair ; the back erect 
 Distress' d the weary loins, that felt no ease ; 
 The slipp'ry seat betrayed the sliding part 
 That press'd h, and the feet hung dangling 
 
 down. 
 Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. 
 These for the rich; the rest, whom fate had 
 
 plac'd 
 In modest mediocrity, content 
 With base materials, sat on well-tann'd hides, 
 Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth. 
 With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, 
 Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd. 
 If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd 
 Than the tirn oak. of which the frame was 
 )rni'd. 
 
 ^(fk 
 
THE TASK 
 
 No want of timber then was felt or fear'd 
 In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood 
 Pond'rous and fix'd by its own massy weight. 
 But elbows still wore wanting; these, some sayi 
 An alderman of Cripplegate contrived ; 
 And some ascribe th' invention to a priest 
 Burly, and big, and studious of his ease. 
 But rude at first, and not with easy slope 
 Receding wide, they press'd against the ribs, 
 And bruis'd the side; and, elevated high, 
 Taught the rais'd shoulders to invade rhe ears. 
 Long time elaps'd or e'er our rugged sires 
 Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in, 
 And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 
 'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. 
 Ingenious Fancy, never better pleas'd 
 Than when employ'd t' accommodate the fair, 
 Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devis'd 
 The soft settee ; one elbow at each end, 
 And in the midst an elbow it receiv'd, 
 United, yet divided, twain at once. 
 So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne ; 
 And so two citizens, who take the air, 
 Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one, 
 But relaxation of the languid irame. 
 By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs, 
 Was bliss reserv'd fir happier days. So slow 
 The grov/th of what is excellent ; so hard 
 T' attain perfection tn this nether world. 
 Thus first Necessity invented stools. 
 Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, 
 And Luxury th' accomphsh'd Sufa last. 
 
 ■5*- 
 
f 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 37 
 
 .he 
 
 The nurse sleeps sweetly, hir'd to watch 
 sick 
 Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he, 
 Who quits the coach-box at a midnight houi, 
 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 enjoy'd by curate in his desk ; 
 Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet, 
 Compar'd with the repose the Sofa yields. 
 
 O may I live exempted (while I hve 
 Guiltless of pamper'd appetite obscene) 
 Erom pangs arthritic, that infest the toe 
 Of libertine Excess. The Sofa suits 
 The gouty hmb, 'tis true: but gouty limb, 
 Though on a Sofa, may I never feel : 
 For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes 
 Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling 
 
 sheep. 
 And skirted thick with mtertexture firm 
 Of thorny boughs; have lov'd the rural walk 
 O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, 
 E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds 
 T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames ; 
 And still remember, not withomt regret. 
 Of hours, that sorrow since has much endear'd, 
 How oft, my slice of pocket store consum'd, 
 

 frl/"''^^ 
 
 i/g y 
 
 13 
 
 TBE TASK. 
 
 Still hung' ring, penin'less, and far ;iv:ira 
 
 I tied on scarlet hips and stony haws. 
 
 Or blushing crabs, or berries, that embCsa 
 
 The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. 
 
 Hard fare ! but such as boyish appetite 
 
 Disdains not; nor the palate, undeprav'd 
 
 By culinary arts, unsav'ry deems. 
 
 No Sofa then awaited my return ; 
 
 Nor 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 clastic 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 pilfer'd yet ; nor yet impair'd 
 My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth'd 
 Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find 
 Still soothinsr. and of pow'r to charm me still. 
 And witness, dear companion of my walks, 
 Whose arm this twentienth winter I perceive 
 Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, 
 Cpnfirm'd by long experience of thy worth 
 
1 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 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 conjur'd up 
 To serve occasions ol poetic pomp, 
 But genuine, and art partner ol them all. 
 How oft upon yon eminence our pace 
 Has slacken'd 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 dis- 
 
 cern'd 
 The distant plough slow moving, and beside 
 liia lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the 
 
 track, 
 The sturdy swain diminish' d to a boy ! 
 Here Ouse, slow winding fhrough a level plain 
 Of spacious meads, with cattle sprinkled o'er, 
 Conducts the eye along his sinuous course 
 De'ighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, 
 Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, 
 That screen the herdsmen's sohtary 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 hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r, 
 Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bella 
 Just undulates upon the list'ning ear. 
 Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. 
 Scenes must be beautiful, which daily view' d 
 
10 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Plijase 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 ; 
 Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, 
 And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once. 
 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
 Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they faU 
 Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
 In matted grass, thai with a livelier green 
 Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
 Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds 
 But animated nature sweeter still. 
 To sooth and satisfy the human ear. 
 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, ant] one 
 The livelong night ; nor these alone, whose notes 
 Nice-finger'd Art must emulate in vain, 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
 In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl. 
 That hails the rising moon, have charms for me, 
 Sounds inharmonious in themselves and liarsh, 
 iTet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 
 And only there, please highly for their take. 
 
 
 f?: 
 
 1 
 
 r 
 
^f^ 
 
 u 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought 
 Devis'd the weatherhouse, that useful toy! 
 Fearless of humid air and gath'ring rains, 
 Forth steps the man — an emblen^ of myself; 
 More delicate his tim'rous mate retires, 
 "When Winter soaks the fields, and female feeti 
 Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, 
 Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, 
 1"he task of new discov'ries falls on me. 
 At such a season, and with such a charge, 
 Once went I forth ; and found, till then un- 
 known, 
 A cottage, whither oft we since repair: 
 'T is perch'd upon the green hill top, but close 
 Environ'd with a ring of branchirg elms, 
 That overhang the tliatch, itself unseen 
 Peeps at the vale below ; so thick beset 
 With foliage of such dark redundant growth, 
 I call'd the low-roof 'd 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 ot curs 
 Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, 
 And infants claiu'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd, 
 Oft have I wish'd the peaceful coveret 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 wat©"* of the crystal vvell ; 
 
 ^^. 
 
 Jih^\ 
 
 f 
 
 C) 
 

 THE TASK 
 
 He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, 
 And, heavy laden, brings his hev'ra^e home, 
 Far fetch'd 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 consum'd. 
 So farewell envy of" the -peasanC s 7iest ! 
 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 scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. 
 Our fathers kntw the value of a screen 
 From sultry suns: and, in their shaded walks 
 And long protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at nor>n 
 The gloom and coolness of declining day. 
 We bear our shades about us ; self-depriv'd 
 Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread. 
 And range an Indian waste without a tree. 
 Thanks to Benevolus* — he spares me yet 
 These chestnuts rang'd in corresponding lines; 
 And, though himself so polish'd, 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. 
 
 * John Courtnej Throctmorton, Esq., of Wefllern Ub 
 derwood 
 
 #r4/ 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 Hence, ankle deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, 
 We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step 
 Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, 
 Rais'd 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 
 I'hat may record the mi?chief he has done. 
 
 The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove 
 That crowns it ! yet not all its pride secures 
 The grand retreat from injuries impress'd 
 By rural carvers, who with knives deface 
 The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, 
 In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. 
 So strong the :;:eal t' immortalize himself 
 Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few, 
 Few transient years, won from th' abyss ab 
 
 horr'd 
 Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, 
 \nd even to a clown. Now roves the eye ; 
 And, posted on this speculative heicrht. 
 Exults in its command. The sheepfold here 
 Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. 
 At first, procressive as a stream, they seek 
 The middle field ; but, scatter'd by degrees. 
 Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. 
 There from the sunburnt hayfield homeward 
 
 creeps 
 The loaded wain ; while, lighten'd of its charge, 
 The wain that meets it passes swiftly by; 
 The boorish driver leaning o'er his team 
 Vocifrous, and impatient of delay. 
 
 <^JS^ 
 
[J® 
 
 ^f 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, 
 Diversified with trees of ev'ry 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 shorten'd 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 leav'd, 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 chang'd the woods, in scarlet honouni 
 
 bright. 
 O'er those, but, far beyond (a spacious map 
 Of hill and valley interpos'd between) 
 The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd 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 reascent ; between tli^m weeps 
 A little naiad her impov'rish'd urn 
 All summer long, whici winter fills again. 
 The folded gates would bar my progress now 
 
 'f 
 
\ 
 
 \\u 
 
 But that the .ord* of this enclos'd demesne, 
 Communicative of the good he owns 
 Admits me to a share; the guihless eye 
 Commits no wrong, nor wasies what it enjoys. 
 Refreshing change ! where now the blazing sun t 
 By short transition we have lost his elare, 
 And stppp'd 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 checker'd earth seems restless as a flood 
 Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light 
 Shot through the boughs, it dances as they 
 
 dance, 
 Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, 
 And dark'ning. and enlight'ning. as the leaves 
 Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot. 
 
 And now, with nerves new brac'd and spirits 
 
 cheer'd. 
 We tread the wilderness, whoso well-roll'ci 
 
 walks. 
 With curvature of slov/ and easy sweep — 
 Deception innocent — give ample space 
 To narrow bounds. The grove receives us 
 
 next ; 
 Between the upright shafts of whose tall elm? 
 We may discern the thresher at his task. 
 
 A 
 
 i% 
 
 \1 
 
:<y 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Thump after thump resounds the constant flail. 
 That seems tj swing uncertain, and yet falls 
 Full on the destin'd 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.— 'T is the primal curse, 
 But soften' d into mercy ; made the pledge 
 Of cheerful days and nights without a groan. 
 
 By ceaseless action all that is subsists. 
 Constant rotation of th' 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 fresh' ning impulse, and are cleans'd 
 By restless undulation : e'en the oak 
 Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: 
 He seems indeed indignant, and to feel 
 rh' impression of the blast with proud disdain, 
 Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm 
 He held the thunder : but the monarch owes 
 His firm s'ability to what he scorns. 
 More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. 
 The lav»', by which all creatures else are bound, 
 Binds man, the Lord of all. Himself derives 
 No mean advantage from a kindred cause, 
 
 ^^ 
 
 \1 
 
 ^7? 
 <i/^i 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 47 
 
 
 •? 
 
 From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ecBe. 
 The sedentary s'retch theii- 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 wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul. 
 Reproach their owner with that love of rest, 
 To which he forfeits e'en 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 associaie in the most, 
 Good temper ; spirits prompt to undertake, 
 And not soon spent, though in an arduous task ; 
 The pow'rs of fancy and strong thought aie 
 
 theirs ; 
 E'en age itself seems privileg'd in them 
 With clear exemption from its own defects. 
 A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front 
 The vet'ran shows, and, gracing a gray beard 
 With youthful smiles, descends towards the 
 
 grave 
 Spriahily, and old almost without decay. 
 
 Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, 
 Furthest reiires — an idol, at whose shrine 
 Who oft'nest sacrifice are favour'd least. 
 The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, 
 Is nature's dictate. Strange I there should be 
 
 found. 
 Who. pclf-imprif!on'd in their proud saloons, 
 Renounce the odours of the open field 
 For the unscentod fi?tion3 of the loom; 
 
 
1* 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Who, satisfied with only pencill'd scenes, 
 
 Prefer to the performance of a Go J 
 
 Th' 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 j 
 
 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 t<he eye — sweet Nature's ev'ry 
 
 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 apow'r 
 Peculiar, and exclusively her own. 
 Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; 
 'T is free to all — 't is ev'ry day renew'd ; 
 Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. 
 He does not scorn it, who, iraprison'd 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 extinguish d fires; 
 He walks, he leaps, he runs — is wing'd with 
 
 joy, 
 And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze. 
 He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd 
 A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. 
 
 h 
 
 <r. 
 
 "H, 
 
 ¥ 
 
 Ai 
 
 <st\ 
 
 '4 
 
 J 
 
'f. 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam d 
 With acrid saUs ; his very heart athirst, 
 To gaze at Nature in her green array, 
 Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd 
 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 reign* ; 
 The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, 
 And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, 
 And mar the face of Beauty, when no cause 
 For such immeasurable wo 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 pedler'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 famish'd — finds no music in the song. 
 No smartness in the jest ; and wonders why. 
 Yet thousands still desire to journey on, 
 Though halt, md weary of the path they tread. 
 The paraly;ic, 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 si/enl (;ypher, while her proxy flaya. 
 Others are dragg'd into a crowded room 
 Between stipporters ; and, once seated, sit, 
 Through downright inahihty to rise, 
 Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. 
 These speak a loud memento. Yet e'en these 
 Theinselves 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 invet' rate 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 hi? 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 gayefy of those, 
 Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed ; 
 And save me too from theirs, whose haggard 
 
 eyes 
 Flash desperation, and liefray their pangs 
 For property siripp'd offby cruel chance; 
 From gayciy, tliat fills the bones with pain, 
 The nioiuh wiih blasphemy, the hear with wo. 
 
 
 /;■/, 
 
 #^ 
 
 
 m r 
 
 tf 
 
 VO*; 
 
 
 
THE TASK 
 
 The earth was made so various, that the 
 
 mind 
 Of desuhory man, studious of changu, 
 And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg' J. 
 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 shelter'd vale, 
 Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, 
 Delight us; happy to renounce awhile, 
 Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, 
 That such short absence may endear it more. 
 Then i'orests, 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-wither'd shrubs he shows. 
 And at his feet the baffled billows die. 
 The common, overgrown with fern, and rough 
 With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and de* 
 
 form'd. 
 And dang'rous 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 odorif 'rous herb? 
 And iungous fruits of earth, regales the sense 
 With luxury of unexpected sweets. 
 
 l 
 
^ 
 
 i)2 
 
 THE TASiC 
 
 There often wanders one, whom bvitfer days 
 2aw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd 
 With lace, and hat with splendid riband 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 dolei'ul tidings of his death — 
 And never smil'd again ! and nosv she roams 
 The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong 
 
 day, 
 And there, unless when charity forbids. 
 The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, 
 Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown 
 More tatter'd still ; and both but ill conceal 
 A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. 
 She begs an idle pin of all she meets, 
 And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful 
 
 food. 
 Though press' d with hunger oft, or comelier 
 
 clothes. 
 Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. — Kate iji 
 
 craz'd. 
 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, 
 
 fK_ 
 
 '^ 
 
THE Task. 
 
 Receives the morsel — flesh obscene ot dog, 
 Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd 
 From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race ! 
 They pick their fuel out ol ev'ry hedge, 
 Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves un- 
 
 quench'd 
 The spark of life. The sportive wind blows 
 
 wide 
 Their flutt'ring 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 ihey touch. 
 Conveying v/orthless dross into its place ; 
 Loud when they beg, dumb only when they 
 
 steal. 
 Strange! that a creature rational, and cast 
 Inhuman mould, should brutalize by choice 
 His nature ; and, though capable of arts, 
 By which the world might profit, and himself 
 8plf-bani?h'd 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 oflTers ; and with dance, 
 And music of the bladder and the bag, 
 Beguile their woes, and make the woods 
 
 resound. 
 Such health and gayety of heart enjoy 
 The houseless rovers of the sylvan world ; 
 
54 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 And, breathing wholesome air and wand'ring 
 
 much, 
 Need other physic none to heal th' effects 
 Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. 
 Blest he, though undistinguish'd 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, plac'd within the easy reach 
 Of temp'rate 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 spontaneously,) in remote 
 And barb'rous climes, where violence prevails, 
 And strength is lord of all ; but gentle, kind, 
 By culture tam'd, by liberty refreshed. 
 And all her fruits by radiant truth matur'd. 
 War and the chase engross the savage whole; 
 War foUow'd for revenge or to supplant 
 The "nvied tenants of some happier spot: 
 The chase for sustenance, precarious trust ! 
 His hard condition with severe constraint 
 Binds all his faciltics, 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 shiv'ring natives of the north. 
 
 m 
 
f 
 
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 ►THE TASK. 
 
 55 
 
 And thus the rangers of the western world, 
 AVhere it advances far into the deep, 
 Tovv'rds the antarciic. E'en the favour'd 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, plac'd remote 
 From all that science traces, art invents, 
 Or inspiration teaches; and enclos'd 
 In boundless oceans never to be pass'd 
 By navigators uninform'd as they, 
 Or plough' d perhaps by British bark again. 
 But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, 
 Tliee, gentle savage I* whom no love of thee 
 Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, 
 Or else vain slory, promoted us to draw 
 Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here 
 With what superior skill we can abuse 
 The ffifts of Providence, and squander life. 
 The dream is past ; and thou hast found again 
 Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yatns, 
 And homesfall thatch'd 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 nusic ; are thy simple friends, 
 
 ♦Omai. 
 
 «\^ 
 
 M 
 
^ 
 
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 S6 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Thy simple fare, and all thy plain ^eligfhts, 
 As dear to thee as once ? And have thy joy» 
 Lost nothing by comparison with ours ? 
 Rude as thou art, (for we return'd 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 thy foot, 
 If ever it has wash'd our distant shore, 
 I see thee weep, and ihine are honest tearS; 
 A patriot's for his country : thou art sad 
 At thought of her forlorn and abject state, 
 From which no pow'r 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 ev'ry morn 
 Thou climb'st the mountam top, with eager eye 
 Exploring far and wide the wat'ry waste 
 For sight of ship from England. Ev'ry 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 prepar'd 
 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 nought ; 
 And must be brib'd to compass Earth again 
 By other hopes and richer fruits than yours. 
 
 i(A 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 57 
 
 But though true worth and virtue i.. the mild 
 And genial soil oicuhivated 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 pamper'd 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 th' achievement of successful flight. 
 I do confess them nurseries of the arts, 
 In which they flourish most ; where in the 
 
 beams 
 Of vvarm encouragement, and in the eye 
 Of public note, they reach their perfect size. 
 Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd 
 The fairest capital of all the world, 
 By riot and Incontinence the worst. 
 There louch'd 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 
 'I'h^ pow'rs of sculp ure, but the style as m'ich; 
 Each province ol her art her eaual care. 
 
 t 
 
 
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THE TASK. 
 
 With nice incision of her guided steel 
 She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a sod 
 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 marl, 
 So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so sup 
 
 plied, 
 As London — opulent, enlarg'd, and still 
 Increasing London ? Babylon of old 
 Not more the glory of the Earth, than she, 
 A more accomplish'd 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 
 T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law : 
 That she is rigid in denouncing death 
 (^n petty robbers, and indulges life, 
 And liberty, and ofttimes honour too. 
 To peculators of the public gold : 
 That thieves at homo must hang ; but he that 
 
 puts 
 
 M 
 
THE TASK 
 
 Into his overgorg'd 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 haspresum'd t' 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 hassacks are well-nigh divorc'd. 
 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 threaten'd 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 can ye shine ; 
 There only minds like yours can do no harm. 
 Our groves were planted to console at noon 
 The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve 
 The moon-beam, sliding softly in between 
 The sleeping leaves, is all the light thej wish, 
 Birds warbling all the music. We can spare 
 The splendour of your lamps ; they but eclipse 
 Cur softei satellitr. Your songs confound 
 
 
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c?^ 
 
 fiO 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Out more harmonious notes: the thrush de- 
 parts 
 Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute. 
 Their is a public mischief in your m'rth: 
 It plagues your country. Folly such as yours, 
 Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 
 Has made, what enemies could ne'er have 
 
 done, 
 Our arch of empire, steadfast but Cor you, 
 A mutilated structure soon to fall. 
 
 m 
 
 V 
 
THE TIME-PIECE 
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK. 
 
 Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book 
 —Peace among the nations recommeuded on the ground 
 of their common fellowship in sorrow— Prodigies enu- 
 merated—Sicilian earthquakes— Man rendered obnox 
 ious to these calamities by sin— God the agent in them— 
 The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved 
 — Ourown late miscan-iages accounted ftr — Satirical no- 
 tice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau— But the pulpit, 
 not satire, the proper engine of reformation— The Re- 
 verend Advertiser of engraved sermons— Petit-maitre 
 parson— The good preacher— Picture of a theatrical cieri- 
 cal coxcomb— Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit re- 
 proved -Apostrophe to popular applause— Retailers of 
 ancient pliilosaphy expostulated with— Sum of the whole 
 matter— bltfecls of sacerdotal mismanagement on the 
 laity— Their folly and extravagance- The mischiefs 
 of profusion— Profusicn itself, with all its consequent 
 evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of 
 disciplj'ie iu the universities. 
 
 61 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
 Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 
 Ot unsuccessful or successi'ul war, 
 Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 
 My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report 
 Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fili'd. 
 There is no flesli in man's obdurate heart ; 
 It does not feel for man ; the natural bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever' d, as the flax, 
 That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 
 He finds his fellow guilty ot a skin 
 Not colour'd like his own ; and having pow'r 
 T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as a lawful prey. 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd 
 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 deplor'd, 
 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 earn'd. 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
 Just estimation priz'd 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 t 
 And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 
 1'hat parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
 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 ev'ry vein 
 Of all your empire : that, where Britain's pow'r 
 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 of its own disease, 
 And by the voice of all its elements 
 To preach the gen'ral 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 meteorst from above, 
 Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd 
 Have kindled beacons in the skies; and th' old 
 And crazy Earth has had her shaking fits 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
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 f' 
 
 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, unaccomplish'd j'^et: 
 Still they are frowning signals, and hespeak 
 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 expos' d 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 scatter'd, where the shapely columns stood. 
 Her palaces are dust. In all her streets 
 The voice of singing and the spright4y 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 signa 
 Of gratulation and delight her king ? 
 Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, 
 Her sweetest flow'rs, her aromatick gums, 
 Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads? 
 She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb, 
 Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 
 
 • Alluflin? to the fo;^ that covered both Euror>eanJ Asia 
 durintf the whole saomier o' 1783. 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. 
 
 The hills move lightly, and the mountains snoke, 
 
 For he has touch' d them. From th' extreme*! 
 
 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, charii'd wiih putrid verdure, breathe a grosa 
 And mortal nuisance in^o all the air. 
 What solid was, by transformation strange, 
 Grows fluid ; and the fix'd and roofed 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 ev'ry 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, upwroughl 
 To an enormous and o'erbearing height. 
 Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice 
 Which winds and waves obey, invades the shor* 
 Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
 Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge, 
 Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the 
 )ng 
 
 ?ss'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, 
 to the sea foi safety? They are gone, 
 
 r 
 
 i'f 
 
 1 
 
SA.r 
 
 THF. TASK. 
 
 Gone with the refluent wave into the deep- — 
 A prince with half his people ! Ancient tow'rs 
 And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes 
 Where beauty oft and letter' d worth consume 
 Life in the unproductive shades of death, 
 Fall prone : the pale inhabitants come forth, 
 And, happy in their vmforeseen release 
 From all the rigours of restraint, enioy 
 The terrours of the day that sets thev ,i free. 
 Who, then, that has thee, would not hold theo 
 
 fast 
 Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret, 
 That e'en 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 Heav'n. 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 t' o'erwhelm h-.m : 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, 
 A.nd drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 
 Vhat then ! —were ihey the wicked above all, 
 
 
 \1 
 
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 ^^ 
 
 
 '% 
 
 
 If 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 And we the righteous, whose fast- anchor 'd isle 
 Mov'd not, while theirs was rock,d, like a light 
 
 skiff, 
 The sport of every wave ? No ; none are clear, 
 A.nd 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 spar'd not them, 
 Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, 
 Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee ! 
 
 Happy the man, who sees a God employ'd 
 In all the good and ill that checker 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 surpris'd, and unforeseen 
 Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
 The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
 This true Philosophy, though eagle-ey'd 
 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 proclaim* 
 His hot displeasure against foohsh men, 
 That live an atheist hfe ; involves the Heavens 
 In tempests ■ quits his grasp upon the winds, 
 
 m 
 
i 
 
 
 1 JE TASK. 
 
 And gives them all their fury ; bids a jSlague 
 Kindle a fiery bile upon the skin, 
 And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. 
 He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend 
 Blows mildew from between his shrivcU'd 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 ihey 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 discov'ry of the cause 
 Suspend th' 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 kss, 
 Than a capacious reservoir of means, 
 Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
 Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of Him 
 Or ask of whomesoever he has taught ; 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still— 
 iVIy country ! and while yet a nook is left, 
 Where English minds and manners Tiay be 
 
 found, 
 Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy 
 
 clime 
 Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd 
 
 
 
 \p> 
 
 
 
 '■^V 
 

 
 f/ 
 
 
 Ti.E 
 
 With dripping rains, or wither'd by a /rost, 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, 
 And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France 
 With all her vines : nor for Ausonia's groves 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. 
 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 fortunes, and partake 
 Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart 
 As any thund'rer there. And I can feel 
 Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain 
 Frown at eflfeminates, whose very looks 
 Reflect dishonour on the land I love. 
 How in the name of soldiership and sense, 
 Should England prosper, when such things, aa 
 
 smooth 
 And tender as a girl, all essenc'd 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 chme, and travel where we might. 
 That we were born her children. Praise enough 
 Th fill th' ambition of a private man 
 ThatChatham's language was his mothertongue, 
 And Wolfs great name compatriot with his own. 
 Farewell those honours, and farewell with them 
 The hope of such hereafter I They have faU'n 
 

 K> 
 
 70 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Each in his field of glory ; one m 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 
 
 Consuhing England's happiness at home, 
 
 Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown, 
 
 If any wrong'd 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 lov'd. 
 
 Those suns are set. O 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; 
 'I hat winds and waters, luU'd by magick 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 pick'd 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 peqce the injuries of war, 
 And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 
 And sham'd as we have been, to th' very beard 
 Brav'd and defit J, and in our own sea prov'd 
 
 
 % 
 
 \1 
 
 
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'.'iCf 
 
 Too weak for those decisive blows that once 
 cinsur'd us mast'ry there, we yet retain 
 Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 
 At least superiour jockeyship, and claim 
 The hou'^'xrs 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 1 — be grooms and win the plate, 
 Where once your nobler fathers won a crown ! — 
 'Tis gen'rous to communicate your skill 
 To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd : 
 And under such preceptors who can fail ? 
 
 There is a pleasure in poeiick pains, 
 Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
 Th' expedients and inventions multiform, 
 To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms, 
 Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- 
 T' arrest the fleeting images, that till 
 The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, 
 And force them ait, till he has pencil'd ofT 
 A faiihful 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 impori. 
 That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 
 He feels the anxieties of life denied 
 Their wonted enteriamment ; all retire. 
 Such joys has he that sings. But ah ! not siich, 
 
 1 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Jr seldom such, the hearers of his scng. 
 Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 
 Aware ot nothing arduous in a task 
 They never undertook, they little note 
 His dangers or escapes, and haply find 
 Their 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 subhmer trophies found ? 
 What vice has it subdued ? whose heart reclaim'd 
 By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform ? 
 Alas 1 Leviathan is not so tam'd: 
 Laugh'd 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 fiU'd 
 With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
 With what intent I touch that holy thing) — 
 The pulpit — (when the sat'rist has at last, 
 Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, 
 Spent all his force, and made no proselyte^ 
 I say the. pulpit (in the sober use 
 Of its legitimate peculiar pow'rs) 
 Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall 
 
 stand, 
 The most important and eifectual guard, 
 
<&--n'- 
 
 
 
 »,ir 
 
 y 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 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. 
 Bj' him the v olated 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 wand'rer, binds the broken heart, 
 And, arm'd himself in panoply complete 
 Of heav'nly 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 Heav'n ali 
 
 were ! 
 But hark — the doctor's voice i 
 
 tween 
 Two cmpiricks he stands, and with swoln cheeks 
 Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far 
 Than all invective is his bold harangue, 
 While through that publick 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 dismiss'd. 
 And colleges, untaught: sells accent, tone. 
 And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r 
 Th' adagio and andante it demands. 
 He grinds divinity of other days 
 Down into modern use ; transforms old print 
 To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eye* 
 
 -fast wedg'd be- 
 
 
 
t^^ 
 
 % 
 
 ^ s 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. 
 
 Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware f 
 
 O, 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 l>etore — 
 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 vviih 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; 
 Ambitious of preferment for its gold. 
 And well prepar'd by ignorance and sloth. 
 By infidehty and love of world. 
 To make (xod'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. 
 
 .mm 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Would I describe a preacher, suih 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 inipress'd 
 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 \he rostrum with a skip, 
 And then skip down again ? pronounce a text? 
 Cry— hem ; and, readmg what they never wrote 
 Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work. 
 And with a well bred whisper close the scene I 
 
 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 dii?gust 
 What 1 — will a man play tricks — will he indulge 
 A silly fond conceit of his fair form. 
 And just proportion, fashionable mein. 
 And pretty face, in presence of his God ? 
 Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, 
 As wiih the diamond on his lily hand. 
 And play his brilliant parts before my eyes. 
 
 
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ti;e task. 
 
 When I am hu; gry 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 theatrick, practis'd at the glass! 
 I seek divine simplicity m him 
 Who handles things divine ; and all besides, 
 Though leagi'd with labour, and though much 
 
 admir'd 
 By curious eyes and judgment ill-inform'd, 
 I'o me is odious as the nasal twang 
 Heard at conventicle where worthy men, 
 Misled by custom, strain celestial themes 
 Through the press'd nostril, speetacle-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 ev'ry eye, 
 Whoe'er was ediiy'd, themselves were not I 
 Forth comes the pocket mirror. First we stroke 
 An eyebrow ; next compose a straggling lock, 
 Then with an air most gracefully perform'd, 
 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 th' indebted eye 
 With op'ra glass, to watch the moving scene 
 And recognize the slow retiring fair.— 
 Now -this is fulsome ; and offends me more 
 Than in a churchman slovenly neglect 
 
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 THE TASK. ll 
 
 And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind 
 
 May be indiff'rent to her house of clay, 
 
 And slight the hovel as beneath her care ,. 
 
 But how a body so fantastic, trim, 
 
 And quaint, in its deportuienl and attire, 
 
 Can Iodide a heav'nly mind — demands a doubt. 
 
 He thai negotiates between God and man, 
 As God's ambassador, the groiid concerns 
 Of judgment and of rnercy, should beware 
 Of Itghtacss in his speech. ' Tis pitiful 
 To court a grin, when you shjuld woo a souls 
 To break a jest, when pi'.y would iiispire 
 Pathetick exhortation ; and t' 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 lor your text, 
 Your only one, tid sides and benches fail. 
 No: he was serious in a serious cause. 
 And understood t-io 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 assail'd in vain. 
 
 O Popular Applause 1 what heart of man 
 Is proof against try sweet seducing charms ? 
 The wisest and tr-e best Jeel urgent need 
 Of all their cauucn in thy gentlest gales; 
 But swell'd into u gust — who, then, alas ! 
 With all his canvass set, and inexpert, 
 And therefore hecdle&s, can withstand thy pow*rF 
 
 
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 Praise from the rivell'd lips oi toothless, bald 
 Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean 
 And craving Poverty, and in the bow 
 Respectful of the smutch'd artificer. 
 Is oft too welcome and may much disturb 
 The bias of the purpose, flow much more, 
 Pour'd 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 i 
 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 favor'd, we 
 Drink when we choose it, at the fountain head. 
 To theui it flow'd much mingled and defil'd 
 With hurtful errour, prejudice, and dreams 
 Illusive of philosophy, so call'd. 
 But falsely. Sages after sages strove 
 In vain to filter off a crystal draught 
 Pure from the lees, which often more enhanc'd 
 The thirst than slak'd it, and not seldom bred 
 Intoxication and delirium wild. 
 In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth 
 And spring time of the world; ask'd. Whence 
 
 is man ? 
 Why form'd at all ? and wherefore as he is ? 
 Where must he find his maker ? with what ritea 
 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 
 
 
 
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 His ashes, where ? and in what weal or wo ! 
 
 Knots worthy o1 solution, wliich alone 
 
 A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague 
 
 And all at random, fabulous and dark, 
 
 Left them as dark themselves. Their rule* oi 
 
 hfe 
 Defective and unsanction'd, prov'd too weak 
 To bind the roving appetite, and lead 
 Blind nature to a God not yet reveal' d. 
 'I'is 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, nuiur'd in the shades 
 Of Academus — is this false or true ? 
 Is Christ the abler teacher or the schools? 
 If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn 
 To Athens, or to Rome, for wisdom short 
 Of man's occasions, when in him reside 
 Grace, knowledge, comfort, an unfathom'd store? 
 How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text, 
 Has Kpictetus, Plato, TuUy, preach'd! 
 Men that, if now alive, would sit content 
 And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, 
 Preach it who might. Such was their love oi 
 
 truth, 
 Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too. 
 
 And thus it is. — The pastor, either vain 
 By nature, or by flati'ry made so, taught 
 To gaze at his own splendour, and t' exalt 
 
 ^'^ '^ / Absurdly, not his otfice, but himself; 
 
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 Or unenlighten'd 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 cither fall 
 
 Below the exigence, or be not back'd 
 
 With show of love, at least with hopeful proof 
 
 Of some sincerity on the giver's part; 
 
 Or be dishonour'd in th' exteriour form 
 
 And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks 
 
 As move derision, or by foppish airs 
 
 And histrionick mumm'ry that let down 
 
 The pulpit to the level of the stage ; 
 
 Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. 
 
 The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not 
 
 taught, 
 While prejudice in men of stronger minds 
 Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what ihey see. 
 A relaxation of religion's hold 
 Upon the roving and untutor'd heart 
 Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapped 
 The laity run wild. But do they now ? 
 Note their extravagance, and be convine'd. 
 
 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 see verse of mine,) 
 Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence, 
 
 
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 What was a monitor in George's days ? 
 
 My very gentle reader, yet unborn, 
 
 Of whom I needs must augur better things, 
 
 Since Heav'n would sure grow weary of a world 
 
 Productive only of a race Hke ours, 
 
 A monitor is wood — plank shaven thin. 
 
 We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd 
 
 And neatly fitted, it compresses hard 
 
 The prominent and most unsightly bones, 
 
 And binds the shoulder flat. We prove its use 
 
 Sov'reign and most effectual to secure 
 
 A form, not now gymnastick as of yore, 
 
 From rickets, and distortion, else our lot. 
 
 But thus admonish' d, we can walk erect — 
 
 One proof at least of manhood! while the friena 
 
 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 ev'ry moon. The sycophant 
 
 Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date; 
 
 Sur>eys his fair reversion with keen eye ; 
 
 Finds one ill made, another obsolete. 
 
 This fits not nicely, that is ill conceiv'd; 
 
 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 ev'ry change, that Fancy at the loon 
 
 Exhausted, has had genius to supply ; 
 
 dious of mii'arion still, discard 
 
 legance, a T/'le us'd. 
 
 
For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. 
 
 We sacrifice to dress, till household joys 
 
 And comforts cease. Dress drains our cnllta 
 
 dry, 
 And keeps our larder lean ; puts out our firefl; 
 And introduces hunger, frost, and wo. 
 Where peace and hospitality might reign. 
 What man that lives, and that knows how to 
 
 live, 
 Would fail t' exhibit at the pubHc shows 
 A form as splendid as the proudest there, 
 Though appetite raise outcries at the cost ? 
 A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough, 
 With reasonable forecast and despatch, 
 i^"^ T' insure 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 magick wand. So potent is the spell, 
 That none, decoy'd into that tital ring. 
 Unless by Heav 'n's peculiar grace, escape. 
 There we grow early gray, but never wise ; 
 There form connexions, but acquire no frienct 
 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 smil«, 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Though at their own destruction. SLe tha-t asks 
 Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them 
 
 all, 
 And hates their coming. They (what can they 
 
 less ?) 
 Make just reprisals ; and with cnnge 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 hackney'd home unlackey'd ; 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 ofTring up 
 Their last poor pittance — Fortune, most severe 
 Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far 
 Than all that held their routs in Juno's Heav'n. — 
 So fare we in this prison-house, the World ; 
 And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see 
 So many maniacks dancing in their chains. 
 They gaze upon the lini%s, that hold them fast, 
 With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot. 
 Then shake them in despair, and dance again! 
 
 Now basket up the faniilv of plagues, 
 That waste our vitals ; peculation, sale 
 Of honour perjury, corruption, frauds 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 By forgery, by subterfuge of law, 
 By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen 
 As the necessities their authors fee! : 
 Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat 
 At the right door. Profusion is the sire. 
 Profusion unrestrain'd with all that's base 
 In character, has Htter'd all the land. 
 And bred, within the mem'ry 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, security, and use : 
 Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd 
 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 publick men, 
 Till they can laugh at Virtue ; mock the fools 
 That trust them ; and in th' end disclose a face, 
 That would have shock'd Credulity herself. 
 Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse- 
 Since all alike are selfish, why not they ? 
 This does Profusion, and th' accursed cause 
 Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. 
 
 In colleges and halls in ancient days, 
 When learning, virtue, pietv and truth. 
 Were precious and inculcated with care, 
 
There dwelt a saj^e call'd Discipline. His aead, 
 Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, 
 Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth 
 But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. 
 His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile 
 Play'd 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 blush'd at his own praise : and press the 
 
 youth 
 Close to his side that pleas'd him. Learnuig 
 
 grew 
 Beneath his care, a thriving vig'rous plant ; 
 The mind was well informed, the passions held 
 Subordinate, and diligence was choice. 
 If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must 
 That one among so many overleap'd 
 The hniits of control, his gentle eye 
 Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke ; 
 His frown was full of terrour, and his voice 
 Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe, 
 As left him not, till penitence had won 
 Lost favour back again, and clos'd the breach. 
 But Discipline, a faithful servant long, 
 Declin'd at length into the vale of years. 
 A palsy struck his arm ; his sparkling eye 
 Was quenched in rheums of age ; his voice un» 
 
 strung, 
 Grew tremulous, and mov'd derision more 
 Than rev'rence, in perverse rebellious youth. 
 
 
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 So colleges and halls neglected much 
 
 Their good old friend ; and Discipline at length, 
 
 O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, 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 lin'd with logick not his own, 
 
 With parrot tongue perform'd 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, op'ning with a touch 
 Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade. 
 The tassel' d cap and the spruce band a jest, 
 A mock'ry of the World I What need of these 
 For gamesters, jockeys, brothelers impure, 
 Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oft'ner seen 
 With belted waist and pointers at their heels. 
 Than in the bounds of duty ? What was learn'dl. 
 If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot : 
 And such expense, as pinches parents blue, 
 And mortifies the lib'ral hand of love, 
 Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports 
 And vicious pleasures ; buys the boy a name 
 That sits a stigma on his father's house, 
 A.nd cleaves through life inseparably close 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 87 
 
 To him t:iat wears it. What cap after games 
 Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, 
 The lewd vain M'orld, that must receive him soon, 
 Add to such erudition, tnus acquired, 
 Where science and where viriue are professed? 
 Tiiej' may confirm his habits, rivet fast 
 His folly, but to spoil him is a task. 
 That bids defiance to th' united powers 
 Of fashion, dissipation, taverns, stews. 
 Now blanie we most the nurselings or the nurse? 
 The children crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd, 
 Through want of care; or her, whose winking eye 
 Anc slumb'ring oscitancy mars the brood ? 
 The nurse, no doubt. Regardless of her charge, 
 She needs herself correction ; needs to learn 
 That it is dang'rous sporting whh 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 grac'd a college,* in which order yet 
 Was sacred ; and washonour'd, lov'd, and wept 
 By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 
 Some minds are temper'd happily, and mix'd 
 With such ingredients of good sense, and taste 
 Of wha* is excellent in man, they thrist 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 With such a zeal to be what they ap^prove, 
 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 
 Expos'd their inexperience to the snare, 
 And left them to an undirected choice. 
 
 See then the quiver broken and decay'd 
 In which are kept our arrows I Rusting there 
 In wild disorder, and unfit for use. 
 What wonder, if discharg'd 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 artil'ry arm'd. Vice parries wide 
 Th' undreaded volley with a sword of straw, 
 And stands an impudent and fearless mark. 
 Have we not track'd the felon home, and 
 
 found 
 His birthplace and his dam ? The country 
 
 mourns. 
 Mourns because ev'ry plague that can infest 
 Society, and that saps and worms the base 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Of th' edifice that policy has rais'o, 
 Swarms in all quarters : meets the eye, the ear, 
 And suffocates the breath at ev'ry 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 rob'd pedagogue! Else let th' arraign'd 
 Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. 
 So when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, 
 And wav'd his rod divine, a race obscene, 
 Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth, 
 Polluting Egypt : gardens, fields, and plains. 
 Were cover' d with the pest; the streets were 
 
 filled ; 
 The croaking nuisance lurk'd in ev'ry nook; 
 Nor places, nor even chambers, 'scap'd; 
 And the land stank — so num'rous was the fry. 
 
ARGUMENT OF THS THIRD BOOK. 
 
 Sclf-recolleciion, and reproof— Address to domestic hap. 
 piness— Some account of myself— The vanity of many 
 of their pursuits, who are reputed wise -Justification of 
 my censures — Divine illuininaiion necessary to the 
 most expert philosopher — The question, What is truth? 
 answered by other questions— Domestic happiness ad- 
 dressed cigain Few lovers of the country— My tame 
 hare— Occupations of a retired gentleman in his garden 
 — Pruning— Framing — Greenhouse— Sowing of flower 
 •eeds— The country preferable to the town even in the 
 winter— Reaisons why it is deserted at that season- 
 Ruinous effects of gaming and of expensive improve- 
 raent— Book concludes with an apostrophe to the 
 metropolis. 
 
 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 v,ays been foil'd 
 90 
 

 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 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 cherups brisk his ear-erecting steed, 
 
 And winds his way with pleasure and with ease. 
 
 So I, designing other themes, and call'd 
 
 T' 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 deserv'd,) 
 
 Long held, and scarcely disengag'd at last: 
 
 But now with pleasant pace a cleanlier road 
 
 I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, 
 
 Courageous, and refresh' d for future toil, 
 
 If toil await me, or if dangers new. 
 
 Since pulpits fail, and sounding boards reflec 
 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, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes. 
 And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose 
 Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or 
 
 vine. 
 My languid hmbs; when summer sears the 
 
 plains ; 
 Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft 
 And shelter'd Sofa, while the nUrous air 
 Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful 
 
 hearth ; 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 There, undisturb'd by Folly, and appriz'd 
 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 conceal'd 
 Is olttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault 
 Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 
 
 Domestic happiness, thou only bliss 
 Of Paradise, that has surviv'd the fall ! 
 Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, 
 Or tasting, long enjoy thee !. too infirm. 
 Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets 
 Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect 
 Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup ; 
 Thou art the nurse of Virtus — in thine arms 
 She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 
 Heav'n-born, and destin'd to the skies again. 
 Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd, 
 That reeling goddess, with the zoneless waist 
 And wand'ring 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 
 Conven'd for purposes of empire less 
 Than to release the adult'ress from her bond. 
 Th' adult'ress I what a theme for angry verse I 
 What provocation to th' indignant heart 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 That feels for injur'd love ! but I disdain 
 The nauseous task to paint her as she is. 
 Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame ! 
 No: — let her pass, and, charioted along 
 In guilty splendour, shake the public ways ; 
 The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white 
 And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch) 
 Whom matrons now (?f character unsmirch'd 
 And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own. 
 Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time, 
 Not to be pass'd: and she that had renounced 
 Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself 
 By all that priz'd it ; not for prud'ry's sake 
 But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 
 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, 
 Desirous to return and not receiv'd : 
 Bxii was a wholesome rigour in the main, 
 And taught th' unb.emish'd to preserve with care 
 That purity, whose .oss was loss of all. 
 Men too were nice in honour in those days, 
 And judg'd offenders well. Then he that 
 
 sharp'd, 
 And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, 
 Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that 
 
 sold 
 His country, or was slack when she requir'd 
 His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, 
 Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd 
 The price of his default. But now — yes, now 
 We are become so candid and so fair 
 So llb'ral in construction, and so rich 
 ^ In christian charity, (gnod natur'd age !) 
 
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 94 
 
 That they are safe ; sinners of either sex 
 Transgress what laws they may. Well dress' d, 
 
 well bred, 
 Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough, 
 To pass as readily through ev'ry door. 
 Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 
 (And no man's hatrid ever wrong'd 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 infix'd 
 My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew 
 To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
 There was I found by one who had himself 
 Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, 
 And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
 With gentle force soUciting the darts. 
 He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade m« 
 
 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 wand'rers, gone astray 
 Each in his own delusions ; they are lost 
 

 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 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 ptil! 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 
 
 gay. 
 
 As if created only like the fly. 
 
 That spreads his motly wings in th' 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 ran* 
 
 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 wrapp'd 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 conceal'd. 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 revcal'd its date 
 To Moses, was mistaken in its age. 
 

 w 
 
 9 
 
 fe 
 
 
 
 96 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Some, more acute, and more industrious still, 
 Contrive creation ; travel nature up 
 To the sharp peak of hor sublimist height, 
 And tell us whence the stars : why some are 
 
 fix'd, 
 And planetary some ; what gave them first 
 Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. 
 Great contest follows, and much learned dust, 
 Involves the combatants; each claimmg truth, 
 And truth disclaiming both. And thus they 
 
 spend 
 The little wick of hfe'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 tickhng rheums 
 Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight 
 Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, 
 That having wielded th' elements, and built 
 A diousand 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-- 
 Eterniiy for bubbles, proves at last 
 A senseless bargain. When I see such gameg 
 Play'd by the creatures oi apow'r who swears 
 That he will judge the Earth, and call the fool 
 To a sharp rock'ning, that has liv'd in vain; 
 And when I weigh this seeming wisdom welL 
 And prove it in th' infallible result 
 So hollow and so false — I feel my heart 
 Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, 
 If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd. 
 

 THE TASK. 
 
 Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps 
 While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. 
 Defend me, therefo.e, 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, pro- 
 found, 
 Terribly arcli'd and aquiline his nose. 
 And overbuilt with mo^ 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 meand'ring there, 
 And catechise it well : apply thy 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 t 
 True ; I am no proficient, I confess, 
 In arts like yours. 1 cannot call the swift 
 And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds. 
 Ai.d Lid them hide themselves in earth beneath: 
 
 
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..'^si-'^'-^^ 
 
 'M 
 
 
 98 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 1 cannot analyze the air, nor catth 
 
 The parallax of yonder luminous point, 
 
 That seems half quench' d in the immense 
 
 abyss : 
 Such powers I boast not — neither can 1 rest 
 A silent witness of the headlong rage, 
 Or heedless folly, by which thousands die. 
 Bone ofmy bone, and kindred souls to mine. 
 God never meant that man should scale the 
 
 Heav'ns ^ 
 
 By strides of human wisdom. In his works, 
 Though wondrous, he commands us in his word 
 To seek Mm rather where his mercy shines. 
 The mind, indeed, enlighten'd from above, 
 Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause 
 The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy 
 His Tuauner, and with rapture tastes his style. 
 But never yet did philosophic tube. 
 That brings the planets home into the eye 
 Ofobservation, and discovers, else 
 Not visible, his family ol 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, ano 
 
 reveal 
 Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light ; 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 99 
 
 Then all is plain. Philosophy, bapfiz'd 
 
 In the pure fountain of eternal love, 
 
 Has eyes indeed ; and viewing all she sees 
 
 As meant to indicate a God to man, 
 
 Gives ?ihn 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 pray'i 
 
 Has flow'd from lips wot 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 prais'd, 
 
 And sound integrity, not more than fam'd 
 
 For sanctity of manners undefil'd. 
 
 All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
 Like the fair fiow'r dishevell'd 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 gen'ral curse 
 Of vanity that seizes all below. 
 The on'y amaranthine flow'r on earth 
 Is virtue •. th' only lasting treasure, truth. 
 But wh t is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question 
 To T'uth itself, that deign'd 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. 
 
 Ha 
 
W-^'^' 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 But to the proud, uncandid, insincere, 
 
 Or negligent inquirer, not a spark. 
 
 What's that which brings contempt upon a book, 
 
 And him who 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 
 
 That learning is too proud to gather up ; 
 
 But which the poor, and the despis'd of all, 
 
 Seek and obtain, and often find unsought; 
 
 Tell me — and I will teH thee what is truth. 
 
 O friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace! 
 Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd ! 
 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, 
 E'en as his first progenitor, and quits. 
 Though plac'd in Paradise, (for earth has still. 
 Some traces of her youthful beauty left) 
 Substantial happmess for transient joy: 
 Scenes form'd for contemplation, and .o nurse 
 The growing seeds of wisdom ; that sujrgest 
 By ev'ry pleasing image they present, 
 Reflections svich as meliorate the heart, 
 Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ; 
 Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight 
 
 ON 
 
 '^^^^Hfe 
 
 
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'-^k 
 
 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 anrf wrapt 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 quell'd 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 nurs'ries 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 
 
 Cultur'd 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 shelter'd har« 
 
 Has never heard the sanguinary yell 
 
 Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. 
 
 Innocent partner of my peaceful home, 
 
 
 dW 
 

 '■\ 
 
 \ 
 
 ,1 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 
 Whom ten long years' experience of my care 
 Has made at last familiar: she has last 
 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 «9v'ning, and at night retire secure 
 To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd, 
 For I have gained thy confidence, have pledg'd 
 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 u triend.* 
 
 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 enjoy' d at home. 
 And nature in her cultivated trim 
 Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad — 
 Can he want occupation who has these? 
 Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy ? 
 Me 'herefore 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 
 E'en here : while sedulous I seek t' improve, 
 
 <vS^ 
 
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 ~^'^% 
 

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 THE TASK. 
 
 103 
 
 At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, 
 
 The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack 
 
 Too oft, and much impeded in its work 
 
 By causes not to be divulg'd in vain, 
 
 To its just point — the service of mankind. 
 
 He that attends to his interior self, 
 
 That has a heart, and ketps it : has a mind 
 
 'That hungers and supplies it ; and who seeks 
 
 A social, not a dissipated hfe. 
 
 Has business ; feels himself engag'd 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 prais'd; 
 
 But wisdom is a pearl with most success 
 
 Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies : 
 
 He that is ever occupied m storms, 
 
 Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, 
 
 Vainly uidustrious, a disgraceful prize. 
 
 The morning finds the self-sequester'd 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: ihen to his book 
 Well chosen, and not sullenly perus'd 
 [n 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 3all, conscious hasv much the hand 
 
 
 A^ 
 
 

 
 
 ^j^ 
 
 104 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Of lubbard Labour needs his watchful eye, 
 
 Oft loit'ring lazy, 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. 
 
 Nor tire, demanding rather skill than force. 
 
 Proud of his well-spread walls he views hia 
 
 trees, 
 That meet, no barren interval between, • 
 With pleasure more than e'en their fruits afford ; 
 Which, save himself who trains them, none can 
 
 feel. 
 These therefore are his own peculiar charge ; 
 No meaner hand may discipHne the shoots. 
 None but his steel approach them. What ia 
 
 weak, 
 Distemper'd, or has lost prolific pow'rs, 
 Impair'd 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 th' expense of neighb'ring 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 measur'd distances, that air and sun, 
 Admitted freely may afford their aid, 
 Arxl ventilate and warm the swelling buds. 
 Hence summer has her riches. Autumn hence. 
 And hence e'en Winter fills his wither'd hand 
 
 I 
 
 IfX 
 
 <%\ 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 

 fi4 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 103 
 
 With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.* 
 Fair recompense of labour well bestow'd, 
 And wise precaution ; which a clime so rude 
 Makes .leedfal still, whose Spring is but the child 
 Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods 
 Discov'ring much the temper of her sire. 
 For olt, as if in her the stream ot mild 
 Maternal nature had revers'd its course, 
 She brings her infants forth with many smiles; 
 But once deliver'd, kills them with a frown. 
 He therefore, timely warn'd, 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 disesteem'd — 
 Food for the vulgar merely — is an art 
 That toiling ages have but just matur'd. 
 And at this moment unessay'd 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, PhiUps, shines for aye 
 
 
 
 

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 f ;/f 
 
 
 I Ob 
 
 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 The solitary shilling-. Pardon, then, 
 Ye sage dispensers of poetic lame, 
 Th' ambition of one meaner far, whose pow'rs, 
 Presuming an attempt not less sublime, 
 Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste 
 Of critic appetite, no sordid tare, 
 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 beach and elm have cast their leaf 
 Decidious, when now November dark 
 Checks vegitation in the torpid plant 
 Expos'd to his cold breath, the task begins. 
 Warily, therefore, and with prudent heed. 
 He seeks a favour'd spot ; that where he builds 
 Th' 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 litier'd hay, that may imbibe 
 Th' ascending damps ; then leisurely impose. 
 And lightly shaking it with agile hand 
 From the full fork, the saturated straw. 
 What longest binds the closest torms secure 
 The shapely side that as it rises takes, 
 By just degrees, an .j'-erhanging breath, 
 Shelt'riiig the base wsif its projected eaves; 
 Th' upliited frame, cOii.* act at ev'ry joint, 
 And overlaid with clear aiislucent glass, 
 lie settles next upon thw sloping mount, 
 Whose sharp declivity shoots off' secure 
 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 

 THE TASK. 
 
 From the dash' J 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 gath'ring in the midst, through the square 
 
 mass 
 DifFus'd, attain the surface; when, behold! 
 A pestilent and most corrosive stream, 
 Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast. 
 And fast condens'd upon the dewy sash, 
 Asks egress? which obtain'd, the overcharg'd 
 And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, 
 In volumes wheeling slow the vapour dank; 
 And, purified, rejoices to have lost 
 Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage 
 Th' impatient fervour, which it first conceives 
 Within its reeking oosom, threai'ning death 
 To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. 
 Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 
 ■^I'he way to glory by miscarriage foul, 
 xMust prompt him, and admonish how to catch 
 Th' auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat. 
 Friendly to vital motion, may afibrd 
 Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. 
 1'he seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, 
 And glossy, he commits to pots of size 
 Diminutive, well-fiU'd with well-prepar'd 
 And fruitful soil, that has been treasur'd long, 
 And drank 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 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The rage of fermentation, plunges deep 
 In the soft medium, till they stand immers'd. 
 Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick 
 And spreading wide their spongy lobes ; at first 
 Pale, wan, and livid ; but assuming soon, 
 If fann'd by balmy and nutritious air, 
 Strain' d through the friendly mats, a vivid green. 
 -^. Two leaves produc'd, two rough indented leaves, 
 
 K~¥^ 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. 
 Indulg'd in what they wish, they soon supply 
 Large foliage, overshadowing golden flow'rs, 
 Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit. 
 These have their sexes ; and when summer 
 
 shines 
 The bee transports the fertilizing meal 
 From flow'r to flow'r, and e'en the breathing ail 
 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 ensures the crop. 
 
 Grudge not, ye rich, (since Luxury must have 
 His dainties, and the World's more num'rous half 
 Lives by contriving delicaies for you,) 
 Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the ca^es 
 The vigilance, the labour, and the skill, 
 
 
f. 
 
 v^ 
 
 TflE TASK. 
 
 That day and night are exe.'cis'd, and hang 
 Upon the tickl'sh balance of suspense, 
 That ye may garnish your profuse regales 
 With summer fruits brought forth by wintry 
 
 suns. 
 Ten thousand dangers He 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 cur&. 
 And which no care can obviate. It were long, 
 Too long, to tell th' 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 learn'd 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 produc'd. 
 Who loves a garden loves a green-house too. 
 Unconscious of a less propitioas clime. 
 There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug. 
 While the winds whistle and the snows descend 
 The spiry myrtle with unwith'ving leaf 
 Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast 
 Of Portugal and western India there, 
 Tlie ruddier orange, and the paler lime. 
 Peep through their polish'd foliage at the storm, 
 And seem to smile at what they need not fear. 
 The amomum there with intermingling flow'rs 
 And cherries hancrs her twi^s. Geranium boasta 
 
 w 
 
 -m^ 
 
 
 
Her crimson honours ; and the spangled beau, 
 Ficoides glitters bright the winter long. 
 All plants of ev'ry leaf, that can endure 
 The winter's irown, if screen'd from his shrewd 
 
 bite, 
 Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims 
 Levantine regions these ; th' Azores send 
 Their jessamine, her jessamhie remote 
 Caffraria : foreigners from many lands, 
 They form one social shade, as if conven'd 
 By magic summons of th' Orphean lyre. 
 Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pasa 
 But by a master's hand, disposing well 
 The gay diversities of leaf and flow'r, 
 IVIust lend its aid t' illustrate all their charms, 
 And dress the regular yet various scene. 
 Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van 
 The dwarfish, in the rear retir'd, but still 
 Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. 
 So once were rang'd the sons of ancient Rome, 
 A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ; 
 And so, while Garrick, as renown'd as he, 
 The sons of Albion ; fearing each to lose 
 Some note of Nature's music from his lips, 
 And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen 
 In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye. 
 Nor taste alone and well-contriv'd display 
 Suffice to give the marshall'd ranks the grace 
 Of their complete effect. Much yet remains 
 Unsung, and many cares are yet behind. 
 And more laborious; cares on which depend 
 Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor'd. 
 
 fFS/j 
 
 
^!('C^ 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 The soil must be renew'd, which often wash'd 
 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 wither'd leaf 
 Must be detach'd, and where it strews the floor 
 Swept with a woman's neatness, breeding else 
 Contagion and disseminatincr death. 
 Discharge but these kind offices, (and who 
 Would spare, that loves them, oflices like these?) 
 Well they repay the toil. The sight is pleased, 
 The scent regal'd, each odorif'rous leaf, 
 Each op'ning blossom, freely breathes abroad 
 Its gratitude, and thanks hini with its sweets. 
 
 So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, 
 All healthful, are th' 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 swell'd and gaily dress'd appears 
 A flow'ry island, from the dark green lawn 
 Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due 
 To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. 
 Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd 
 And sorted hues, (each giving each relief. 
 And by contrasted beauty shining more,) 
 Is needful. Strength may wield the pond'rous 
 
 spade, 
 May turn the dod, and wheel the compost homei 
 But elegance, chief grace the garden shows 
 And most attractive, is ilo fair result 
 
 t/^ 
 
 
,»*^% 
 
 Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. 
 
 Without it all is Gothic as the scene 
 
 To which th' insipid citizen resorts 
 
 Near yonder heath ; where industry mispent, 
 
 But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, 
 
 Has made a Heav'n on Earth; M'ith suns and 
 
 moons 
 Of close-ramm'd stones has charg'd th' encum- 
 
 ber'd soil, 
 And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. 
 He, therefore, who would see his flow'rs 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 preconceiv'd display, 
 Each for itself, and all as with one voice 
 Conspiring, may attest his bright design. 
 Nor even then dismissing as perform'd, 
 His pleasant work, may he suppose it done. 
 Few self-supported flow'rs endure the wind 
 Uninjur'd, but expect the upholding aid 
 Of the smooth shaven prop, and, neatly tied. 
 Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, 
 For int'rest sake, the living to the dead. 
 Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd 
 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 unadorn'd, with many a gay festoon 
 And fragrant chan et. recompensing well 
 
 
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 dl 
 
 
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 THE TASE. 
 
 The strength they borrow wit.j the grace they 
 
 lend. 
 All hate the rank society of weeds, 
 Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust 
 Th' impov'rish'd earth ; an overbearing race, 
 That, like the multitude made faction mad, 
 Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. 
 
 O 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'erleap'd with ease 
 By vicious Custom, raging uncontroll'd 
 Abroad, and desolating public life. 
 When fierce Temptation, seconded within 
 By traitor Appetite, and arm'd with darts 
 Temper'd in Hell invades the throbbing breasJ 
 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 t' improve it, friendship, 
 
 peace, 
 No loose or wanton, though a wand'ring 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 ssek the guiltless jovs that I describe, 
 
 8 
 
 
VI 
 
 Allur'd by my report : but sure no less 
 Thatself-condemn'd they must neglect the prize, 
 And what .they will not taste must yet approve. 
 What we admire we priase ; and when we prais* 
 Advance it into notice, that, its worth 
 Acknowledg'd, 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 or' 
 
 dain'd 
 Should best secure them, and promote them 
 
 most ; 
 Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 
 Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy 'd. 
 Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles. 
 And chaste, though unconlin'd, whom I extol. 
 Not as the prince in Shushan, when he call'd, 
 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 eu\y, 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 renew'd, 
 Is free to all men — universal prize. 
 Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 
 Admirers, and be destin'd to divide 
 With meaner objects e'en the lew she finds! 
 Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves and flow'rs, 
 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 She loses all her influence. Cities then 
 
 Attract us, and neglected nature pines, 
 
 Abandon'd as unworthy of our love. 
 
 But are not wholesome airs, though unperfum'd 
 
 By roses ; and clear suns, though scarcely felt ; 
 
 And groves, if unharraonious, yet secure 
 
 From clamour, and whose very silence charms : 
 
 To be preferr'd 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 thund'ring 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 undebauch'd. 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 hinds. 
 Who had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son. 
 Now, the legitimate and rightful lord 
 Is but a transient guest, newly arriv'd. 
 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, gaz'd upon a while, 
 Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away. 
 The country starves, and they that feed tb' 
 
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 And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, 
 By a just judgment stript 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 idolof the age, 
 Ts fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes! 
 Th' omnipotent magician, Brown, appears! 
 Down falls the venerable pile, th' abode 
 Of our forefathers — a grave whisker'd race, 
 But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead. 
 But in a distant spot ; where more expos'd 
 [t may enjoy th' advantage of the north, 
 And aguish east, till time shall have trar/sform'd 
 Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove. 
 He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn j 
 Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise : 
 And streams, as if created for his use, 
 Pursue the track of his directing wand. 
 Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, 
 Now mum ring soft, now roaring in cascades — 
 E'en as he bids ! The enraptur'd owner smiles. 
 'Tis finish'd, and yet, finish'd as it seems 
 Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, 
 A mine to satisfy th' enormous cost. 
 Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, 
 He sighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplish'd plan 
 That he has touch'd, retouch'd many a long day 
 Labour'd, and many a night pursu'd in dreams. 
 Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the 
 Heav'n 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 He wanted, for a wealthier to enjcy ! 
 And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, 
 When, having no stake left, no pledge t' endear, 
 Her int'rests, 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 a usurious loan, 
 To be refunded duly, when his vote 
 Well-manag'd shall have earn'd its worthy price. 
 O innocent, compar'd with arts like these, 
 Crape, and cock'd pistol, and me whisthngball 
 Sent through the trav Her' s temples! He that finds 
 One drop of Heav'n'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 
 P'ish up his dirty and dependent bread 
 From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, 
 Sordid and sick'ning at his own success. 
 
 Ami)Uion, avarice, penury, incurr'd 
 By endless riot, vanity, the lust 
 Of pleasure and variety, despatch 
 As duly as the swallows disappeai. 
 The world of wand'ring 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 
 
 
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 Who, with bareheaded and obsequious bows 
 Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail 
 And groat per diein, if his patron frown, 
 The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp 
 Were character'd on ev'ry 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 amus'd, 
 That at the sound of Winter's hoary wing 
 Unpeople all our r-ountries of such herds 
 Of flutt'ring, loit'ring, cringing, begging, loose, 
 And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast 
 And boundless as it is, a crowded coop. 
 
 O thou resort and mart of all the earth, 
 Checker'd 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 pleasest and >ot shockest 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 sav'd 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 pow'r to be. 
 For whim God heard his Abr'ham plead in vain. 
 
■^. 
 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 BOOKIV. 
 
 THE WINTER EVENING. 
 
 ARGUIMENT OF THK FOLHTH BOOK. 
 
 Vofc post comes in— The newspaper is read— The World 
 contemplated at a distance— Address to Winter — The 
 rural amusements of a winter evening compared with 
 the fashionable ones— Address to evening— A brown 
 study — Fall of snow in the evening— The wagoner— A 
 poor family piece — The rural thief— Public housea— 
 The multitude of them censured— The farmer's daugh- 
 ter: what she was, — what she is— The simplicity of 
 country manners almost lost— C'ausrs of the change — 
 Desertion of the country by the rich— Neglect of the 
 magistrates— The militia principally in fault— The new 
 recruit and his transformation— Keflection on the bodies 
 corporate— The love of rural objects natural to all, and 
 never to be totally extinguished. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, 
 That with its wearisome but needful lenj^th 
 Bestrides the wintry flood ; in which the moon 
 Sees her unwrinliled lace reflected bright : — 
 He comes, the herald of a noisy world, 
 With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen 
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 News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. 
 True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, 
 Yet careless what he brings, his one concern 
 Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn ; 
 And having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on. 
 He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. 
 Cold and yet cheerful : messenger of grief 
 Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some ; 
 To him indifTrent 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 charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains, 
 Or nymphs responsive, equally affect 
 His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 
 But O, th' important budget! usher'd in 
 With such heart-shaking music, who can say 
 What are its tidings ? have our troops awak'd ? 
 Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd. 
 Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave ? 
 Is India free ? and does she wear her plum'd 
 And jewel'd turban with a smile of peace, 
 Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, 
 The popular harangue, the tart reply. 
 The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, 
 And the loud laugh — I long to know them all; 
 I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free. 
 And give them voice and utt' ranee 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 mn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
 
 f|V 
 
THE TASK, 
 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
 So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. 
 Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face 
 Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd 
 And bor'd with elbow points through both his 
 
 sides, 
 Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage : 
 Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb. 
 And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath 
 Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, 
 Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. 
 This folio of four pages happy work ! 
 Which not e'en 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 ruiis 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 dext'rous jerk soon twists him down. 
 And wins them, but to loose them in his turn. 
 Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft 
 Meanders lubricate the course they take ; 
 The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd, 
 T' 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 
 
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 That il 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, 
 Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plundered of their 
 
 sweets, 
 Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, 
 Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, 
 jEtherial journeys, submarine exploits. 
 And Katterfelto, with his hair on end 
 At his own wonders, wond'ring 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 th' uninjur'd ear. 
 Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease 
 The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd 
 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 av'rice that make man a wolf to man ; 
 
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 riear the fault 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 flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land, 
 The manners, customs, pohcy, of all 
 Pay contribution to the store he gleans ; 
 He sucks intelligence in ev'ry 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, hke the finger of a clock, 
 Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. 
 
 Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, 
 Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd. 
 Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeka 
 Fring'd with a beard made w"\ihe with other snows 
 Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, 
 A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne 
 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels. 
 But urg'd by storms along its slipp'ry way, 
 I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
 And dreaded as thou art ! Thou hold'st the sun 
 A pris'ner in the yet undawning east, 
 Short' ning 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, 
 A.nd gath'ring, at short notice, in one group 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The family dispers'd, and fixing thought, 
 Not less dispers'd by daylight and its cares. 
 I crown thee king of intimate delights, 
 Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
 Of long, uninterrupted ev'ning know. 
 No rattling wheels stop short before these gates, 
 No powder' d pert proficient in the art 
 Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors 
 Till the street rings; no stationary steeds 
 Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the 
 
 sound. 
 The silent circle fan themselves, and quake ; 
 But here the needle plies its busy task. 
 The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, 
 Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, 
 Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, 
 And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos'd, 
 Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
 A wreath, that cannot fade, or flow'rs that blow 
 With most success when all besides decay. 
 The poet's or historian's page by one 
 Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest: 
 The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet 
 
 sounds 
 The touch from many a tembling 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- . 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The volume clos'd, the customary rites 
 Of the last meal commence. A Roman mealj 
 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, 
 Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an ^gg. 
 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 Mem'ry's pointing wa id, 
 That calls the past to our exact review, 
 The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, 
 The disappointed foe, deiiv'rance found 
 Unlook'd lor, life preserv'd, and peace restor'd— • 
 Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. 
 O ov'ni.igs v.orthy of the gods! exck'im'd 
 The Sabine bard. O ev'nings, I reply, 
 More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, 
 
 . As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, 
 That T, 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 unsav'ry throng. 
 To thaw him ir.to feeling, or the smart 
 ^ i And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits 
 ^\X^ Call comedy, to prompt hmi wiih a smile f 
 
 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Tne self-complacent actor, when he views 
 (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house) 
 The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof 
 (As if one master spring controU'd them all,) 
 Relax'd into a universal grin, 
 Sees not a count' nance there, that speaks of joy 
 Half so refin'd or so sincere as ours. 
 Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks 
 That idleness has ever yet contriv'd 
 To fill the void of an unfurnish'd brain, 
 To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. 
 Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, 
 Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound ; 
 But the world's Time is Time in masquerade ! 
 Theirs-, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd, 
 With motley plumes ; and where the peacock 
 
 shows 
 His azure eyes, is tinctur'd 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 hourglass once. 
 Becomes a dicebox, and a billiard mace 
 Well does the work of his destructive scythe. 
 Thus deck'd, he charms a World whom Fashion 
 
 blinds 
 To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most: 
 Whose only happy, are their idle hours. 
 E'en misses, at whose age their mothers wore 
 The backstrinsf and the bib, assume the dress 
 Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school 
 Of card devoted Time, and, night by night, 
 Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board, 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Learn ev'ry 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 thai travels far oft turns aside, 
 To view some rusged rock or mould'ring tow'r, 
 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, wiih brush in hand and pallet spread, 
 With colours mix'd for afar difTrent use, 
 Paint cards, and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing, 
 That fancy finds in her excursive flights. 
 
 Come, Ev'ning. once again, season of peace, 
 Return, sweet Ev'ning, and continue long! 
 Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, 
 With matron step slow-moving, while the Night 
 Tread? on thy sweeping train; one handemploy'd 
 In letting fall the curtain of repose 
 On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man 
 Wxth sweet oblivion of the cares of day : 
 Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, 
 Like homely-featur'd Night, of clusl'ring gems ; 
 A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, 
 Suffices thee ; save that the moon is thine 
 No less than hers, nor 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 shah find thy votary calirii 
 Or make me so. Composure is thy gift ; 
 And, whether T devote thy gentle hour, 
 To books, to music, or the poet's toil ; 
 
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 To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit ; 
 Or twining silken threads round ivory reels. 
 When they command whom man was born Co 
 
 please ; 
 
 I slight thee not, but make thee welcome slill. 
 Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze 
 With lights, by clear reflection multiplied 
 From many a mirror, in which he of Gatn, 
 Goliah, might have seen his giant bulk 
 Whole without stooping, tow' ring crest and ali 
 My pleasures, too, begin. But me perhaps 
 The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile 
 With faint illumination, that uplifts 
 The shadows to the ceiling, there by fits 
 Dancing uncouthly to the quiv'ring 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 indispos'd alike to all. 
 Laugh ye, who boast your more mercunal 
 
 pow'rs, 
 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, 
 Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, tow'ra, 
 Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 
 In the red cinders, while with poring eye 
 I caz'd, myself creating what I saw. 
 Nor less amus'd have T quiescent watch'd 
 The sooty films that play upon the bars 
 Pendulous, and foreboding in the view 
 
 V 
 

 THE TASK. 
 
 Of superstition prophesying still. 
 
 Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's ie«r 
 
 approach. 
 'Tis thus the understanding takes repose 
 In indolent vacuity of thought, 
 And sleeps, and is refresh' d. Meanwhile the face 
 Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask 
 Of deep deliberation, as the man 
 Were task'd to his full strength, absorb'd uid 
 
 lost. 
 Thus oft, reclin'd at ease, I lose an hour 
 At ev'ning, till at length the freezing blast 
 That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home 
 The recollected pow'rs ; and snapping short 
 The glassy threads, with which the Fancy weaves 
 Her brittle toils, 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 enjoy'd within! 
 I saw the woods and fields at close of day, 
 A variegated show ; the meadows green, 
 Though faded ; and the lands, where lately wav'd 
 The golden harvest, of a mellow brown, 
 Upturn'd so lately by the forceful share. 
 I saw far off the weedy fallows smile 
 With verdure not unprofitable, graz'd 
 By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each 
 His fav'rite herb : while all the leafless groves 
 That skirt th' horizon wore a sable hue, 
 Scarce notic'd in the kindred dusk of eve. 
 To-morrow brings a change, a total change ! 
 V* hich even now though silently perform'd, 
 
 9 
 
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 THE TASK, 
 
 And slowly, and by most unfelt, .he face 
 Of universal nature undergoes. 
 Fast falls a fleecy show'r ; the downy flakes 
 Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, 
 Soft alighting upon all below, 
 Assimilate all objects. Earth receives 
 Gladly the thick' ning mantle ; and the green 
 And tender blade, that fear'd 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 lessdistinguish'd than ourselves ; that thus 
 We may with patience bear our moderate ills, 
 And sympathize with others suff"'ring more. 
 Ill fares the trav'ller now, and he that stalks 
 In pond'rous boots beside his reeking team. 
 The wain goes heavily, impeded sore 
 By congregated loads adhering close 
 To the elogg'd wheels ; and in its sluggish pace 
 Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. 
 The toiHng steeds eipand the nostril wide, 
 While ev'ry breath, by respiration strong 
 Forc'd downward, is consolidated soon 
 Upon their jutting chests. He, form'd to bear 
 The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night. 
 With half shut eyes, and pucKer'd cheeks and 
 
 teeth 
 Prebented bare against the storm plods on. 
 One hand secures his hat, save waen 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 He brandishes his pliant length of whip, 
 Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. 
 O happy; and in my account denied 
 That sensibility of pain with which 
 Refinement is endur'd, thrice happy thou ! 
 Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed 
 The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. 
 The learn'd finger never need explore 
 Thy vig'rous pulse ; and the unhealthful east, 
 That breathes the spleen, and searches ev'ry 
 
 bone 
 Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. 
 Thy days roll on exempt from household care ; 
 Thy wagon 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 thouappear'st, 
 Yet show that thou hast mercy ! which the great, 
 With needless hurry whirl'd 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 cv'ry feeling heart. 
 Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long 
 They brave the season, and yet find at eve, 
 111 clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. 
 The frugal housewife trembles when she lightB 
 Her scanty stock of brushwood blazing clear, 
 But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. 
 The few small embers left she nurses well; 
 And, while herinfan' race, with outspread hands 
 \w 4^ And crowded knees, sit cow'ring o'er the sparks, 
 ^, f Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The man feels least, as more iniir'd than she 
 To winter, and .he current in his veins 
 More briskly mov'd by his severer toil ; 
 Yet he too finds his own distress in theirs. 
 The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw 
 Dangled along at the cold finger's end 
 Just when the day declin'd: and the brovn loaf 
 Lodg'd on the shelf half eaten without sauce 
 Ofsav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still ; 
 Sleep seems their only refuge : for, alas ! 
 Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, 
 And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! 
 With all this thrift they thrive not. Ail the care, 
 Ingenious Parsimony takes, but jUst 
 Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool. 
 Skillet, and old carv'd chest, from public sale. 
 They live, and live without extorted alms 
 From grudging hands : but other boast havd 
 
 none. 
 To sooth 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 ar*^ worthy ; choosing rather far 
 A dry but independent crust, hard earn'd, 
 And eaten with a sigh, than to endure 
 The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs 
 Of knaves in office, partial in the work 
 Of distribution; lib'ral of their aid 
 To clam'rous Importunity in rags. 
 But ofttimes deaf to supphants, who would blush 
 To wear a tatter'd garb, however coarse, 
 Whom famine cannot reconcile to Hlth: 
 These ask with painful shyness, nnd, refus'd 
 
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 Because deserving, silently retire ! 
 
 But be ye of good courage ! Time itself 
 
 Shall much befriend you. Time sha^l give 
 
 increase ; 
 And all your numerous progeny, well train'd, 
 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 wo ; 
 The effect of lazine£,s 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. 
 Wo to the gard'ners pale, the farmer's hedge, 
 Plash'd neatly, and secur'd 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 bordered hovel better guard 
 The well-staoic'd pile of riven logs and roots 
 From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave 
 Unwrench'd the door, however well secur'd, 
 Where Camicleer amidst his haram sleeps 
 In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perc) 
 He gives the princely bird with all his wives, 
 
 
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 To his voracious banj, struo'ghnj/ in vain, 
 And loudly vi'ond'ring at the sudden change. 
 Nor this to feed his own. 'Twcre some excuse 
 Did pity of their sufTrings vi'arp aside 
 His principle, and tempt him into sin 
 For their support, so destitute. But they 
 Neglected, pine at home ; themselves, as more 
 Expos'd than others, with less scruple made 
 His victims, robb'd of their defenceless all. 
 Cruel is all he does, 'Tis quenchless thirst 
 Of ruinous ebriety, that prompts 
 His ev'ry action, and imbrutes the man. 
 O 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, 
 Thouffh lean and beggar'd, every twentieth pace, 
 Conducts th' unguarded nose to such a whiff 
 Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from ;he sties 
 That lawhaslicens'd, as makes Temp'rnnce reel 
 There sit, involv'd 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, cobblpr, 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 wail'd 
 Its wasted tones and harmony unheard 
 
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 Fierce the dispute,\vhate'er the theme, while she, 
 Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, 
 Perch'd on the signpost, 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 disienduig ouih, not to be prais'd 
 As ornamental, musical, polite. 
 Like those which modern senators employ, 
 Whose oath is rhet'ric, and who swear for tame ! 
 Behold the schools, in which plebeian minds. 
 Once simple, are initiated in arts 
 Which some may practise with pohter 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 encumber' d lap, and casts them out. 
 But censure profits little ; vain ih' attempt 
 To advertise ii; verse a public pest. 
 That, hke the fiiih with which the peasant feed» 
 His hungry acres, stmks, and is ot use. 
 Th' excise is fatten' d whh the rich result 
 Of all this riot ; and ten thousand casks. 
 For ever dribbhng out their base contents, 
 Touch'd 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 th' important call I 
 Her ca'ise demen is th' assistance of your throats; 
 
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 Ye all can swallow, and she asks no lAore. 
 
 Would I had fall'n 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 dismiss' d, found shelter in the groves; 
 The footsteps of simplicity, impress'd 
 Upon the yielding herbage, (so they sing.) 
 1'hen were not all effac'd ; then speech profane, 
 And manners profligate, were rarely found, 
 Observ'd as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. 
 Vain wish ! those days were never ; airy dreams 
 Sat for the picture: and the poet's hand. 
 Imparting substance to an empty shade, 
 Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth. 
 Grant it : I still must envy them an age 
 That favour'd such a dream : in days like theso 
 Impossible when Virtue is so scarce, 
 That to suppose a scene where she presides 
 Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief. 
 No : we are polish'd 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, adorn'd with lappets pinn'd aloft, 
 And ribands streaming gay, superbly rais'd. 
 And magnified beyond all human size, 
 Indebted to some smart wig- weaver's hand 
 
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 For more than halt" the tresses it sistains . 
 Her elbows ruffled, and her tott'ring form 
 111 propp'd upon French heels; she might be 
 
 deem'd 
 (But that the basket dangling on her arm 
 Interprets her more truly) ot a rank 
 I'oo proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs^ 
 Expect her soon with footboy at her lieels, 
 No longer blushing for lier awkward load, 
 Her train and her umbrella all her care ! 
 
 The town has ting'd the country ; and the stain 
 Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, 
 The worse lor what it soils. The fashion runs 
 Down into scenes still rural ; but, alas, 
 Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now I 
 Time was when in the pastoral retreat 
 Th' unguarded door was sale ; men did not watch 
 T' invade another's right, or guard their own. 
 Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscar'd 
 By drunken bowlings; and the chilling tale 
 Of midnight n)urder was a wonder heard 
 "With doubtful credit, told to Irighten babes. 
 But farewell now to unsuspicious nights. 
 And slumbers unalarm'd I Now, ere you sleep, 
 See that your polish'd arms be prim'd 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. 
 E'en daylight has its dangers ; and the walk 
 Through pathless wastes and woods, tinconcious 
 
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 138 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Of Other tenants than melodius birds, 
 
 Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. 
 
 Lamented change ! to which full many a cause 
 
 Invet'rate, hopeless of a cure, conspires. 
 
 The course of human things from good to ill, 
 
 From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails. 
 
 Increase of pow'r 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 license 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 herself not seldom sleeps. 
 
 Though resident, and witness of the wrong. 
 
 The plump convivial parson often bears 
 
 The magisterial sword in vain, and lays 
 
 His rev'rence and his worship both to rest 
 
 On the same cushion of habitual sloth. 
 
 Perhaps timidity restrains his arm ; 
 
 When he should strike he trembles.andsets free, 
 
 Himself enslav'd by terror of the band — 
 
 Th' audacious convict whom he dares not bind. 
 
 Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure, 
 
 He, too, may have his vice and sometimes prove 
 
 licss dainty than becomes his grave outside 
 
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 In lacrative con.'erns. 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 touch' d 
 Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here 
 Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, 
 Wild fowl 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 wish'd remov'd. 
 Works the deplor'd and mischievous effect. 
 'Tis universal soldiership has stabb'd 
 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 perform'd, 
 That instant he becomes the sergeant'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 form'd of stubborn stuff, 
 He yet by slovi- degrees puts ofl iiimself, 
 
 M 
 
Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well; 
 He stands erect : his slouch becomes a walk j 
 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 plum'd helmet, with a grace ; 
 And, his three years of heroship expir'd, 
 Returns rndignant to the slighted plough. 
 He hates the field, in which no file or drum 
 Attends him ; drives his cattle to a march ; 
 And siglis for the smart comrades he has left. 
 'Twcre 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 ; 
 T' 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 ; 
 Arc his sole aim, and all his glory, now. 
 
 Man in society is like a flow'r 
 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 int'rest sake, or swarming into clans 
 Beneath one head for purposes of war, 
 Like flow'rs selected from the rest, and bound 
 And bundled close to fill some crowded vase, 
 Fades rapidly, an 1, by compression marr'd, 
 
 
 
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 Cont:acts defilement not to be endur'd. 
 
 Hence charter'd boroughs are such publicpiague^ 
 
 And burghers, men nnmacuiate perhaps 
 
 In all their private functions, once combin'd, 
 
 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, 
 
 ^hld factories with blood, conducting trade 
 
 At the sword's point, and dying 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 its majesty of thundering pomp, 
 
 Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, 
 
 Is but a school, where thoughtlessness is tavight 
 
 On principle, where foppery atones 
 
 For folly, gallantry for every vice. 
 
 But slighted as it is, and by the great 
 Abandon'd. and, which still I more regret, 
 Infected with the manners and the modes 
 It knew not once, the country wins me still. 
 I never fram'd a wish, or form'd a plan, 
 That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss, 
 But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd 
 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. 
 
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 poetic 
 
 listress of their pow'rs. 
 
 16 but whose lyre was tun'd 
 To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats 
 Fatigu'd me, never weary of the pipe 
 Of Tityrus, assembhng, as he sang, 
 The rustic throng beneath his fav'rite beech. 
 Then Mihon had indeed a poet's charms : 
 New to my taste, his Paradise surpass'd 
 The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue 
 To speak, its excellence. I danc'd for joy. 
 I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age 
 
 As twice seven years, his beauties had then 
 
 first 
 Engag'd my wonder; and admiring still, 
 And still admiring, with regret suppos'd 
 The joy half lost, because not sooner found. 
 There, too, enamour'd of the life T lov'd, 
 Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit 
 Determin'd and possessing it at last, 
 With transports such as favour'd lovers feel, 
 I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known. 
 Ingenious Cowley ! and, though now reclaim'd 
 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 retir'd ; 
 Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent 
 
 bow'rs, 
 Not unemploy'd ; and finding rich amends 
 For a lost world in solitude and verse. 
 Tis born with all : The love of Nature's wrrka 
 
 
 

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 THE TASK. 
 
 Is an ingredient in the compound man, 
 
 Infiis'd at the creation of the kind. 
 
 And, though :h' 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 tliscern a beauty in his works, 
 
 And all can taste them : minds that have been 
 
 form'd 
 And tutor' d with a relish more exact. 
 But none without some relish, none unmov'd. 
 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 s'ands begirt. 
 Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads 
 Prove it. A breath of unadult'rate air. 
 The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheei' 
 The citizen, and brace his languid frame .' 
 E'en in the stifling bosom of the town 
 A garden, in whioh nothing thrives, has charms 
 That sooth the rich possessor ; much consol'd. 
 That here and there some sprigs of mournful 
 
 mint, 
 Of nisrhtshade, or valerian, grace the well 
 He cultivates. These serve him with a hint 
 That nature lives ; that siofht-refreshing green 
 Is still the liv'ry she delichts to wear, 
 Though sickly samples of tlie exhub'rant whole, 
 
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 What are the casements lin'd with creeping 
 
 herbs, 
 The prouder sashes fronted with a range 
 Of or":nore, myrtle, or the fras:rant weed, 
 The Frenchman's darling?* are they not all 
 
 proofs. 
 That man, immur'd in cities, still retains 
 His inborn inextinguishable thirst 
 Of rural scenes, compensating his loss 
 By supplemental shifts, the best he may? 
 The most unfurnish'd 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 water'd duly. There the pitcher stands 
 A fragment, and the spoutless teapot 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 throng'd abode 
 Of multitudes unknown ! hail, rural life! 
 Address himself who will to the pursuit 
 Of honours, or emoluments, or fame ; 
 I shall not add myself to such a chase, 
 Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. 
 
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 Some tnust be great. Grea' offices will have 
 Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry 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 deliv'rer of an injur'd land 
 He gives a tongue t' enlarge upon a heart 
 To feel, and courage to redress his wronga; 
 To m^onarchs dignity ; to judges sense ; 
 To artists ingenuity and skill ; 
 Tome, an unambitious mind, content 
 In the low vale of hfe, that early felt 
 A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long 
 Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'iL 
 10 
 
 
THE WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH BOOK. 
 A. frosty miirning— The foddering of cattle— The woodman 
 and his dog— The poultry— Whimsical effects of a frost 
 at a waterfall -The empress of Russia's palace of ice— 
 Amusemems of nionarchs— War, one of them— Wars, 
 whence— And whence monarchy— The evils of it- 
 English and French loyalty contrasted -The Bastile, 
 and a prisoner there — Liberty the chief recommenda- 
 tion of this country— Modern patriotism questionable, 
 and why -The perishable nature of the besi human in- 
 stitutions-Spiritual liberty not perishable— The slavish 
 state of man by nature- Deliver him, Deist, if you can 
 —Grace must do it— The respective merits of patriots 
 and martyrs stated— Their ditferent treatment— Happy 
 freedom of the man wliom grace makes free — His re- 
 lish of the works of God— Address to the Creator. 
 
 Tis morninor; and the sun, with ruddy orb 
 Ascenditig, fires th' horizon ; while the clouds 
 That crowd away before the drivino; wind, 
 Mure ardent as the disk enaerges more, 
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 THE TASK 
 
 Resemble most some city in a blaze, 
 
 Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting 
 
 ray 
 Slides ineflfectual down the snowy vale, 
 And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, 
 From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade 
 Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. 
 Mine spindling into lonmtude 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 proportion'd limb 
 Transform' d to a lean shank. The shapeless 
 
 pair, 
 As they design'd to mock me, at my side, 
 Take step for step; and, as I near approach 
 The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, 
 Prepost'rous 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, fledg'd with icy feathers, nod su;;>crb. 
 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 hung'ring man, 
 Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek, 
 And patient ot the slow-paced swain's delay. 
 He from the s:ack carves out the accustom'd 
 
 load. 
 
 

 Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging ^ft. 
 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 storm should overset the leaning pile 
 Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight. 
 Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd 
 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 cropp'd 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-scamp'ring, snatches up the drifted snow 
 With iv'ry teeth, or ploughs it with his snout ; 
 Then shakes his powder' d 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 
 T' adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube. 
 That fumes beneath his nose : the traihng cloud 
 Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. 
 Now from the roost, or from the neighb'rmg 
 
 pale, 
 Where diligent to catch the first faint gleam 
 Of smihng day, they gossip'd side 
 
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 Come trooping at the housewife's well known 
 
 call 
 The feather'd tribes domestiok. 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 shelt'ring eaves, 
 To seize the fair occasion ; well they eye 
 The scattcr'd grain, and thievishly resolv'd 
 T' escape th' impending famine, often scar'd 
 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. Resign'd 
 To sad necessity, the cock foregoes 
 His wonted strut ; and, wading at their head 
 With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent 
 His alter'd gait, and stateliness retrench'd. 
 How find the myriads, that in summer cheer 
 The hills and valleys whh their ceaseless songs, 
 Due sustenance, or where subsist they now ? 
 Earth yields them naught ; th' imprison'd worm 
 
 is safe 
 Beneath the frozen clod ; all seeds of herbs 
 Lie cover' d close ; and berry-bearing thorns. 
 That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,) 
 Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. 
 The long-protracted rigour of the year 
 Thins all their num'rous 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, 
 
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 Where neithei grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, 
 
 now 
 Repays their labour more ; and perch' d aloft 
 By the way-side, or stalking in the path, 
 Lean pensioners upon the traveler'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 fix'd, the snowy weight 
 Lies undissolv'c* ; while silently beneath. 
 And unperceiv'd, 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 embroider' d 
 
 banks 
 With forms so various, that no pow'rs of art, 
 The pencil, or the pen, may trace the scene ! 
 Here glitt'ring turrets rise, upl>earing high, 
 (Fantastick misarrangement !) on the roof 
 Large growth of what may seem the sparkling 
 
 trees 
 And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops 
 Thai trickled down the branches, fast congeal'd 
 Shoot into pillars of pellucid length. 
 And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. 
 Here grotto within grotto safe defies 
 
h^ 
 
 The sunbeam ; there, emboss'd and fretted wild, 
 The growing wonder takes a thousand shape» 
 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 pow'rs ; 
 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 admir'd, 
 Because anovehy, 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 ita 
 
 stores, 
 1 ' enrich thy walls: but thou did'st 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 armory of Winter ; where his troops, 
 The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, 
 Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, 
 And snow, that often blinds the traveler's course, 
 And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. 
 Silently as a dream the fabrick rose ; 
 No sound of hammer or of saw was there : 
 Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted pavts 
 Were soon conjoin' d, nor other cement ask'd 
 Than water interfus'ti, to make them one. 
 
n 
 
 
 
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 Lamps gracefully dispos'd, and of ail hues, 
 
 Illumin' J ev'ry side : a wat'ry light 
 
 Gleam d through the clear transparency, ti,at 
 
 seem'd 
 Another moon new ris'n, or meteor fall'n 
 From Heav'n to Earth, of lambent flame serene 
 So stood the brittle prodigy ; though smooth 
 And slipp'ry 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 flow'rs that fear'd no enemy but warmth, 
 Blush'd on the pannels. Mirror needed none 
 Where all was vitreous ; but in order due 
 Convivial table and commodious seat 
 (What seem'd 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 1 'twas but a mortifying stroke 
 Ofundesign'd severity, that glanc'd, 
 (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 seem'd 
 Intrinsically precious ; to the foot 
 Treach'rous and false ; it smil'd, and it was cold. 
 Great princes have great play-things. Some 
 
 have play'd 
 
 
 ^y 
 
 m 
 
i^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 At hewing mountains into men, and some 
 At building human wonders mountain-high. 
 Some have amus'd the dull, sad years of life, 
 (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad,) 
 With schemes of monumental fame ; and sought 
 By pyramids and mausolean pomp. 
 Short liv'd themselves, t' immorlalize 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 would not play at. Nations would do well, 
 T' extort their tnmcheons 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 
 Confed'racy 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 drove asunder, and assign' d 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 v/as awhile their care ; they plough'd, and 
 
 sow'd. 
 And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife 
 But violence can never longer sleep 
 Than human passions please. Tn every heart 
 Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war ; 
 Occasion needs but fai'. them, and they blaze. 
 
 M 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Cain had already shed a brother's blood 
 The dekige wash'd it out : but left unquench*d 
 The seeds of murder in the breast of man. 
 Soon by a righteous judgment in the hne 
 Of his descending progeny was found 
 The first artificer of death ; the shrewd 
 Contriver, who first sweated at the forge, 
 And forc'd the blunt and yet unbloodied steel 
 To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. 
 Him, Tubal nam'd, the Vulcan of old times, 
 The sword and falchion their inventor claim ; 
 And the first smhh was the first murd'rer's son 
 His art surviv'd the waters ; and ere long, 
 When man was multiphed and spread abroad 
 In tribes and clans, and had begun to call 
 These meadows and that range of hills his ow». 
 The tasted sweets of property begat 
 Desire of more ; and industry in some, 
 T' improve and cultivate their just demesne, 
 Made others covet what they saw so fair. 
 Thus war 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, for courage, or for all, 
 Was chosen leader ; him they served in war, 
 And him in peace, for sake of warlike deeds, 
 Rev'rence no less. Who could with him compare? 
 Or who so worthy to control themselves. 
 As he, whose prowess had subdu'd their foes ? 
 Thus war, aflfording field for the display 
 Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace. 
 
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 THE TASB.. 
 
 Which have their exigencies too, and call 
 For skill in goverment, at length made king. 
 King was a name too proud for man to wear 
 With modesty and meekness ; and the crowa 
 So dazzling in their eyes, who set it on, 
 Was sure t' 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 rais'd themselves. 
 Thus by degrees, self-cheated of their sound 
 And sober judgment, that he is but a 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 thmks 
 The world was made in vain, if not for him 
 
-s-"^-^ 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 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 reck'ning: and they think the same. 
 Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings 
 Were burnish'd into heroes, and became 
 The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp ; 
 Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and 
 
 died. 
 Strange, that such folly, as lifts bloated man 
 To eminence, fit only for a god. 
 Should ever drivel out of human lips. 
 E'en in the cradled weakness of the world ! 
 Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind 
 Had reach'd 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 thegods themselveshad made: 
 But above measure strange, *hat neither proof 
 Of sad experience, nor examples set 
 By some whose patriot virtue has prevail'd, 
 Can even now, when they are grown mature 
 In wisdom, and with philosophick deeds 
 Familiar, serve t' emancipate the rest ! 
 Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone 
 To rev'rence what is ancient, and can plead 
 A co'^rse of long observance for its use, 
 Tb^ even s«>rvitude,the worst of ills. 
 
 
 <«*> 
 
,> 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Because deliver' d down from sire to son, 
 Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. 
 But is it fit, or can it bear the shock 
 Oi rational discussion, that a man, 
 Compounded and made up like other men 
 Of elements tunmliuous, 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 wilV 
 Wage war, with any or with no pretence 
 Of provocation giv'n, or wrong sustain'd, 
 And force the beggarly last doit, by means 
 That his own humour dictates, from the clutch 
 Of poverty, that thus he may procure 
 His tho\isands, weary of penurious life, 
 A splendid opportunity to die ? 
 Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old 
 Joiham ascrib'd to his assembled trees 
 In politick convention) put your trust 
 r th' shadow of a bramble, and, rechn'd 
 In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch, 
 Rejoice m him, and celebrate his sway, 
 Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence spring! 
 Your self-denying zeal, that hol-ds 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 : 
 
 
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 THE TASK 
 
 But recollecting still that he is man, 
 We trust him not too far. King though Ae be. 
 And king in England too, he may be weak 
 And vain enough to be ambitious still ; 
 May exercise amiss his proper pow'rs, 
 Or covet more than freemen choose to grant! 
 Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, 
 T' administer, to guard, t' adorn the state 
 But not to warp or change it. We are his, 
 To serve him nobly in the common cause. 
 True to the deatTi ; but not to be his slaves. 
 Mark now the difTrence, 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 ; 
 Vou, the regardless author of its woes : 
 We, for the sake of liberty, a king ; 
 You, chains and bondage ibr 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 belov'd 
 Causeless, and daub' d with undiscerning praise. 
 Where love is mere attachment to the throne, 
 Not to the man who fills it as he ought. 
 
 Whose freedom is by sufT'rance, and at wilj 
 Of a superiour, he is never free. 
 VVho lives, and is not weary of a life 
 Expos'd to iranacle&, deserves them well. 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd, 
 
 And ibrc'd to abandon what she bravely sought, 
 
 Deserves at least applause ibr her attempt, 
 
 And pity for her loss. But that's a cause 
 
 Not often unsuccessful : pow'r usurp'd 
 
 Is weakness when oppos'd ; 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.* 
 I'hen 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 Ciod avcng'd on Pharaoh — the Baatile; 
 Ye horrid tovv'rs, th' abode of broken hearts: 
 Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 
 I'hai nionarchs have supplied from age to age 
 With musick, such as suiis their sov' reign ears— 
 The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
 There's not an Enghsh heart that would not leAp 
 To hear that ye were fall'n at last ; to know 
 
 •The author hopes that he shall not be censured for un- 
 necessai7 uarnuli upon so imeresting a svibjeci. He is 
 Bwarp, tliai ii is bocome ulmosi fashionable, lo stigmaiize 
 rjch eentinienifi as no beucr than empty declamation ; 
 bi I it is an ill symi.toai, and peculiar lo modern limes. 
 
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 7^v. 
 
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 That e'en our enemies, so oft employ'd 
 
 In forging chains for us, themselves are Iree. 
 
 For he who values. Liberty, confines 
 
 Ilis zeal for her predominence within 
 
 No narrow bounds ; her cause engages him 
 
 Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. 
 
 There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, 
 
 Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried, 
 
 Cruelly spar'd, 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 Uves, though all his pleasant boughs aio 
 
 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, 
 ■^ien thousand rovers in the world at large 
 Account it musick ; that it summons some 
 To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball ; 
 The wearied hireling finds it a release 
 From labour ; and the lover, who has chid 
 Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke 
 Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight—* 
 To fly for refuge from distracting thought 
 To such amusements of ingenious wo 
 Contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools—' 
 To read engraven on the mouldy walls, 
 In stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale, 
 A sad memorial, and subjoin his own- 
 To turn purT'eyor to an )vergorg'd 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest 
 Is made familiar, watches his approach, 
 Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend- 
 To wear out time in numb' ring to and fro 
 The studs that thick emboss his irion door ; 
 Then downward and then upward, then aslant, 
 And then ahernate ; with a s ckly hope 
 By dint of change to give his tasteless task 
 Some relish ; till the sum, exactly found 
 In all directions, he begins again — 
 O comfortless existence ! hemm'd 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 th' endearments of domestick 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, 
 Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy. 
 
 'Tis liberty alone, that gives the fiow'r 
 Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume ; 
 And we are weeds without it. All constraint, 
 Except what wisdom lays on evil men, 
 [s evil : hurts the faculties, impedes 
 Their progress in the road of science ; blinds 
 The evesight of Discovery ; and begets, 
 11 
 
1^. 
 
 * 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ^^^9. 
 
 162 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 In those tliat sufftr it, a sordid mind, 
 Bestial, a meager intellect, unfit 
 To be the tenant of man's noble form. 
 Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou w, 
 With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd 
 By publick. 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 chme 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, with which no pleasure is 
 In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve. 
 Or flush'd by fierce dispute, a senseless brawL 
 Yet, being free, I love thee : for the sake 
 Of that one feature can be well content, 
 Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art, 
 To seek no sublunary rest beside. 
 But once enslav'd, farewell ! I could endure 
 Chains no where 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 ; 
 
 r 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 And, 'f I must bewail the blessing lost, 
 
 For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bledi 
 
 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 telt. 
 
 Do I forebode impossible events, 
 
 And tremble at vain dreams ? Heav'n grant I 
 
 may ! 
 But th' age of virtuous politicks is past, 
 And we are deep in that of cold pretence. 
 Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, 
 And we too wise to ^lusi them. He that takes 
 Deep in his soft credulity tne stamp 
 Design'd by loud declaimers on the part 
 Of hberty, (themselves the slaves of lust,) 
 Incurs derision for his easy faith 
 And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough : 
 For when was pubhck 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 belov'd? 
 
 *Tis therefore sober and good men are sad 
 For England's glory, seeing it wax pale 
 And sickly, while herchampions wear their heart! 
 So loose to private duty, that no brain 
 Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, 
 Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. 
 Such were they not of old, whose temper' d blades 
 
 ^' 
 
 11 
 
V 
 
 i^. 
 
 Dispers'd the shackles of usurp'd contMl, 
 And hew'd them link, from link ; then Albion'i 
 
 sons 
 Were sons indeed ; they felt a filial heart 
 Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs; 
 And, shining each in his doniestick sphere, 
 Shone brighter still, once call'd to publick view. 
 'Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot 
 Forbids their interference, looking on, 
 Anticipate perforce some du'c event ; 
 And, seeing the old castle of the state, 
 That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd, 
 That all its tempest-beaicix turrets shake. 
 Stand motionless expectants oi its fall. 
 All has its date below ; the fatal hour 
 Was register' d in Heav'd 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 irace remains. 
 We build with what we deem eternal rock j 
 A distant age asks where the fabric stood ; 
 And in the dust, sifted and search' d in vain^ 
 The undiscoverable secret sleeps. 
 
 But there is yet a liberty, unsung 
 By poets, and by senators uprais'd. 
 Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the pov^'rs 
 Of Earth and Hell confed'rate take away : 
 A liberty, which persecution, fraud, 
 Oppression, prisons, have no pow'r to bind, 
 Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 
 'Tis liberty of heart deriv'd from Heav'n, 
 Bought with his blood, who gave it to mankind, 
 
 
i?W? 
 
 ■^.. 
 
 
 \ 
 
 * \ 
 
 i 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 And seal'd with the same token. It is held 
 By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure 
 By th' unimpeachable and awful oath 
 And promise of a God. His other gifts 
 All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, 
 And are august 1 but this transcends them all. 
 His other works, the visible display 
 Of all-creating energy and might, 
 Are grand, no doubt, and worthy of the word 
 That, finding an interminable space 
 Unoccupied, has fiU'd the void so well, 
 And made so sparkling what was dark before. 
 But tliese are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, 
 Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene. 
 Might well suppose th' artificer divine 
 Meant it eternal, had he not himself 
 Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is, 
 And, still designing a more glorious far, 
 Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. 
 These therefore are occasional, and pass ; 
 Form'd for the confutation of the fool, 
 Whose lying heart disputes against a God ; 
 That office serv'd, they must be swept away 
 Not so the labours of his love : they shine 
 In other heav'ns than these that we behold. 
 And fade not. There is paradise that feara 
 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 g've way, 
 

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 ^% 
 
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 L 
 
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 166 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 A clear escape fr jm tyrannising lust, 
 And full immuniy from penal wo. 
 
 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 pow'rs 
 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 Heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures — 
 What does he not, from lusts oppos'd 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 forbodes 
 Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death, 
 And death still future. Not a hasty stroke. 
 Like that whicL s?nds bim to the dusty grave : 
 
 
 \1 
 
 (©1^ 
 
7*^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 But unrepealable, enduring, death. 
 Scripture is stil! 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 shir^es 
 Remorse begets reform. His master-lust 
 Falls first before his resolute rebuke, 
 And seems dethron'd and vanquish'd. Peace 
 
 ensues, 
 But spurious and short liv'd : 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, foil'd 
 So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, 
 Scofl^s at her own performance Reason now 
 Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause 
 Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd ; 
 With shallow shifts and old devices, worn 
 And tatter'd in the service of debauch, 
 Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight. 
 
 " Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, 
 And stor'd 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 kjnd, and .hen enacting laws 
 

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 163 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 So Strict, that less than perfect must despair f 
 F alsehoci ! which whoso but suspects of truth. 
 Dishonours God, and maizes 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 w4iich the priest 
 May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, 
 The unequivocal, authentic deed. 
 We find sound argument, we read the heart." 
 Such reas'nings (if that name must needs be- 
 long 
 T' excuses in which reason has no part) 
 Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd 
 To live on terms of amity with vice, 
 And sin without disturbance. Often urg'd, 
 (As often as, libidinous discourse 
 Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes 
 Of theological and grave import,) 
 They gain at last his unreserv'd assent; 
 Till, harden'd 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 tamp'ring has but fostcr'd his disease ; 
 *Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. 
 
 
 
 
 
 f 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 Haste, now, philosopher, and set h.n. 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 obey'd, to guide his steps 
 Directly to ihe first and only fair. 
 Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'ra 
 Ot rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise ; 
 Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, 
 And with poetic trappings grace thy prose. 
 Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse. — 
 Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high sounding brass, 
 Smitten in vain I such music cannot charm 
 The eclipse, that intercepts truth's heav'nly 
 
 beam 
 And chills and darkens a wide wand'ring 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, hke 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 ; humanizing what is brut© 
 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 In the lost kind, extracting from the lips 
 Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength 
 By weakness, and hostihty by love. 
 Patriots have toil'd, 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. Th' historic 
 
 muse, 
 Proud of the treasure, marches with it down 
 To la' est times ; and Sculpture, in her turn, 
 Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass 
 To guard them, and t' immortahze her trust: 
 But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, 
 To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth, 
 Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, 
 Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, 
 And, for a time, ensure to his lov'd 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 liv'd unknown, 
 Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, 
 And chas'd them up to Heaven. Their ashes 
 
 flew — 
 No marble tells us whither. With their names 
 No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: 
 And histo- y. s7 warm on meaner themes, 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 [s cold on this. She execrates indeed 
 The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, 
 But gives the glorious sufTrers Uttle praise.* 
 
 He is the freeman whom the truth makes free. 
 And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain 
 That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, 
 Ca!i 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, compar'd 
 With those whose mansions ghtter in his sight, 
 Calls the dehghtful scenery all his own. 
 His are the mountains, and the valleys his, 
 And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy 
 With a propriety that none can feel. 
 But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, 
 Can lift to heav'n an unpresumpiuous eye, 
 And smihng say— " My Father made them all!" 
 Are they not his by a peculiar right, 
 And by an emphasis of int'rest 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 plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world 
 So cloth'd 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, 
 
 

 
 THE TASK. 
 
 A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd 
 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 ; plann'd or ere the hills 
 Were built, the fount iins open'd, or the sea, 
 With all his roaring multitude of waves. 
 His freedom is the same in ev'ry state ; 
 And no condition of this changeful life, 
 So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry 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. Th' 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 would'st 
 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 rehsh with divine delight. 
 Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought 
 Brutes graze the mountain- top. with faces pr(me, 
 And eyes intent upon the scanty herb 
 It yiel is them : or, recumbent on its brow, 
 Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread 
 Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away 
 

 -•^ 
 
 >' 
 
 J- 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 From inland regions to the distant /nain. 
 Man views it, and admires ; but rests content 
 With what he views. The landscape has hia 
 
 praise, 
 But not iis author. Unconcern'd who form'd 
 The Paradise he sees, he finds it such. 
 And such well pleas'd to find it, asks no more. 
 Not so the mind that has been touch' d from 
 
 Heav'n, 
 And in the school of sacred wisdon 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 fashion' d it, he gives it praise ; 
 Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, 
 To earth's acknowledg'd sov'reign, finds at once 
 Its only just proprietor in Him. 
 The soul that sees him, or receives sublim'd 
 New faculties, or learns at least t' employ 
 More worthily the powers she own'd before, 
 Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze 
 Of ignorance, till then she overlook'd, 
 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 roUing worlds. 
 Much conversant with Heaven, she often holda 
 With those fair ministers of light to man. 
 That fill the skies n'ghtly v. .th sileit ^iomp. 
 
 u ... .^^1 
 
 
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 (iu 
 
4.;«.i 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Inquires wAat strains were 
 
 Sweet conference. 
 
 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 reach' d this nether world, ye spy a race 
 Favour'd as ours: transgressors from the womb 
 And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, 
 And to possess a brighter Heaven than yours ? 
 As one, who, long detain' d on foreign shores, 
 Pants to return, and when he sees afar 
 His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd 
 
 rocks, 
 From the green wave emerging, darts an eye 
 Radiant with joy toward the happy land ; 
 So I with animated hopes behold, 
 And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, 
 That show hke beacons in the blue abyss. 
 Ordain' d to guide th' 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, infus'd from Heaven, must thithei 
 
 tend." 
 So reads he Nature, whom the lamp ot truth 
 
 m..%i^^^,. 
 
 :K 
 
 *^? 
 
 i-^h 
 
 \i^lSJ€J 
 
Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious Word I 
 Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost, 
 With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt, 
 But runs the road of wisdom. I'hou hast built 
 With means that wear not, till by thee employ'd, 
 Worlds that had never been, hadst thou in 
 
 strength 
 Been less, or less benevolent than strong. 
 They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r 
 And goodness infinite, but c -eak in ears 
 That hear not, or receive not i.^eir report 
 In vain thy creatures testify of tn?e, 
 T'ill thou proclaim thyself. Theirs . indeed 
 A *eaching voice ; but 'tis the praise of thine, 
 Thai 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 deem'd oracular, lure down to death 
 The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. 
 We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves aa 
 
 blind. 
 The glory of thy work ; which yet appears 
 Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, 
 Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd 
 Then skilful most when most severely judg'd. 
 But chance is not ; or is not where thou reign' st; 
 1'hy providence forbids that fickle pow'r 
 (If pow'r she be, that works but to confcuri) 
 To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. 
 Yet thus we dole, refusing while we can 
 Instruction, and invejiting to ourselves 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 Gods such as guilt makes welcome ; gods that 
 
 sleep, 
 Or disregard our follies, or that sit 
 Amus'd 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 shunn'd and hated thee before. 
 Then we are free. Then liberty, like day, 
 Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heav'r 
 Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. 
 A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not, 
 Till thou hast touch'd 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, retir'd 
 Behind his own creation, works unseen 
 By the impure, and hears his pow'r 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 sooths the life of man, 
 His high endeavour, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
 But O thou bounteous Giver of all good, 
 Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown I 
 Give what thou canst, without thee we are pooi 
 And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. 
 
 '-.^r 
 
I 
 
 % 
 
 ,•*!■ 
 
 THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. 
 
 - — ♦- 
 
 ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH BOOK 
 
 Bells at a distance — Their effect— A fine noon in winter— 
 A sheltered walk — Meditation better than booka- Our 
 familiarity with the course of Nature makes it appear 
 less wonderful than it is— The transformation that 
 Spring effects in a shrubbery, described— A mistake 
 concerning the course of Nature corrected— God main- 
 tains it by an unremitted act— The amusements fash- 
 ionable at this hour of the day reproved— Animals hap- 
 py, a delightful sight— Origin of cruelty to animals — 
 That it is a great crime proved from Scripture— That 
 proof illustrated by a tale— A line drawn between the 
 lawful and unlawful destruction of them— Their good 
 and usf'ful properties insisted on— Apologies for the en- 
 comiums bestowed by the author on animals— Instances 
 of man's extravagant praise of man— The groans of the 
 creation shall have an end— A view taken of the resto- 
 ration of all thiners— An invocation and an invitation 
 of Him who shall hfins it to pass— The retired man vin 
 dicated from the charge of uaolessness- Conclusion 
 12 177 
 
 !rMi^lv«J 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 There is in souls a sympaiiiy with sounds, 
 And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd 
 With mehing airs or martial, brisk, or grave; 
 Some chord in unison with what we hear 
 Is touch'd 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 Mem'ry 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 seem'd not always short ; .the rugged path, 
 And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, 
 Mov'd many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. 
 Yet feeling present evils, while the past 
 Faintly impress the mind or not at all, 
 How readily we wish time spent revok'd, 
 ^ hat we might try the ground again, where once 
 .^Through inexperience as we now perceive) 
 We miss'd 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, ^nd must'ring all its force. 
 
 f1 
 
 1° 
 
 

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 fwf^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Was but the graver countena\ice of love ; 
 Whose favour, Uke the clouds of spring, might 
 
 low'r, 
 And utter now and then an awful voice, 
 But had a blessing in its darkest frown, 
 Threat' ning at once and nourishing the plant. 
 We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand 
 That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd 
 By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounced 
 His shelt'ring 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, subdu'd and tam'd 
 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 stol'n away the slighted good, 
 Is causa of half the poverty we feel. 
 And makes the World the wilderness it is. 
 The lew that pray at all, pray oft amiss. 
 And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they 
 
 hold, 
 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. 
 
 The night was winter in its roughest mood , 
 The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon 
 Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 
 And wliers the woods fence off the northern 
 
 blast, 
 
 <^ 
 
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 7HE TASK 
 
 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 th' embattled 
 
 tow'r. 
 
 Whence all the music. I again perceive 
 The soothing influence of the watted 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 suffic'd. 
 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 red-breast warbles still, but is content 
 With slender notes, and more than half sup- 
 press' d: 
 Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light 
 From spray to spray, where'er he rests 
 
 shakes 
 From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, 
 That tinkle in the wither'd 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 a useful lesson to the head. 
 And Learning wiser grow without his books. 
 Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
 

 i^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 181 ^M 
 
 Have ofitimes no :onnexion. Knowledge /Iwella 
 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 smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its 
 
 place, 
 Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. 
 Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd 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 
 Hold an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. 
 Some to the fascination of a name, 
 Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the 
 
 style 
 Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds 
 Of error leads thcni, by a tune entranc'd. 
 W^hile 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 tree 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 haw- 
 thorn root. 
 Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth 
 Not shy, as in the world, and to be won 
 By slow solicitation, seize at once 
 
 M 
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 f/L 
 
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 THE TASK. 
 
 The roving thought and fix it o\i themselves. 
 What prodigies can pow'r divine perform 
 More grand than it produces year by year, 
 And all in sight of inattentive man ? 
 FamiUar with th' 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 th' 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 mov'd 
 While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph 
 Through th' imperceptible meand'ring veins 
 Of leaf and flow'r ? It sleeps ; and th' icy 
 
 touch 
 Of unprolific winter has impress'd 
 A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide. 
 But let the months go round, a few short months, 
 And all shall be restor'd. These naked shoots, 
 Barren as lances, among which the wind 
 Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes. 
 Shall put their graceful fohage on again, 
 And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, 
 Shall boast new charms, and more than they 
 
 have lost. 
 

 •? 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 183 
 
 Then each in its peculiar honours clad, 
 
 Shall publish even to the distant eye 
 
 Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich 
 
 In streaming gold ; syringa, iv'ry pure ; 
 
 The scentless and the scented rose ; this red 
 
 And of a humbler growth, other* tall. 
 
 And throwing up into the darkest gloom 
 
 Of neighb'ring 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 on nment, yet unresolv'd 
 
 Which hue she most approv'd, she chose them 
 
 all; 
 Copious of flowers, the woodbine, pale and wan, 
 But well compensating her 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-attir'd and thick beset 
 AVith blushing wreaths, investing every spray; 
 Althaea with the purple eye ; the broom 
 Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloy'd, 
 Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all 
 The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets, 
 The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf 
 Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more 
 
 
 
 7n 
 
 
 
 ft 
 
 f 
 
 ilk 
 
The bright profusion of her scatter' d stars.— 
 These have been, and these shall be in their 
 
 day ; 
 And all this uniform uncolour'd 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 heav'nly truth ; evincing, as she makes 
 The grand transition, that their lives and works 
 A soul in all things, and that soul is God. 
 The beauties of the wilderness are his, 
 That makes so gay the soUtary 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 no 
 
 pass, 
 And blunts his pointed fury ; in its case, 
 Russet and rude, folds up the tender germ, 
 Uninjur'dT with inimitable art; 
 And, ere one flow'ry season fades and dies, 
 Designs the blooming wonders of the next 
 
 Some say that in the origm of things. 
 When all creation started into birth, 
 The infant elements receiv'd a law 
 From which they swerv'd not since. 
 
 der force 
 Of that controlling ordinance they move. 
 And need not His immediate hand who first 
 Prescrib'd their course, to regulate it now. 
 
 '(rK. A 
 

 THji TASK. 
 
 185 
 
 Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God 
 Th' 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 impell'd 
 To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force. 
 And under pressure of some conscious cause ? 
 The Lord of all, himself through all diffus'd, 
 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 maintain'd. 
 Who sleeps not, is not weary ; in whose sight 
 Slow circUng 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 profan'd, not serv'd. 
 With self-taught rites, and under various names. 
 Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 
 And Flora, and Vertumnus ; peophng earth 
 With tutelary goddes.ses and gods, 
 
 €S\ 
 
 
 ^l 
 
 ^ 
 
^M' 
 
 
 If 
 
 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 wore the platted thorns with bleeding 
 
 brows — 
 Rules universal nature. Not a flower 
 But shows some touch, in freckle, streak, or stain, 
 Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires 
 Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, 
 And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, 
 In grains as countless as the seaside 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 
 Of 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, perceiv'd, 
 Makes all still fairer. As with him no scene 
 Is dreary, so with him all seasons please. 
 Though winter had been gone, had man been 
 
 true 
 And earth be punish'd for its tenant's sake, 
 Yet not in vengeance ; as this smiUng sky, 
 So soon succeeding such an angry night, 
 And these dissolving snows, and this clear 
 
 stream 
 Recov'ring fast its liquid music, prove. 
 Who, then, that has a mind well strung and 
 tuned 
 
 4 i>v7 
 
#i 
 
 
 1^ 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 To contemplation, and within his reach 
 A scene so friendly to. his fav'rite task, 
 Would waste attention at the chequer'd boara. 
 His host of wooden warriors to and fro 
 Marching and countermarching, with an eye 
 As fix'd as marble, with a forehead ridg'd 
 And furrow' d 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 iv'ry balls 
 Across a velvet level, feel a joy 
 Akin to rapture, when the bauble finds 
 Its destin'd goal, of difficult access. 
 Nor deems he wiser him, who gives his men 
 To miss, the mercer's plague from shop to shop 
 Wand'ring, and litt'ring with unfolded silks 
 The polish'd counter, and approving none, 
 Or promising with smiles to call again. 
 Nor him, who by his vanity seduc'd. 
 And sooth'd into a dream, that he discerns 
 The difF'rence of a Guido from a daub, 
 Frequents the crowded auction : station'd there 
 As duly as the Langford of the show. 
 With glass at eye, and catalogue in hand, 
 And tongue accomplish'd 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 ! 
 
 n 
 
'I. 
 
 
 ik '^ ■••f:^; 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Here unmolested, throusrh whatever sign 
 The sun proceeds, I wander. Neither mist, 
 For freezing sky nor sultry, checking me, 
 Nor stranger intermeddUng with my joy. 
 E'en in the spring and playtime of the year, 
 That calls the unwonted villager abroad 
 With all her httle ones, a sportive train, 
 To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, 
 And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick 
 A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook — 
 These shades are all my own. The tim'rous harC; 
 Grown so famiUar with her frequent guest, 
 Scarce shuns me ; and the stock-dove, unalarm'd, 
 Sits cooing in the pinetree, nor suspends 
 His long love ditty for my near approach. 
 Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, 
 That age or injury has hollow'd deep, 
 Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. 
 He has outslept the winter, ventures forth, 
 To frrsk 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 neighb'ring beech ; there whisks 
 
 his brush. 
 And perks his ears, and stamps, and cries aloud- 
 With all the prettiness of feign'd 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 pleas'd 
 With sight animals enjoying life, 
 
^- 
 
 N'or feels their happiness augment his ^wn. 
 The bounding fawn, that darts across the glade 
 When none pursues, through mere deh'ght of heart 
 And spirits buoyant with excess of ^ee ; 
 The horse as wanton, and ahnost 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 resolv'd, with one consent. 
 To give such act and utt'rance as they may 
 To ecstasy too big to be suppress'd — 
 These, and a thousand images of bliss, 
 With which kind Nature graces ev'ry scene. 
 Where cruel man defeats not her design. 
 Impart to the benevolent, who wish 
 All that are capable of pleasure pleas'd, 
 A far superior happiness to theirs, 
 The comfort of a reasonable joy. 
 
 Man scarce had ris'n, obedient to his call 
 Who form'd him from the dust, his future grave, 
 When he was crown'd as never king was sincr. 
 God set the diadem upon his head, 
 And angel choirs attended. Wond'ring stood 
 The new-made monarch, while before him pass'd, 
 All happy, and all perfect in their kind. 
 The creatures, summop'd from their various 
 haunts. 
 
 
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 190 
 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 To see their sov' reign, and confess his sway. 
 
 Vast was his empire, absolute his pow'r, 
 
 Or bounded only by a law, whose force 
 
 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel 
 
 And own — the law of universal love. 
 
 He rul'd with meekness, they obey'd with joy ; 
 
 No cruel purpose lurk'd 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 rul'd the whole. 
 
 Begat a tranquil confidence in all. 
 
 And fear as yet was not, nor cause for fear. 
 
 But sin marr'd all : and the revolt of man^ 
 
 That source of evils not exhausted yet, 
 
 Was punish'd with revolt of his from him. 
 
 Garden of God, how terrible the change 
 
 Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! Ev'ry 
 
 heart, 
 Each animal, of ev'ry name, conceiv'd 
 A jealousy, and an instinctive fear, 
 And, conscious of some danger, either fled 
 Precipitate the loath'd abode of man. 
 Or growl' d defiance in such angry sort. 
 As taught him too to tremble in his turn. 
 Thus harmony and family accord 
 Were driv'n from Paradise ; and in that horn 
 The seeds of cruelty, that since have swell'd 
 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 sporti 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 To gratify the frenzy of his wrath, 
 Or his base gluttony, are causes good 
 And just in his account, why bird and beasl 
 Should suffer torture, and the streams be died 
 With blood of their inhabitants impal'd. 
 Earth groans beneath the burden of a war 
 Wag'd 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 abhorr'd resort, 
 Whom once, as delegate of God on earth, 
 They fear'd, and as his perfec'. image, lov'd. 
 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, uncontroll'd 
 Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play. 
 Wo 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 spare him, spares him on the terms 
 Of royal mercy, and through gen'rous scorn 
 To rend a victim trembhng at his foot. 
 In measure, as by force of instinct drawn 
 Or by necessuy constrain'd, they live 
 Dependent upon man; those in his fields, 
 These at his crib, and some beneath l.ia lOoi. 
 They prove too often at how dear a raic 
 Ile sells protection — Witness at his foot 
 The spaniel dying for some venial fault 
 
 ^R'^ 
 
 
 yi 
 
 % 
 
'<''*?^ 
 
 
 Ih 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 I 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Under dissection of the knotted scourge ; 
 Witness the patient ox, with stripes and yeila 
 Driv'n to the slaughter, goaded, as he runs, 
 To madness ; while the savage at his heels 
 Laughs at the frantic suif'rer's fury, spent 
 Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown. 
 He too is witness, noblest of the train 
 That wait on man, the flight-performing hor&e 
 With unsuspecting readiness he takes 
 His murd'rer on his back, and, push'd 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 hves and o'er his brimming beaker boasts 
 (As if barbarity were high desert) 
 Th' 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, deem'd innocent on earth, 
 Is register'd in Heav'n ; and these no doubt, 
 Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. 
 Man may dismiss compassion from his heart, 
 But God will never. When he charg'd the Jew 
 T' assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise; 
 And when the bush-exploring boy, that seiz'd 
 The young, to let the parent bird go free ; 
 Prov'd he r.oi plainly, that his meaner works 
 Are yet his care, and have an inl'rest all, 
 All, in the universal Father's love ? 
 On Noah, a/id in '"im on all mankind, 
 
 •m 
 
 n 
 
 
7^\ 
 
 THE 1 ISK, 
 
 The charter was conferr'd by which we hold 
 The flesh of animals in fee, and claim 
 O'er all we feed on pow'r of hfe and death. 
 But read the instrument, and mark it well: 
 Th' oppression of a tyrannous control 
 Can find no warrant there. Feed then 
 
 yield, 
 Thanks for thy food. Carnivorous, through sin, 
 F. ed on the slain, but spare the living brute ! 
 
 The Governor of all, himself to all 
 So bountiful, in whose attentive ear 
 The unfledg'd laven and the lion's whelp 
 Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs 
 Of hunger unassuag'd, has interpos'd, 
 Not seldom, his avenging arm, to smite 
 Th' injurious trampler upon Nature's law, 
 That claims forbearence 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 whi.h he rode. Her opportune offence 
 Sav'd him, or the unrelenting seer had died. 
 He sees that human equity is slack 
 I'o interfere, though m 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 seem'd to;udge the man. 
 An ancient, net a legendary tale, 
 By one of sound intelligence r.ehesj's'd, 
 (if such who plead for Providence may seem 
 13 
 
 
K? 
 
 If' c^~ 
 
 THE TABIC. 
 
 194 
 
 In modern eyes,) shall make the docirine clear. 
 
 Where England, stretch' d towards the setting 
 sun, 
 Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, 
 Dwelt young Misagathus ; a scorner he 
 Oi God and goodness, atheist in ostent, 
 Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. 
 He journey'd : and his chance was, as he went, 
 To join a trav'ller, of far different note, 
 Evander, fam'd 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 warm'd his heart, was mov'd 
 At sight of the man-monster. With a smile 
 Gentle and affable, and full of grace. 
 As fearful of offending whom he wish'd 
 Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths, 
 Not hardly thunder'd forth or rudely press'd, 
 But, Uke his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. 
 
 " And dostthou dream," th' impenetrable man 
 Exclaim'd, " that me the lullabies of age. 
 And fantasies of dotards, such as thou, 
 Can ch'Cat, 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.' 
 
 <rN 
 
 "I 
 
 h 
 

 .^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 195 
 
 He spoke, and to the precipice at hand 
 Push'd 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 Jreadful leap, more rational, his steed 
 Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly round. 
 Or ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, 
 Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will. 
 The frenzy of the brain may be redress' d 
 By med'cine well applied, b'ut without grace 
 The heart's insanity admits no cure. 
 Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd 
 His horrible intent, again he sought 
 Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, 
 With sounding whip and rowels died in blood, 
 But still in vain. The Providence that meant 
 A longer date to the far nobler beast, 
 Spar'd yet again th' ignobler for his sake. 
 And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere 
 Incurable obduracy evinc'd. 
 His rage grew cool, and, pleas'd perhaps t' have 
 
 earn'd 
 So cheaply, the renown of that attempt, 
 With looks of some complacence he resum'd 
 His road, deriding much the blank amaze 
 Of good Evander, still where he was left 
 Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. 
 So on they far'd. Discourse on other themes 
 Ensuing seem'd t* obliterate the past; 
 And tamer for so much fury shown, 
 (As is the course of rash and fiery men,) 
 
 ^. 
 
 v^^ 
 
 %) 
 
 '&^'\ 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 T he rude companion smil'd, as if transforni'd— 
 But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, 
 All unsuspected storm. His liour was come. 
 The impious challenger of Pow'r divine 
 Was now to learn, that Heav'n, 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 controU'd, 
 Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'dit, stood, 
 At once the shock unseated him : he flew 
 Sheer o'er the craggy barrier ; and immers'd 
 Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, 
 The death he had deserv'd, 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 Hst of friends, 
 iThough grac'd with polish'd manners and fine 
 
 sense, 
 Yet wanting sensibiUty,) the man 
 Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
 An inadvertent step may crush the snail 
 That crawls at ev'ning in the public path ; 
 But he that has humanity, forewarn'd. 
 Will tread aside, and let the rept-le live. 
 The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
 And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
 A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
 Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove, 
 The chamber, or refectory, "^ay die : 
 
 %P 
 
 
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 "? 
 
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 ^^jMimw 
 
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 A necessary act incurs no blame. 
 
 Not so when, held within their proper jounds, 
 
 And guiltless of offence, they range the air, 
 
 Or take their pastime in the spacious field : 
 
 There they are privileg'd ; and he that hunts 
 
 Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, 
 
 Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm. 
 
 Who, when she form'd, design'd 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 ?re— 
 
 As free to Uve, and to enjoy that life. 
 
 As God was free to form ihem at the first, 
 
 Who in his sov'reign wisdom made them all. 
 
 Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
 
 To love it too. The spring lime of our years 
 
 Is soon dishonour'd and defil'd in most 
 
 By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand 
 
 To check them. But, alas ! none sooner shoots, 
 
 If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth. 
 
 Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 
 
 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 
 
 And righteous limitation of its act. 
 
 By which Heav'n moves in pard'ning 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. 
 
 Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more 
 By our capacity of grace divine, 
 From creatures, tha^ exist but for our sake, 
 
 «r\\ 
 
 CI 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 lit 
 
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 i> 
 
 198 
 
 TUF. TASK, 
 
 Which having ser\i'd us, perish, we are held 
 Accountable ; and God some future day 
 Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse 
 Of what he deems no mean nor trivial trust. 
 Superior as we are, they yet depend 
 Not more on human help than we on theirs. 
 Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, wer«' 
 
 giv'n 
 In aid of our defects. In some are found 
 Such teachable and apprehensive parts, 
 That man's attainments in his own concerns, 
 Match'd with t*^' expertness o.' the brutes in 
 
 theirs. 
 Are ofttimes vanquish'd and thrown far behind- 
 Some show that nice sagacity of s-mell, 
 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 wean'd, or chang'd 
 By any change of fortune : proof aUke 
 Against unkindness, absence and neglect ; 
 Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat 
 Can move or warp ; and gratitude for small 
 And trivial favours, lastir^r as the life, 
 \nd glist'ning even the dying eye. 
 Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms 
 Wins public hoa )ur ; and ten thousand sit 
 
 \1 
 
 ff 
 

 '^ 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Patiently present at a sacred song. 
 
 Commemoration mad ; content to hear 
 
 (0 wonderful effect of music's power I) 
 
 Messiah's eulogy for Handel's sake ! 
 
 But less, methinks than sacrilege might serve- 
 
 (For, was it less, what heathen would have 
 
 dar'd 
 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 P'omer of his age f 
 Yes — we remember '.an ; and while we praise 
 A talent so divine, remember too 
 That his most holy book from whom it came, 
 Was never meant, was never us'd before 
 To buckram out the mem'ry of a man. 
 But hush ! — the Muse perhaps is too severe 
 And with a gravity beyond the size 
 And measure of th' 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 wand'ring Charles, who meant to be tho 
 
 third. 
 Had fled from William, and the news was fresh, 
 The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce, 
 And eke did roar right merrily, two staves, 
 Sung i-) the pr?ise and glory of Kin§^ George ! 
 
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 ^^) 
 
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 ^ ^W?^ 
 ^xi ^1^^ 
 
 200 THE TASK. 
 
 — Man praises man : and Garrick's mem ry nexf 
 When time haih somewhat mellow'd it, and 
 
 made 
 The idol of our worship while he liv'd 
 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 squeez'd 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 stonr 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 fram'd the rites 
 And solemn ceremonial of the day. 
 And call'd the world to worship on the banks 
 Of Avon, fam'd 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 hymn'd 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 hallow'd time : decorum reign'd, 
 
 "^''^S^^^i'-i^^ 
 
Ik 
 
 f 
 
 W 
 
 And mirth without offence. No few retarn'd, 
 Doubtless, much edified, and all reiresh'd. 
 — Man praises man. The rabble all ahve 
 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 's 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 charm'd them ? Hath he saved 
 
 the state ? 
 No. Doth he purpose its salvation ? No. 
 Enchanting novelty, that moon at full. 
 That finds out ev'ry 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 
 Doom'd to the dust, or lodg'd already there. 
 Encomium in old lime 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 an humbler theme. 
 Have pour'd my stream of panegyric down 
 The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds 
 
 V 
 
'^ W' W 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 Arr.ong 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 toils 
 Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine 
 May stand between an animal and wo. 
 And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge. 
 
 The groans of Nature in this nether world. 
 Which heav'n 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 promis'd sabbath, comes 
 Six thousand years of sorrow have well nigh 
 FulfiU'd 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 
 'Vhe dust that waits upon his sultry march. 
 When sin haih mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, 
 Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
 Propitious in his chariot pav'd with love ; 
 And what his storms have blasted and defac'd 
 For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. 
 
 Sweet is the harp of prophecy ; too sweet 
 Not to be wrong'd 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 Uke me, 
 Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs, 
 Thrugh jroor in'skili to rear them, lights at last 
 

 
 
 <^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 On some fair \heme, some theme divinely lair, 
 Such is the impulse and the spur he feels 
 To give it praise proportioned to its worth, 
 That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems 
 The labour, were a task more arduous still. 
 
 O scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, 
 Scenes ofaccomplish'dbhss I which whocansee^ 
 Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 
 His soul refresh'd 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 repeal'd. 
 The various seasons woven into one. 
 And that one season an eternal spring. 
 The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, 
 For there ts 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 mankin 
 
■i:^:FW'S 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ssVr 
 
 ^\ 
 
 mk 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 One Lord, one Father. Error has no place; 
 That creeping pestilence is driv'n away; 
 The breath of Heav'n has chas'd it. In the heart 
 No passion touches a discordant string. 
 But all is harmony and love. Disease 
 Is not : the pure and uncontaminate blood 
 Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 
 One song employs all nations ; at/d all cry, 
 " Worthy the Lamb, for he was slam 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, 
 Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. 
 Behold the measure of the promise fill'd ; 
 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 loom.s 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 i.n her streets, and in her spacious courts, 
 Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
 
 * Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and pro 
 ?enitors of the Arabs in the prophetic Scripture here 
 alluded to, may be reasonably considered aa representa- 
 tives o' the Gentiles at large. 
 
 i-1 
 

 
 »f 
 
 
 '%^ "^ ^^r^ 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 205 
 
 Kneels with the native of the fx^rthest west ; 
 And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, 
 And worships. Her report has travell'd forth 
 Into all Lands. From ev'ry chme they come 
 To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, 
 O Sion ! an assembly such as Earth 
 Saw never, such as Heav'n stoops down to see. 
 Thus heav'nward all things tend. For all 
 
 were once 
 Perfect, and all must be at length rcstor'd. 
 So God has greatly pnrpos'd ; who would else 
 In his dishonour'd works himself endure 
 Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress. 
 Haste, then, and wheel away a shatter'd 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 pleasan' "n itself what pleases him. 
 Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a sting : 
 Worms wind themselves into our sweetesi 
 
 flow'rs 
 And e'en the joy, that haply some poor heart 
 Derives from Heav'n, pure as the fountain is, 
 Is sullied in the stream, taking a taint 
 From touch of human lips, at best impure. 
 O 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, should'ring aside. 
 The meek anl modest Truth, and forcing her 
 
 
 ^^Mmm, 
 
 
K> 
 
 t^ 
 
 THE TASK 
 
 To seek ? refuge from the tongue cf Strife 
 In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men j 
 Where Violence shall never lift the sword, 
 Nor Cunning justify the proud man's w^-ong, 
 Leaving the poor no remedy but tears ; 
 Where he that fills an office, shall esteem 
 Th' occasion it presents for doing good 
 More than the perquisite : where Law 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 o'erpaid its value with thy blood. 
 Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and in theil 
 
 hearts 
 Thy title is engraven with a pen 
 Dipp'd in the fountain of eternal love. 
 Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and thy delay 
 Gives courage to their foes, who, could thej 
 
 see 
 The dawn of thy last advent, long desir'd, 
 Would creep into ;he bowels of the hills, 
 And flee for safety to the falling rocks. 
 The very spiKt of the world is tir'd 
 \.H"itsown raunting question, ask'd so long, 
 
 if 
 
 #1 
 
 h 
 
 -^" 
 

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 ■? 
 
 'f. 
 
 " Where is the promise of your Lord's ap' 
 
 proach?" 
 The infidel has shot his bolts away, 
 Till his exhausted quiver yielding none, 
 He gleans the blunted shafts, that have recoil'd, 
 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 propos'd. 
 Insulted and traduc'd are cast aside. 
 As useless, to the moles and to the bats. 
 They now are deem'd the faithful and are prais'd, 
 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 e'en these 
 Worthy, compar'd 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 wand'rmg sheep, resolv'd 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, loaniing out their own disgrace. 
 
n 
 
 s 
 
 17^ 
 
 •ii 
 
 Thy prophe\s speak of such ; and noting down 
 The features of the last degen'rate 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 fulfiU'd, the conquest of a world! 
 lie is the happy man, whose life e'en now 
 Shows somewhat of that happier life to come ; 
 Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, 
 Is pleas'd 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 prov'd 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 pow'r is such, that whom she lifts from 
 
 earth 
 She makes familiar with a Heav'n unseen. 
 And shows him glories yet to be reveal'd. 
 Not stothful he. thcjgh seeming unemployed, 
 
 
 Tim 
 
 ff 
 
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 i^ 
 
 L 
 
 A.nd censur'd 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 rais'd. 
 Or what achievements of immortal fame 
 He purposes, and he shall answer — None. 
 His warfare is within. There, unfatigu'd, 
 His fervent spirit labours. There he fights 
 And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, 
 And never-with'ring wreaths, compar'd with 
 
 which. 
 The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. 
 Perhaps the self-approving, haughty world. 
 That as she sweeps him with her whistling silka 
 Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see. 
 Deems him a cypher in the works of God, 
 Receives advantage from his noiseless hours. 
 Of which she Httle dreams. Perhaps she owes 
 Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring 
 And plenteous harvest, to the pray'r he makes, 
 When, Isaac like, the solitary saint 
 Walks forth to meditate at eventide, 
 And think on her who thinks not for h#rself. 
 Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns 
 Of little worth, an 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 rcnd'ring none. 
 
 14 
 
His sp'/ere, though humble, if that humble 
 
 sphere 
 
 Shines 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 wo ; 
 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 a^? she. 
 She judgps of refinement by the eye ; 
 He, by the test of conscience, and a heart 
 
 \1 
 
V 
 
 
 f 
 
 THE TASK. 
 
 Not sojn deceiv'd; aware, that what is base 
 No poHsh can make sterHng ; and that vice, 
 Though well perfum'd and elegantly dress'd, 
 Like an unburied carcass trick'd with flow'rs, 
 Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far 
 For cleanly riddance than (o': fair attire. 
 So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, 
 More golden than that age of fabled gold 
 Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care 
 Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd 
 Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. 
 So glide my life away ! and so at last 
 My share of duties decently fulfill'd, 
 May some disease, not tardy to perform 
 Its destin'd 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, 
 
 call'd 
 To dress a Sofa with the ilow'rs of verse, 
 I play'd 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 th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit ; 
 Rov'd far, and gather'd much ; some harsh, 'tis 
 
 true, 
 Pick'd 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. 
 
 ^41 
 
THE TASK. 
 
 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 tinkhng 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 further than he intended 
 and came safe home again. 
 
 I 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown, 
 A trainband 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 holy-day have seen. 
 
 To-morrow is our wedding-day. 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the bell at Edmonton, 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 213 
 
 ^C 
 
 7).i ^^j^ 
 
 (^ 
 
 ) 
 
a 
 
 '^ 
 
 214 
 
 JOHN GILPIN 
 
 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 Imen-draper bold. 
 
 As all the world doth know, 
 And my good friend the calender 
 
 Will lend his horse to go. 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, that's well said, 
 
 And for that wine is dear. 
 We will be furnish'd with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear. 
 
 fohn Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; 
 
 O'erjoy'd was he to find, 
 That though on pleasure she was bent, 
 'She had a frugal mind. 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought. 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 
 Where they did all get in 
 
r,-s ") 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 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 reach'd 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 griev'd 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 T do exercise. 
 
v^ 
 
 JOHN GILPIN, 
 
 Now mistress Gilpin, (careful soul!) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 To hold the liquor that she lov'd, 
 
 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 
 
 Equipp'd from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brush'd 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 gaird 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. 
 
 >^ 
 
 
 m 
 
 SSl 
 
% ^ 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 He grasp'd the mane with both lis 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 wondei 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 scream' d| 
 
 Up flew the windows all; 
 And ev'ry 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! 
 
 217 
 
 if: 
 
 f' 
 
 1 
 
^v r ^f. 
 
 i 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 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 shatter' d at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road, 
 
 Most piteous to be seen, 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smck« 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seem'd to carry weight, 
 
 With leathern girdle brac'd ; 
 For all might see the bottle-necks 
 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 H 
 
i 
 
 'i 
 
 \^' 
 
 I 
 
 JOHN GILPIN 
 
 Her tender husband, wond'ring 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 tir'd ; 
 
 Said Gilpin — So am I ! 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 Inclin'd to tarry there ; 
 For why? — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So Uke 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, amaz'd 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 f 
 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all? 
 
 iS 
 
 iT*: 
 
 ^, 
 
20 
 
 JOHN GILPIJf 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And lov'd a timely joke ; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke : 
 
 1 came because your horse would come 
 
 And, if I well forbode, 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the xoad. 
 
 The calender right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Return' d him not a single word. 
 
 But to the house went in: 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat and wig 
 
 A wig that flow'd behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear, 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in its turn 
 
 Thus show'd his ready wit, 
 My head is twice as big as yours, 
 
 Thev 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. 
 
 Said John, it is my wedding day. 
 And all the world would stare. 
 
m, 
 
 ^1 \* 
 
 
 t Vlr ?^' 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 If wife shoald 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 gallop'd off vvith 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 puU'd out half a crcwn; 
 
 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. 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ?> 
 
 Q'^^Wi 
 
.^^„ yj^~-^^ . 
 
 
 222 
 
 JOHN GILPIN. 
 
 The youi)i 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 bostboy at his heels, 
 The postboy's horse righi glad to miss 
 
 The lumb'ring of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road, 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
 With postboy scamp' ring in the rear, 
 
 They rais'd the hue and cry: — 
 
 Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman? 
 
 Not one of them was mute ; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 And now the turnpike gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space ; 
 The toll- men thinking as before, 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 A.nd so he did, and won it too, 
 
 For he got first to town ; 
 
 
 
Nor stopp'd till where he did get 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 ! 
 
 
 m 
 
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, 
 
 KILL1N& A YOUNG BIRD. 
 
 [July 15, 1793.] 
 
 A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you. 
 
 Well fed, and at his ease. 
 Should wiser be than to pursue 
 
 Each trifle that he sees. 
 
 But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 
 
 Which flew not till to-day, 
 Against my orders, whom youheard 
 
 Forbidding you the prey. 
 
 Nor did you kill that you might eat, 
 
 And ease a doggish pain, 
 For him, though chas'd with furious heat, 
 
 You left where he was slain. 
 
 Nor was he of the thievish sort, 
 
 Or one whom blood allures, 
 But innocent was all his sport 
 
 Whom you have torn for your*, 
 224 
 

 
 ly 'S 
 
 t 
 
 '0 
 
 m ^ 
 
 SPANIEL, 
 
 My dog ! what remedy remains. 
 Since, teacli you all I can, 
 
 I see you, after all my pains, 
 So much resemble Man ? 
 
 BEAU'S 
 
 Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 
 
 In spite of your command, 
 A louder voice than yours I heard, 
 
 And harder to withstand. 
 
 You cried — forbear — but in my breast 
 A mightier cried — proceed — 
 
 'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest 
 Impell'd me to the deed. 
 
 Yet much as nature I respect, 
 
 I ventur'd once to break, 
 (As you, perhaps, may recollect) 
 
 Her precept for your sake ; 
 
 And when your linnet on a day, 
 
 Passing his prison door. 
 Had flutter'd all his strength away, 
 
 And panting press'd the floor, 
 
 Well knowing him a sacred thing. 
 
 Not destin'd to my tooth, 
 I only kiss'd his ruffled wing. 
 
 And lick'd the fieathers smooth. 
 15- 
 

 « 
 
 (V 
 
 OK A SPANIEL, CALLED BBATT. 
 
 Let my obedience then excuse 
 
 My disobedience novo. 
 Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
 
 From your aggriev'd Bow-wow ; 
 
 If killing birds be such a crime, 
 
 (Which I can hardly see,) 
 What think you, Sir, of killing Tim« 
 
 With verae address' d to me f 
 
^<<^ 
 
 FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. 
 NEWTON, 
 
 Late Rector of St, Mary Woolnoth. 
 
 [Dated May 28, 1782.] 
 
 Says the pipe to the snufT-box, I can't under- 
 stand, 
 What the ladies and gentlemen see in your 
 face, 
 That you are in fashion all over the land, 
 And I am so much fallen into disgrace. 
 
 Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 
 
 I give to the company — pray do but note 'em— 
 You would think that the wise men of Greece 
 were all there, 
 Or, at least would suppose them the wise men 
 of Gotham. 
 
 My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown 
 roses, 
 While you are a nuisance where'er you ap- 
 A pear; 
 
 ' 227 
 
228 PROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON. 
 
 There is nothing but sniv'Ung and blowing of 
 noses, 
 . Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to 
 hear. 
 
 Then hfting his lid in a delicate way, 
 
 And op'ning his mouth with a smile quite 
 engaging, 
 
 The box in reply was heard plainly to say, 
 What a silly dispute is this we are waging ! 
 
 If you have a Uttle of merit to claim, 
 
 You may think, the sweet-smelling Virginian 
 weed, 
 
 And I, if I seem to deserve any blame. 
 
 The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. 
 
 \1 
 
 Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our ^^i 
 
 No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, 
 We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone. 
 But of any thing else they may choose to put 
 in us. 
 
'r^.^H^^i 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 -• — . 
 
 [Autumn of 1793.] 
 
 -♦ 
 
 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 them 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 disus'd, 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, 
 
 229 
 
nXS"^ Wi 
 
 VJ"^ 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 230 
 
 But well thou play'dst 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 utter' d 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 ibr 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 • 
 
 r^. 
 
 
 Ik 
 
TO MAKT. 
 
 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 wo, 
 
 My Mary I 
 
 And should my future lot be cast 
 With which resemblance of the past. 
 Thy worn-out heart will break at last. 
 
 My Mary ! 
 
^"t?^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 "£ 
 
 ^ii 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 [March, 20, 1799.] 
 
 -4 
 
 Obscurest night involv'd the sky; 
 
 Th' Atlantic billows roarM, 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on boar<f 
 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 
 His floating home for ever left. 
 
 No braver chief could Albion boaSk^ 
 Than he, with whom he went, 
 
 Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
 With warmer wishes sent. 
 
 He lov'd them both, but both in vain. 
 
 Nor him beheld, nor her again. 
 
 Not long beneath the whelming brine, 
 
 Expert to swim, he lay : 
 Nor soon he felt his strength decline. 
 
 Or courage die away; 
 But wag'd with death a lasting strife. 
 Supported by despair of life. 
 232 
 
 WHl 
 
'^v 
 
 
 He shouted ; nor his friends had fail'd 
 To check the vessel's course, 
 
 But so the furious blast prevail'd, 
 That, pitiless, perforce, 
 
 They left their outcast mate behind, 
 
 And scudded still before the wind. 
 
 Some succour yet they could afTord, 
 And, such as storms allow, 
 
 The cask, the coop, the floated cori,. 
 Delay'd not to bestow 
 
 But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, 
 
 Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 
 
 Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
 Their haste himself condemn, 
 
 Aware that flight, in such a sea 
 Alone could rescue them ; 
 
 Yet bitter felt ii still to die 
 
 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 
 
 He long survives, who lives an hour 
 
 In ocean, self-upheld : 
 And so long he, with unspent pow'r 
 
 His destiny repell'd : 
 And ever as the minutes flew. 
 Entreated help, or cried — "Adieu!** 
 
 At length, his transient respite past. 
 
 His comrades, who before 
 Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast, 
 
 Could catch the sound no more. 
 
 
y/^ 
 
 s 
 
 f: 
 
 
 THE CASTAWAY. 
 
 For then, by toil subdu'd, he drank 
 The stifling wave, and then he sank. 
 
 No poet wept him : but the page 
 
 Of narrative sincere, 
 That tells his name, his worth, his age 
 
 Is wet with Anson's tear. 
 And tears by bards or heroes shed 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream, 
 
 Descanting on his fate, 
 To give the melancholy theme 
 
 A more enduring date. 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 Its semblance in another's case. 
 
 No voice divine the storm allay'd 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When, snatch'd from all eiFectua' aid, 
 
 We perish' d each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 And whelm' d i/i deepr3r gulfs than he. 
 
 I 
 
 3^\li 
 
 ,3i 
 
 'f^^%.lr-^^^%P 
 
■o 
 
 y^ 
 
 vV 
 
 THE YEARLY DISTRESS, 
 
 OR, 
 TITHING TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. 
 
 ♦— 
 
 Venes addressed to a country clergyman, com- 
 plaining of the disagreeableness of the day an- 
 nually appointed for receiving the dues at t\e 
 parsonage. 
 
 Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, 
 To laugh it would be wrong, 
 
 The troubles of a worthy priest. 
 The burden of my song. 
 
 The priest he merry is and bUthe, 
 Three quarters of the year, 
 
 But, oh ! it cuts him like a sithe. 
 When tithing time draws near. 
 
 He then is full of frights and fears. 
 
 As one at point to die. 
 And long before the day appears, 
 
 He heaves up many a sigh. 
 
# 
 
 
 \^ 
 
 AV 
 
 Foi ne;\ h. fanners come, jog, jog.. 
 
 Along the miry road, 
 Each heart as heavy as a lo,g, 
 
 To make their payments ,good. 
 
 In sooth, the sorrow of such days 
 
 Is not to be express' d. 
 When he that takes, and he that pays, 
 
 Are both aUke distsess'd. 
 
 Now all unwelcome at his gates 
 The clumsy swains alight, 
 
 With rueful faces and bald pates- 
 He trembles at the sight. 
 
 And well he may, for well he knows 
 
 Each bumpkin of the clan. 
 Instead of paying what he owes. 
 
 Will cheat him if he can. 
 
 So in they come — each makes his leg. 
 
 And flings his head before, 
 And looks as if he came to beg, 
 
 And not to quit a score. 
 
 "And how does miss and madam do, 
 
 "The little boy, and all!" 
 " All tight and well. And how do yott 
 
 " Good Mr. What-d'ye call?" 
 
 The dinner comes, and down they sit: 
 Were e'er such hungry folk ? 
 
 HI 
 
 T 
 
 tf^^^^ 
 
 
THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 
 
 There's little talking, and no wit ; 
 It is no time to joke. 
 
 One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, 
 
 One spits upon the floor, 
 Yet not to give offence or grieve, 
 
 Holds up the cloth before. 
 
 The punch goes round, and they are dull 
 
 And lumpish still as ever; 
 Like barrels with their bellies full. 
 
 They only weigh the heavier. 
 
 At length the busy time begins, 
 
 " Come, neighbours, we must wag — '* 
 
 The money chinks, down drop their chins, 
 Each lugging out his bag. 
 
 One talks of mildew and of frost, 
 
 And one of storms of hail, 
 And one of pigs, that he has lost 
 
 By maggots at the tail. 
 
 Quoth one, " A rarer man than you 
 " In pulpit none shall hear; 
 
 "But yet, methinks, to tell you true, 
 " You sell it plaguy dear." 
 
 O why are farmers made so coarse, 
 
 Or clergy made so fine ? 
 A kick tha^ scarce would move a horse, 
 I May kill a sound divine. 
 
 M 
 
 Ui 
 
 nJ 
 
 
238 
 
 THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 
 
 Then let the boobies stay at home ; 
 
 'Twould cost him, I dare say. 
 Less trouble taking twice the sum. 
 
 Without the clowns that pay. 
 
K 
 
 VERSES 
 
 Supposed to he written by Alexander Selkirk, 
 during his solitary abode on the island of Juan 
 FerTiandez. 
 
 T 
 
 I. 
 
 I AM monarch of all I survey, 
 
 My right there is none to dispute 2 
 From the centre all round to the sea, 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 O Solitude ! where are the charms 
 
 That sages have seen in thy face ? 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 II. 
 
 I am out of humanity's reach, 
 
 I must finish my journey alone, 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech, 
 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 The beasts that roam over the plain. 
 
 My form with indifference see ■ 
 They are so unacquainted with man. 
 
 Their lam ness is shocking to me. 
 
 239 
 
A 
 
 § 
 
 240 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 III. 
 
 Society, friendship, and love. 
 
 Divinely bestow' d upon man, 
 O had I the wings of a dove. 
 
 How soon would I taste you again ! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth, 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age. 
 
 And be cheer' d by the sallies of youth. 
 
 \1 
 
 IV. 
 
 Keligion ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word I 
 More precious than silver and gold, 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never heard, 
 Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport. 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more. 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me ? 
 O tell me I yet have a friend. 
 
 Though a friend I. am never to see. 
 
k 
 
 I 
 
 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compar'd with the speed of its flight 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-winged arrows of light 
 When I think of my own native land, 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there ; 
 But, alas! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hurries me back to despair. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
 Even here is a season of rest, 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy, encouraging thought i 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 1£ 
 
REPORT 
 
 Of an adjudged Case, not to be found in any of 
 the Books. 
 
 Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
 The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 
 
 The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
 To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 
 
 IT. 
 
 So Tongue was the lavvyer, and argued the cause 
 With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 
 learning, 
 
 While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
 So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning. 
 
 III. 
 
 In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
 And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly 
 find, 
 
 That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, 
 Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 
 
 Then holding the spectacles up to the court, 
 Your lordship observes they are made with a 
 straddle 
 
 242 
 
y 
 
 }^J^'i ^^T^ 
 
 REPORT OF A LAW CASE. 
 
 243 
 
 As wide as the ridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
 Design' d to sit close to it, just Uke a saddle. 
 
 f^^T^ ' V. 
 
 Again, would your lordship a moment suppose, 
 ('Tisacase that has happen'd, and may be 
 l.<^ again,) 
 
 That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
 Pray who would, or who could, wear specta- 
 cles then ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 On the whole it appears, and my argument 
 
 shows, 
 
 With a reasoning the court will never condemn, 
 
 That the spectacles plainly were made for the 
 
 Nose 
 
 And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) 
 He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 
 
 But what were his arguments few people know, 
 For the court did not think they were equally 
 wise. 
 
 f. 
 
 VIIT. 
 
 So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone, 
 Decisive and clear, without one ?/or but — 
 
 That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
 By day-light or f'andle-light — Eyes should be 
 
 shut. 
 
 
 \1 
 
 ^1 
 
CATHARINA. 
 
 — ♦— 
 
 Addressed to Miss Stapleton, now Mrs. Courtney* 
 
 \1 
 
 WfV" 
 
 She came — she is gone — we have met — 
 
 And meet perhaps never again, 
 The sun of that moment is set, 
 
 And seems to have risen in vain. 
 Catharina has fled Hke a dream — 
 
 (So vanishes pleasure, alas!) 
 But has left a regret and esteem, 
 
 That will not so suddenly pass. 
 
 The last ev'ning ramble we made, 
 
 Catharina, Maria, and I, 
 Our progress was often delay'd 
 
 By the nightingale warbling nigh. 
 We paus'd under many a tree, 
 
 And much she was charm'd with atone 
 Less sweet to Maria and me. 
 
 Who so lately had witness' d her own. 
 
 My numbers that day she had sung, 
 And gave them a grace so divine, 
 
 As only her musical tongue 
 
 Could infuse into numbers of mine. 
 244 
 
i 
 
 ^s"-'*"-'?'? ^ 
 
 CATHARINA. 
 
 246 - 
 
 The longer I heard, I esteem'd 
 The work of my fancy the more, 
 
 And e'en to myself never seem'd 
 So tuneful a poet before. 
 
 Though the pleasures of London exceed 
 
 In number the days of the year, 
 Catharina, did nothing impede, 
 
 Would feel herself happier here ; 
 For the close-woven arches of limea 
 
 On the banks of our river, I know, 
 Are sweeter to her many times 
 
 Than aught that the city can show. 
 
 So it is, when the mind is endu'd 
 
 With a well-judging taste from above 
 Then whether embellish'd or rude 
 
 'Tis nature alone that we love ; 
 The achievements of art may amuse, 
 
 May even our wonder excite, 
 But groves, hills, and vallies diffuse 
 
 A lasting, a sacred delight. 
 
 Since, then, in the rural recess 
 
 Catharina alone can rejoice, 
 May it still be her lot to possess 
 
 The scene of her sensible choice ! 
 To inhabit a mansion remote 
 
 From the clatter of street-pacing steeds. 
 And by Philomel's annual note 
 
 To measure the life that she leads. 
 
^^ ^ 
 
 CATHARINA 
 
 With her book, and her voice, and her lyro 
 
 To wing all her moments at home ; 
 And with scenes that new rapture inspire,,. 
 
 As oft as it suits her to roam ; 
 She will have just the Hfe she prefers, 
 
 With httle to hope or to fear, 
 And ours would be pleasant as hers. 
 
 Might we view her enjoying it here. 
 
if^^^' 
 
 •=\ 
 
 
 to 
 
 if 
 
 OS THS 
 
 LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 
 
 [To the March in Scipio.} 
 
 WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. 
 
 [September, 1782.] 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 The brave that are no more, 
 All sunk beneath the wave, 
 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel, 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land breeze shook the shrouds, 
 And she was overset ; 
 
 247 
 
 .r^ 
 
Down went the Royal George, 
 With all her crew complet<» 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kempenfelt is gone 
 His last sea-fight is fought ; 
 
 His work of glory done 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock 
 She sprang no fatal leak ; 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in his sheath ; 
 
 His fingers held the pen, 
 When Kempenfelt went down^ 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up, 
 Once dreaded by our foes ! 
 
 And mingle with our cup, 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound. 
 
 And she may float again, 
 Full-charg'd with England's thunder^ 
 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kempenfelt is gone, 
 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred, 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
 ff^ 
 
 CI 
 
 ff 
 
 ^ 
 
 rx 
 
4 ^^ Y^ 
 
 THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 THERE is a field, through which I often pass 
 Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, 
 Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, 
 Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, 
 Reserv'd to solace many a neighb'ring squire, 
 That he may follow them through brake and 
 
 brier, 
 Contusion, hazarding of neck, or spine. 
 Which rural gentleman call sport divine. 
 A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal'd 
 Runs in a bottom, and divides the field ; 
 Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head. 
 But now wear crests of oven-wood instead ; 
 And where the land slopes to its wat'ry bourn, 
 Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn ; 
 Bricks line the sides, but shiver' d long ago, 
 And horrid brambles intertwine below ; 
 A hollow scoop'd, I judge, in ancient time, 
 For baking earth, or burning rock to lime. 
 
 Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, 
 With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed ; 
 Nor autumn yet had brush'd fromev'ry spray, 
 With her chill hand the mellow leaves.away ; 
 But corn was hous'd and beans were in the 
 stack ; 
 
 249 
 
 
 r -7 
 
 
^. 
 
 E 
 
 •^ 
 
 -U/ ft 
 
 THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 
 
 Now therefore issu'd forth the spotted pack, 
 With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and 
 
 throats, 
 With a whole gamut fiU'd of heav'nly notes, 
 For which, alas ! my destiny severe, 
 Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. 
 
 The sun, accomplishing his early march, 
 His lamp now planted on Heav'n's topmost arch, 
 When, exercise and air my only aim, 
 And heedless whither, to that field I came, 
 Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound 
 Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was 
 
 found, 
 Or with the high-rais'd horn's melodious clang 
 All Kilwick* and all Dinglederry* rang. 
 
 Sheep graz'd the field ; some with soft bosom 
 press' d 
 
 The herb as soft, while nibbling stray'd the rest; 
 
 Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook, 
 
 Struggling, detain'd in many a petty nook. 
 
 All seem'd so peaceful, that, from them con- 
 vey' d, 
 
 To me their peace by kind contagion spread. 
 
 But when the huntsman with distended cheek, 
 'Gan make his instrument of music speak. 
 And from within the wood that crash was heard, 
 
 ♦Two woods belonging to J?hn Tbrockmorlor, Esq, 
 
 
 '^. 
 
If/tl 
 
 ,^ 
 
 
 THE NEEDLESS ALAKM. 
 
 Thougii not a hound from whom it burst ap- 
 
 pear'd, 
 The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz'd, 
 All huddUng into phalanx, stood and gaz'd. 
 Admiring, terrified, the novel strain, 
 Then cours'd the field around, and cours'd it 
 
 round again ; 
 But, recollecting with a sudden thought, 
 That flight in circles urg'd advanc'dthem nought, 
 They gather'd close around the old pit's brink, 
 And thought again — but knew not what to think. 
 
 The man to solitude accustom'd long 
 Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue, 
 Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees, 
 Have speech for him, and understood with ease; 
 After long drought when rains abundant fall ; 
 He hears the herbs and flow'rs rejoicing all ; 
 Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, 
 How glad thev catch the largess of the skies ; 
 But, with precision nicer still, the mind 
 He scans of ev'ry locomotive kind ; 
 Birds of all feather, beasts of ev'ry name. 
 That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or 
 
 tame ; 
 The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears 
 Have all articulation in his ears ; 
 He spells them true by intuition's fight, 
 And needs no glossary to set him right. 
 
 This truth premis'd was needful as a text, 
 To win due credence to what follows next. 
 
 H 
 
252 
 
 TtE NEEDLESS ALAKM. 
 
 Awhile they mus'd ; surveying ev'ry face, 
 Thou hadst suppos'd them of superior race ; 
 Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin'd 
 Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of 
 
 mind, 
 That sage they seem'd as lawyers o'er a doubt 
 Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out ; 
 Or academic tutors, teaching youths, 
 Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; 
 When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, 
 A ram, the ewes and weathers sad, address'd. 
 
 Friends ! we have liv'd too long. I never 
 
 heard. 
 Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd. 
 Could I believe, that winds for ages pent 
 In Earth's dark womb have found at last a vent, 
 And from their prison-house below arise, 
 With all these hideous howhngs to the skies, 
 I could be much compos'd, nor should appear, 
 For such a cause, to feel the sli'ghtest fear. 
 Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders 
 
 roU'd 
 All night, me resting quiet in the fold. 
 Or heard we that tremendous bray alone, 
 I could expound the melancholy tone ; 
 Should deem it by our old companion made, 
 The ass ; for he, we know, has lately stray'd. 
 And being lost, perhaps and wand'ring wide. 
 Might be suppos'd to clamour for a guide. 
 But ah . those dreadful yells what soul can hear 
 That owns a carcass and not quake for fear? 
 
 4 
 
 
 Ti- 
 
 4i 
 
 r] 
 if 
 
 
 ^•A^' 
 
 m 
 
 1 
 
 ^- 
 
N 
 
 TO 
 
 p 
 
 >, 
 
 THE NEEDLESS ALARM. 
 
 253 
 
 Demons produce them doubtless, brazen claw'd, 
 And tang'd with brass, the demons are abroad ; 
 I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, 
 That, hfe to save, we leap into the pit. 
 
 Him answer' d then his loving mate and true 
 But more discreet than he a Cambrian ewe. 
 
 How ! leap into the pit our life to save ? 
 To save our life leap all into the grave ! 
 For who can find it less ? Contemplate first 
 The depth how awful ! falling there we burst ; 
 Or should the brambles interpos'd, our fall 
 In part abate, that happiness were small : 
 For with a race like theirs no chance I see 
 Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. 
 Meantime, noise kills not. Beit Dapple's bray. 
 Or be it not, or be it whose it may. 
 And rush those other sounds, that seem by 
 
 tongues 
 Of demons utter'd from whatever lungs, 
 Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear, 
 We have at least commodious standing here. 
 Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast 
 From Earth or Hell, we can but plunge at last. 
 
 While thus she spake, 1 fainter heard the 
 peals. 
 For Reynard, close attended at his heels 
 By panting dog, tir'd man, and spatter'd horse, 
 Through mere good fortune, took a difT'rent 
 course 
 
 m 
 

 THE NEEDLESS aLARM. 
 
 The flock grew calm again, and I the road 
 Foil' wing, that led me to my own abode. 
 Much wonder' d that the silly sheep had found 
 Such cause of terror in an empty sound, 
 So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. 
 
 MORAL. 
 Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, 
 Live till to-morrow, will have oasa'd away. 
 
 cr-, 
 
ins 
 
 'i! 
 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY 
 
 AUSTEN. 
 
 [Dec. 17, 1781.] 
 
 Dear Anna — between friend and friend, 
 Prose answers every common end ; 
 Serves, in a plain and homely way, 
 T' express th' occurrence of the day ; 
 Our health, the weather, and the news; 
 What walks we take, what books we choose ; 
 And all the floating thoughts we find 
 Upon the surface of the mind. 
 
 But when a poet takes the pien, 
 Far more alive than other men, 
 He feels a gentle tingling come 
 Down to his finger and his thumb, 
 Deriv'd from nature's noblest part, 
 The centre of a glowing heart : 
 And this is what the world, who knows 
 No flights above the pitch of prose, 
 His more sublime vagaries 
 
 
it 
 
 bV 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE 
 
 To catch the triflers of the time, 
 
 And tell them truths divine and clear, 
 
 Which, couch'd in prose, they will not hear, 
 
 Who labour hard to allure and draw 
 
 The loiterers I never saw^, 
 
 Should feel that itching, and that tingling 
 
 With all my purpose intermingling, 
 
 To your intrinsic merit true. 
 
 When call'd t' address myself to you. 
 
 Mysterious are his w^ays, whose power 
 Brings forth that unexpected hour. 
 When minds, that never met before, 
 Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
 It is the allotment of the skies, 
 The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
 That guides and governs our afFectionS; 
 And plans and orders our connexions : 
 Directs us in our distant road, 
 And marks the bounds of our abode. 
 Thus we were settled when you found us, 
 Peasants and children all around us, 
 Not dreaming of so dear a friend. 
 Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* 
 Thus Martha, e'en against her will, 
 Perch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
 And you, though you must needs prefer 
 The fairest scenes of sweet Sancerre,t 
 
 ♦ An obscure part of Olney, adjoining to the residence 
 of Cowper, which faced the marUet-place. 
 t Lady Austen's residence in France. 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 
 

 .^■^ 
 
 b 
 
 ir<<' 
 
 POETICAL EPISTLE. 
 
 Are come from distant Loire, to choose 
 A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
 This page of Providence quite new, 
 And now just op'ning to our view, 
 Employs our present thoughts and pains 
 To guess, and spell, what it contains: 
 But day by day, and year by year, 
 Will make the dark enigma clear; 
 And furnish us, perhaps, at last, 
 Like other scenes already past, 
 With proof, that we, and our affairs, 
 Are part of a Jehovah's cares : 
 For God unfolds, by slow degrees, 
 The purport of his deep decrees ; 
 Sheds every hour a clearer light 
 In aid of our defective sight ; 
 And spreads at length before the soul 
 A beautiful and perfect whole, 
 Which busy man's inventive brain 
 Toils to anticipate, in vain. 
 
 Say, Anna, had you never known 
 The beauties of a rose full blown. 
 Could you, tho' luminous your eye, 
 By looking on the bud, descry. 
 Or guess, with a prophetic power. 
 The future splendour of the flower f 
 Just so, the Omnipotent who turns 
 The system of a world's concerns, 
 From mere minutiae can educe 
 Events of most important use ; 
 And bid a dawning sky display 
 17 
 
 'JV^ 
 
% 4 
 
 26f^ 
 
 FOLTICAL EPISTJ.E. 
 
 The blaze of a meridian day. 
 
 The works of man tend, one and all, 
 
 As needs they must, from great to smaU, 
 
 And vanity absorbs at length 
 
 The monuments of human strength. 
 
 But who can tell how vast the plan 
 
 Which this day's incident began ! 
 
 Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion, 
 
 For our dim-sighted observation ; 
 
 It pass'd unnoticed, as the bird 
 
 That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
 
 And yet may prove, when understood, 
 
 An harbinger of endless good. 
 
 Not that r deem, or mean to call 
 Friendship a blessing cheap or small. 
 But merely to remark, that ours, 
 Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
 Rose from a seed of tiny size. 
 That seem'd to promise no such prize ; 
 A transient visit intervening, 
 A.nd made almost without a meaning, 
 (Hardly the effect of inclination, 
 Much less of pleasing expectation,) 
 Produc'd a friendship, then begun, 
 That has cemented us in one ; 
 And placed it in our pow'r to prov«, 
 By long fidelity and love, 
 That Solomon has wisely spoken : 
 "A threefold cord is not soon broken." 
 

 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 
 I shall nc. ask Jean Jaques Rosseau,* 
 If birds confabulate or no ; 
 'Tis clear that they were always able 
 To hold discourse— at least in fable ; . 
 And e'en the child who knows no better; 
 Than to mterpret by the letter, 
 A story of a cock and bull, 
 Must have a most uncommon skull. 
 
 It chanc'd then on a winter's day. 
 But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
 The birds, conceiving a design 
 To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
 In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
 Assembled on affairs of love, 
 
 * It waa one of the whinieical speculations of this philo 
 sopher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to 
 animals, should be withheld from children, as being only 
 vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived 
 
 , by ihem. or can be, against the evidence of the senses ? 
 
 ' 259 
 
 & 
 
^s 
 
 And with much twitter and much chatter, 
 Began to agitate the matter. 
 At length a Bulfinch, who could boast 
 More years and wisdom than the most, 
 Entreated, op'ning wide his beak, 
 A moment's liberty to speak ; 
 And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
 Deiiver'd briefly thus his mind : 
 
 My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
 The subject upon which we meet ; 
 I fear we shall have winter yet. 
 
 A Finch, whose tongue knew no control. 
 With golden wing, and satin poll, 
 A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 
 What marriage means, thus pert replied : 
 
 Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 
 Opposite in the apple tree. 
 By his good will would keep us single 
 Till yonder fleav'n and earth shall mingle, 
 Or, (which is hkelier to befall,) 
 Till death exterminate us all. 
 I marry without more ado. 
 My dear Dick Redcap, what say you? 
 
 Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, 
 Turning short round, strutting, and sidehng, 
 Attested, glad, his approbation 
 Of an immediate conjugation. 
 Their sentiments so well express'd, 
 Influenc'd mightily the rest. 
 All pair'd and each pair built a nest. 
 
 But though the birds were thus in haste, 
 The leaves came on not quite so fast, 
 
 
 ^1 
 
 
 u 
 
^ 
 
 PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 
 
 261 
 
 1^ 
 
 An aspect stern on man's aifairs, 
 
 Not altoofether smil'd on theirs. 
 
 The wind of late breath'd gently forth, 
 
 Now shifted east, and ea^t by north ; 
 
 Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 
 
 Could shelter them frorr. rain or snow. 
 
 Stepping into their nests they paddled, 
 
 Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; 
 
 Soon ev'ry father bird and mother 
 
 Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 
 
 Parted without the least regret. 
 
 Except that they had never met; 
 
 And learn'd, in future, to be wiser 
 
 Than to neglect a good adviser. 
 
 MOKAL. 
 
 Misses ! the tale that I relate 
 
 This lesson seems to carry- 
 Choose not alone a proper mate. 
 But proper time, to marry. 
 
 !'J 
 
 4 
 
 % 
 
 ^'fk 
 
 A 
 
 
 >^~ 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 1/^ 
 
 7/^ 
 
 ^l 
 
 The Rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a 
 show'r, 
 
 Which Mary to Anna convey'd, 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r, 
 
 And weigh 'd down its beautiful head. 
 
 The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, 
 
 And it seem'd to a fanciful view, 
 To weep for the buds it had left with regret, 
 
 On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
 
 I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 I snapp'd it— it fell to the ground 
 
 And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind, 
 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 
 
 Already to sorrow resign'd. 
 
 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
 
 Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ; 
 
 And the tear that is wip'd with a httle address, 
 May be follow' d perhaps by a smile. 
 262 
 
 cr^^ 
 
 Hi 
 
Ki 
 
 THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Forc'd from home and all its pleasures, 
 
 Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 
 To increase a stranger's treasures. 
 
 O'er the raging billows borne. 
 Men from England bought and sold me, 
 
 Paidjny price in paltry gold; 
 But though slave they have enroU'd me. 
 
 Minds are never to be sold. 
 
 Still in thought as free as ever. 
 
 What are England's rights I ask, 
 Me from my delights to sever, 
 
 Me to torture, me to task. ? 
 Fleecy locks and black complexion, 
 
 Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 
 Skins may differ, but affection 
 
 Dwells in white and black the same. 
 
 Why did all-creating Nature 
 
 Make the plant for which we toil- 
 Sighs must fan it, tears must water. 
 Sweat of ou's must dress the soil. 
 
 263 
 
^^a?«. 
 
 *^ 
 
 THE NESRO S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, 
 Lollins: at your jovial boards ; 
 
 Think how many backs have smarted 
 For the sweets youi* cane affords. 
 
 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
 
 Is there one, who reigns on high I 
 Has he bid you buy and sell us. 
 
 Speaking from his throne, the sky? 
 Ask him, if your knotted scourges, 
 
 Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
 Are the means that duty urges 
 
 Agents of his will to use ? 
 
 Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes. 
 
 Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
 Wasting towns, plantations, meadows. 
 
 Are the voice with which he speaks, 
 He, foreseeing what vexations 
 
 Afric's sons should undergo, 
 Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
 
 Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 
 
 By our blood in Afric wasted, 
 
 Ere our necks receiv'd the chain; 
 By the mis'ries that we tasted, 
 
 Crossing in your barks the main ; 
 By our suff' rings since ye brought us 
 
 To the man-degrading mart ; 
 All-sustain'd by patience, taught us 
 
 Only by a broken heart ; 
 
 if^\ 
 
?^. 
 
 THE negro's complaint. 
 
 Deem our nation brutes no longer, 
 
 Till some reason ye shall find 
 Worthier of regard, and stronger 
 
 Thau the colour of our kind. 
 Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
 
 Tarnish all your boasted pow'rs, 
 Prove that you have human feelings, 
 
 Ere you proudly question ours ! 
 

 On the receipt of my Mother's Picture out of . "ij 
 
 Norfolk, the gift of my cousin A7in Bod ham. ^1 
 
 \\i 
 
 That those lips had language 1 Life has 
 pass'd 
 With me but roughly since T heard thee last. 
 Those hps are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
 The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me ; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears 
 
 away !" 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes, 
 (Bless'd be the art that can immortalize, 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it,) here shines on me still the same 
 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own : 
 And, while that face renews my fiUal grief. 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentaiy dream, that thou art she. 
 
 266 
 
MY MOTHER S PICTURE. 
 
 My mother ! when I learn' d that thou wast 
 dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, Ufe's journey just begun ? 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss, 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell toU'd on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away. 
 And turning from my nurs'ry win low, drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu I 
 But was it such ? — It was — where thou art gone 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. 
 The parting vvord shall pass my hps no more \ 
 Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd. 
 And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd. 
 By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd, 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 Till all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 I learn' d at last submission to my lot, 
 But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no 
 more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor ; 
 And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to schf'ol along the public way, 
 
 

 "I 
 
 MY MOTHER S PICTURE. 
 
 Delighted with my bauble roach, and wrapp*d 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 
 'Tis now become a hist'ry Httle known, 
 That once we call'd the past'ral house our own 
 Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fair. 
 That mem'ry keeps of all the kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm, that has efFac'd 
 A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 That thou riightst know me safe and warmly 
 
 laid ; 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home. 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum, 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and 
 
 glow'd : 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall. 
 Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks 
 That humour interpos'd too often makes ; 
 All this still legible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honours to thee as my numbers may : 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, biat sincere, 
 Not scorn' d in Heav'n, though little notic'd 
 
 here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the 
 hours. 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs^ 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 
 
y^ 
 
 ¥f 
 
 MY mother's PICTrUE: 
 
 ' prick'd them into paper with a pi i, 
 
 1. Viid thou was happier than myseh' the while, 
 
 W'ouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and 
 
 smile,) 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them 
 
 here? 
 
 I would not trust my heart — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might — 
 But no — what here we call our life is such, 
 So Ihrile to be lov'd, and thou so much, 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, 
 ^The storms all weather'd and the ocean 
 
 cross'd) 
 Shoots into port at some well-baven'd isle, 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons 
 
 smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her fanning light her streamers gay ; 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the 
 
 shore, 
 "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"* 
 And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide 
 Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
 
 
 ^^^fk 
 
 (jarih 
 
 II 
 
 
 %i' 
 
Mr mother's PiCTURB. 
 
 Always from port withheld, always distress'd— 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, ten).pest-toss''i, 
 Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide, and compass 
 
 lost, 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course. 
 Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 My boast is not, that I deduce my birth 
 From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the Earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — • 
 The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 
 And now farewell — Time unrevok'd has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done, 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 I seem t' have my childhood o'er again ; 
 To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 And while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in bis theft— 
 Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to sooth me left. 
 
1 
 
 ^ 
 
 f 
 
 GRATITUDE, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETK. 
 [1786.] 
 
 This cap, that so stately appears, 
 
 With riband-bound tassel on high, 
 Which seems by the crest that it rear* 
 
 Ambitious of brushing the sky: 
 This cap to my cousin I owe, 
 
 She gave it, and gave me beside, 
 Wreath'd into an elegant bow, 
 
 The riband with which it is tied. 
 
 This wheel-footed studying chair, 
 
 Contriv'd both for toil and repose, 
 Wide-elbow'd and wadded with hair, 
 
 In which I both scribble and doze, 
 Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes, 
 
 And nivalin lustre of that 
 In which, or astronomy lies, 
 
 Fair Cassiopeia sal : 
 
 271 
 
 
a 
 
 mf 
 
 'Si' 
 
 n, 
 ^'i^ 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 These carpets, so soft to the foot, 
 
 Caledonia's traffic and pride, 
 Oh, spare them, ye knights of the boot, 
 
 Escaped from a cross-country ride ! 
 This table and mirror within, 
 
 Secure from collision and dust, 
 At which I oft shave cheek and chin 
 
 And periwig nicely adjust : 
 
 This movable structure of shelves, 
 
 For its beauty admired, and its use, 
 And charged with octavos and twelves, 
 
 The gayest I had to produce. 
 Where, flaming in scarlet and gold, 
 
 My poems enchanted I view. 
 And hope, in due time to behold 
 
 My Iliad and Odyssey too : 
 
 This china, that decks the alcove, 
 
 Which here people call a bufTet, 
 But what the gods call it above, 
 
 Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet ; 
 These curtains, that keep the room warm 
 
 Or cool, as the season demands, 
 These stoves that for pattern and form. 
 
 Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands: 
 
 AH these are not half that I owe 
 To one, from her earhest youth 
 
 To me ever ready to show 
 Benignity, friendship, and truth; 
 
 c 
 
 4 
 
 ^' 
 
 U^ 
 
GRATITTTDE. 
 
 For time, the destroyer declar'd 
 And foe of our perishing kind. 
 
 If even her face he has spar'd, 
 Much less could he aher her mind. 
 
 Thus compass' d about with the goods 
 
 And chattels of leisure and ease, 
 I indulge my poetical moods, 
 
 In many such fancies as these ; 
 And fancies I fear they will seem — 
 
 Poet's goods are not often so fine ; 
 The poets will swear that I dream, 
 
 When I sing of the splendor of miae. 
 18 
 
 e^.^j 
 
THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 NO FABLE. 
 
 \1 
 
 The noon was shady, and soft airs 
 
 Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
 When, scap'd from Hterary cares, 
 
 I wander' d on his side. 
 
 My spaniel, prettiest of his race, 
 
 And high in pedigree, 
 ^Two nymphs* adorn'd with ev'ry graca 
 
 That spaniel found for me.) 
 
 Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 
 
 Now starting into sight, 
 Pursu'd the swallow o'er the meads 
 
 With scarce a slower flight. 
 
 ft was the time when Ouse displayed 
 
 His lilies newly blown ; 
 Their beauties I intent survey'd, 
 
 And one I wished my own. 
 
 With cane extended far T sought 
 To steer it close to land ; 
 
 m 
 
 I! 
 

 THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY. 275 
 
 But Still the prize, though nearly caught, 
 i^scap'd my eager hand. 
 
 Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 
 
 With fix'd considerate face, 
 And puzzling set his puppy brains 
 
 i o comprehend the case. 
 
 rf 
 
 'I 
 
 <j^ 
 
 But with a cherup clear and strong, 
 
 Dispersmg all his dream, 
 I thence withdrew, and follow'd long 
 
 ihe wmdmgs of the stream. 
 
 My ramble ended, I returned ; 
 
 Beau trotting far before. 
 The floating wreath again discem'd, 
 
 And plunging left the shore. 
 
 I saw him with that lily cropp'd, 
 
 Impatient swim to meet 
 My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd 
 
 1 he treasure at my feet. 
 
 Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried. 
 
 bhall hear of this thy deed : 
 My dog shall mortify the pride 
 
 Of man's superior breed: 
 
 But cWef myself I will enjoin. 
 
 Awake at duty's call, 
 To show a love as prompt as thine, 
 
 1 o him who gives me all. 
 
 fi-'i 
 
 W-^^%. 
 
SONG,» 
 Air— "The Lass of Fame's MilV 
 
 When all within is peace, 
 
 How nature seems to smile ! 
 Delights that never cease, 
 
 The live-long day beguile. 
 From morn to dewy eve. 
 
 With open hand she showers 
 Fresh blessings to deceive, 
 
 And sooth the silent hours. 
 
 It is content of heart 
 
 Gives nature power to please ; 
 The mind that feels no smart, 
 
 Enhvens all it sees ; 
 Can make a wint'ry sky 
 
 Seem bright as smiling May, 
 And evening's closing eye 
 
 As peep of early day. 
 
 The vast majestic globe. 
 
 So beauteously arraj^ 
 '~* Also written at the request of Lady Austen 
 276 
 
f/^ *} 
 
 SONG. 
 
 In nature's various robe, 
 
 With wondrous skill display'd, 
 Is to a mourner's heart 
 
 A dreary wild at best ; 
 It flutters to depart, 
 
 And longs to be at rest. 
 
 ^f 
 
 
 fv'^.f 
 
 ■r^\ 
 
 71 
 
 7 
 
 \ 
 
^/^ y. 
 
 'i<^^^^n 
 
 X^^^\ 
 
 EPITAPH ON A HARE. 
 
 Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue. 
 Nor swifter grayhound loUow, 
 
 Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, 
 Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo. 
 
 Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. 
 Who, nurs'd with tender care, 
 
 And to domestic bounds confin'd. 
 Was still a wild Jack-hare. 
 
 Though duly from my hand he took 
 
 His pittance ev'ry night, 
 He did it with a jealous look, 
 
 And, when he could, would bite. 
 
 His diet was of wheaten bread, 
 And milk, and oats, and straw ; 
 
 Thistles, or lettuces instead, 
 With sand to scour his maw. 
 
 On twigs of hawthorn he regal'd, 
 
 On pippen's russet peel, 
 And, when his juicy sallads fail'd, 
 
 She'd carrot pleas' d him well. 
 278 
 
 
 n 
 
 ^r\\\'A 
 
 t 
 
 Y~ 
 
5V ^^ "^ 
 
 n 
 
 F.riTAPH ON A HARE. 
 
 A turkey carpet was his lawn 
 
 Whereon he lov'd to bound, 
 To skip and gambol like a fawn, 
 
 And swing his rump around. 
 
 His frisking was at ev'ning hours, 
 
 For then he lest his fear, 
 But most before approaching show'rs. 
 
 Or when a storm drew near. 
 
 Eight years and five round rolling moons 
 
 He thus saw steal away, 
 Dozing out all his idle noons, 
 
 And ev'ry night at plaiy. 
 
 I kept him for his humour's sake. 
 
 For he would oft beguile 
 My heart of thoughts, that made it ache. 
 
 And force me to a smile. 
 
 But now beneath this walnut shade 
 
 He finds his long last home, 
 And waits, in snug concealment laid, 
 
 Till gentler Puss shall come. 
 
 He. still more aged, feels the shocks, 
 From which no care can save, 
 
 And, partner once of Tiney's box, 
 Must soon partake his grave. 
 
^ 
 
 EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM. 
 
 Hie etiam jacet, 
 
 Qui totum novenniutn vixit, 
 
 Puss. 
 
 Siste paulisper, 
 
 Qui praeteriturus es, 
 
 Et tecum sic reputa — 
 
 Hunc neque canis venaticui, 
 
 Nee plumbum missile, 
 
 Nee laqueus, 
 
 Nee imbres nimii, 
 
 Confecere : 
 
 1'amen mortuus est— • 
 
 Et moriar ego. 
 
 
 «;si 
 
 280 
 
 <^. 
 
a 
 
 '^ 
 
 The following account of the treatment 
 of his hakes was inserted by mr. cowper 
 
 IN THE gentleman's MAGAZINE, WHENCE IT 
 IS TRANSCRIBED. 
 
 IN the year 1774, being much indisposed both 
 in mind and body, incapable of diverting myself 
 either with company or books, and yet in a con- 
 dition that made some diversion necessary, I was 
 glad ot any thing that would engage my attention 
 without fatiguing it. The children of a neigh- 
 bor of mine had a leveret given them for a play- 
 thing ; it was at that time about three months 
 old. Understanding better how to teaze the poor 
 creature than to feed it, and soon becoming weary 
 of their charge, they readily consented that their 
 father, who saw it pining and growing leaner 
 every day, should offer in to my acceptance. I 
 was willing enough to take the prisoner under 
 my protection, perceiving that, in the manage- 
 ment of such an animal, and in the attempt to 
 tame it, I should find just that sort ol' employ- 
 ment which my case required. It was soon 
 known among the neighbors that I was pleased 
 with the present ; and the consequence was, that 
 in a short time I had as many leverets offered to 
 me as would have stocked a paddock. I under- 
 took the care of three, which it is necessary that 
 I should here distinguish by the names I gave 
 them — Puss, Tiney. and Bess. NotwithstaEbl- 
 281 
 
 l¥^. % 
 
 \1 
 
TREATMENT 
 
 ing the two feminine appellatives, I must iufcrm 
 you that they were all males. Immediately 
 commencing carpenter, I built them houses to 
 sleep in ; each had a separate apartment, so con- 
 trived, that their ordure would pass through the 
 bottom of It ; an earthen pan placed under each 
 received whatsoever fell, which being duly emp- 
 tied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly 
 sweet and clean In the day time they had the 
 range of a hall, and at night retired, each to his 
 own bed, never intruding into that of another. 
 
 Puss grew presently familiar, would leap info 
 my lap, raise himself upon his hinder feet, and bite 
 the hair from my temples. He would suffer me 
 to take him up, and to carry him about in my 
 arms, and has more than once fallen asleep upon 
 my knee. He was ill three days, during which 
 time I nursed him, kept him apart from his fel- 
 lows, that they might not molest him, (for, like 
 many other wild animals, they persecute o:ie of 
 their own species that is sick,) and by constant 
 care, and trying him with a variety of herbs, re- 
 stored him to perfect health. No creature could 
 be more grateful than my patient after his reco- 
 very ; a sentiment which he most significantly 
 expressed by hcking my hand, first the back ot 
 it, then the palm, then every finger separately, 
 then between all the fingers, asif 'inxious to leave 
 no part of it unsaluted ; a ceremony which he 
 never performed but once again upon a similar 
 occasion. Finding hirr? extremely tractable, I 
 made it my custom to .arry him always after 
 
 CI 
 
 <? 
 
'^§ 
 
 ^\^ 
 
 r^. 
 
 TREATMENT OF HARES. 
 
 283 
 
 breakfast into the garden, where he hid himself 
 generally under the leaves of a cucumber vine, 
 sleeping or chewing the cud till evening : in the 
 leaves also of that vine he found a favourite re- 
 past. I had not long habituated him to this taste 
 of liberty, before he begin to be impatient for 
 the return of the time when he might enjoy it. 
 He would invite me to the garden by drumming 
 upon my knee, and by a look of such expression 
 as it was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhet- 
 oric did not immediately succeed, he would take 
 the skirt of my coat between his teeth, and pull 
 at it with all his force. Thus Puss might be 
 said to be perfectly tamed, the shyness of his na- 
 ture was done away, and on the whole it was 
 visible by many symptons, which I have not 
 room to enumerate, that he was happier in hu- 
 man society than when shut up wiih his natural 
 companions. 
 
 Not so Tiney ; upon him the kindest treat- 
 ment had not the least effect. He, too, was sick, 
 and in his sickness had an equal share of my at- 
 tention; but if after his recovery I took the lib. 
 erty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with 
 his fore feet, yDring forward, and bite. He was, 
 however, very on;ertaining in his way ; even his 
 surliness was matter of mirth ; and in his play he 
 preserved such an air of gravity, and performed 
 his feais with such a solemnity of manner, that 
 in him, too. I had an agreeable companion. 
 
 Bess, who died soon after he was full grown 
 and whose death was occasioned by his heiug 
 
 txi' hi' 
 
 <i 
 
 ^Tn' 
 
 C5; 
 
 •3^*il* 
 
 
 M 
 
 5t 
 
 rfi 
 
*w^^ 
 
 fO 
 
 \^ 
 
 [■- 
 
 284 
 
 TREATMENT OF HARES 
 
 turned into his box, which bad been washed, 
 while it was yet damp, was a hare of great hu- 
 mour and drollery. Puss was tamed by gentio 
 usage ! Tiney was not to be famed at all : and 
 Bess had a courage and confidence that made 
 him tame from the beginning. I always admit- 
 ted them into the parlour after supper, when the 
 carpet afforded their feet a firm hold, they would 
 frisk, and bound and play a thousand gambols, 
 in which Bess, being remarkably strong and 
 fearless, was always superior to the rest, and 
 proved himself the Vestris of the party. One 
 evening the cat, being in the room, had the hardi- 
 ness to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity 
 which he resented by drumming upon her back 
 with such violence that the cat was happy to es 
 cape from under his paws, and hide herself. 
 
 I describe these animals as having each a 
 character of his own. Such they were in fact, 
 and their countenances were so expressive of 
 that character, that, when I looked only on the 
 face of either, I immediately knew which it was. 
 It is said that a shepherd, however numerous his 
 flock, soon becomes so familiar with their fea- 
 tures, that he can by that indication only, dis- 
 tinguish each from uA the rest ; and yet, *o a 
 common observer, the difTerence is hardly per- 
 ceptible. I doubt not that the same discrimina- 
 tion in the cast of countenances would be dis- 
 coverable in hares, and am persuaded thataonong 
 a thousand of them, no two could be found ex- 
 actly similar ; a circumstance little suspected by 
 
 ^. 
 
 c:) 
 
 M^^ 
 
 ?ai9 
 

 TREATMENT OF HARiS. 
 
 those who have not had opportunity to observe it. 
 These creatures have a singular sagacity in dis- 
 covering the minutest aheration that is made in 
 the place to which they are accustomed and in- 
 stantly apply their nose to the examination of a 
 new object. A small hole being burnt in the 
 carpet, it was mended with a patch, and that 
 patch in a moment underwent the strictest scru- 
 tiny. They seem, too, to be very much directed 
 by the smell in the choice of their favourites ; 
 to some persons, though they saw them daily, 
 they could never be reconciled, and would even 
 scream when they attempted to touch them ; but 
 a miller coming in engaged their affections at 
 once : his powdered coat had charms that were 
 irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate 
 acquaintance with these specimens of the kind, 
 has tanght me to hold the sportsman's amuse- 
 ment in abhorrence: he little knows what amiable 
 creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they 
 are capable, how cheerful they are in their spi 
 rits, what enjoyment they have of life, and that, 
 imoressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of 
 man, it is only because man gives them peculiar 
 cause for it. 
 
 That I may not be tedious, I will just give a 
 short summary of these articles of diet thai suit 
 them best. 
 
 I take it to be a general opinion that they 
 graze, but it is an erroneous one ; at least grass 
 is not their staple ; they seem rather to use it 
 medicinallv, soon quitting it for leaves of almost 
 
•^ 
 
 
 
 •B- 
 
 i 
 
 'D 
 
 286 
 
 TREATxMENT OV HARES. 
 
 any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, 
 are their favorite vegetables, especially the last. 
 I discovered by accident that fine white sand is 
 in great estimation with them ; I suppose as a 
 digestive. It happened that T was cleaning a 
 bird cage while the hares were with me : I placed 
 a pot filled with such sand upon the floor, which, 
 being at once directed to by a strong instinct, 
 they devoured voraciously ; since that time I have 
 generally taken care to see them well supplied 
 with it. They account green corn a delicacy, 
 both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom 
 eat : straw of any kind, especially wheat straw, 
 is another of their dainties; they will feed greedily 
 upon oats, but if furnished with clean straw, ne- 
 ver want them ; it serves them also for a bed, 
 and if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and 
 dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed 
 require aromatic herbs, but will eat a small 
 quantity of them with great relish, and are par- 
 ticularly fond of the plant called musk : they 
 seem to resemble sheep in this, that if their pas- 
 ture be -too succulent, they are very subject to 
 the rot; to prevent which, I always made bread 
 their principal nourishment, and, filhng a pan 
 with it cut into small squares, placed it every 
 evening in their chambers, for they feed only at 
 evening, and in the night : during the winter, 
 when vegetables were not to be got, I mingled 
 this mess of bread with shreads of carrot adding 
 to it the rind of apples cut extremely i\ n ; for, 
 though they are fond of the paring, the apple 
 
 '*ii^^ 
 
TREATMENT OF HARES. 
 
 itself disgusts them. These, however, not being 
 a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer 
 herbs, they must at this time be suppHed with 
 water ; but so placed, that they cannot overset 
 \U/- it into their beds. I must not omit, that occa« 
 
 ^Ij sionly they are much pleased with twigs of haw- 
 
 yyO thorn and of the common brier, eating even the 
 
 If/'T^ very wood when it is of considerable thickness. 
 Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to 
 be nine years old, and died at last. I have rea- 
 son to think, of some hurt in his loins by a fall : 
 Puss is still living, and has just completed his 
 tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor 
 even of age, except that he is grown more dis- 
 creet and less frolicsome than he was. I can- 
 not conclude without observing, that I have lately 
 introduced a dog to hLs aoouamtance — a spaniel 
 that had never seen a h^re, to a hare that had 
 never seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, 
 but there was no real need of it. Puss dis- 
 covered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least 
 symptom of hostility. There is, therefore, it 
 should seem, no natural antipathy between dog 
 and hare, but the pursuit of the one occasions 
 the flight of the other, and the dog pursues be- 
 cause he is trained to it ; they eat bread at the 
 same time out of the same hand, and are in all 
 respects sociable and friendly. 
 
 I should not do complete justice to my sub- 
 ject, did I not add, that they have no ill scent 
 belonging to them ; that they are indefatigably 
 nine in keeping themselves clean, for which pur- 
 
 
 w 
 
 !'5 
 
 %i 
 
 f?' 
 
TREATMENT OF HARES. 
 
 pose nature has furnished them with a brush 
 under each foot ; and that they are never infest- 
 ed by any vermin. 
 
 May 28, 1784. 
 
 Memorandum found among Mr. Cowper^ s papers. 
 
 Tuesday, March 9, 1786. 
 This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years 
 eleven months. He died between twelve and 
 one at noon, of mere old age, and apparently 
 without pain.