The Poetical Works of William Cowper (Benham)/The Task/Book 3

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes Entangled, winds now this way and now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd, And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging, and half despairing of escape; If chance at length he finds a greensward smooth And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise, He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed, And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; So I, designing other themes, and 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 awaits me, or if dangers new. Since pulpits fail and sounding-boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound, What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far For me, 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 limbs, when summer sears the plains; Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth; 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 oft-times 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 Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. Thou art the nurse of virtue ─ in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, 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 th' adultress from her bond. Th' adultress! what a theme for angry verse! What provocation to th' indignant heart 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, of 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 renounc'd 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; But was an wholesome rigour in the main, And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss 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 lib'ral in construction, and so rich In Christian charity, (good-natur'd age!) 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 us readily through ev'ry door. Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, (And no man's hatred 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 infixt 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 soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray Each in his own delusions; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind, And add two thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay As if created only like the fly, That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon, To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known; and call the rant An 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 reveal'd its date To Moses, was mistaken in its age. Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation; travel nature up To the sharp peak of her sublimest height, And tell us whence the stars; why some are 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 claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp, In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight Of oracles like these? Great pity too, That, having wielded th' elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They should go out in fume, and be forgot? Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke — Eternity for bubbles, proves at last A senseless bargain. When I see such games Play'd by the creatures of a pow'r who swears That he will judge the earth, and call the fool To a sharp reck'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. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amus'd. Defend me, therefore, common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up! 'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose, And overbuilt with most impending brows, 'Twere well, could you permit the world to live As the world pleases. What's the world to you? ─ Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk, As sweet as charity, from human breasts. I think, articulate, I laugh and weep, And exercise all functions of a man. How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, And catechize 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? True; I am no proficient, I confess, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath; I cannot analyse the air, nor catch The parallax of yonder luminous point, That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss: Such pow'rs I boast not — neither can I rest A silent witness of the headlong rage Or heedless folly by which thousands die, Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. God never meant that man should scale the heav'ns By strides of human wisdom. In his works Though wondrous, he commands us in his word To seek him rather, where his mercy shines. The mind indeed, enlighten'd from above, Views him in all; ascribes to the grand cause The grand effect; acknowledges with joy His manner, and with rapture tastes his style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of observation, and discovers, else Not visible, his family of worlds, Discover him that rules them; such a veil Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth, And dark in things divine. Full often, too, Our wayward intellect, the more we learn Of nature, overlooks her author more; From instrumental causes proud to draw Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal Truths undiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'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 him his praise, and forfeits not her own. Learning has borne such fruit in other days On all her branches: piety has found Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, child-like 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 flow'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 only amaranthine flow'r on earth Is virtue; th' only lasting treasure, truth. But what is truth? 'Twas Pilate's question, put To Truth 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. 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 buy, 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 tell 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 forgoes his proper bliss, Ev'n as his first progenitor, and quits, Though placed in paradise, (for earth has still Some traces of her youthful beauty left) Substantial happiness for transient joy. Scenes form'd for contemplation, and to nurse The growing seeds of wisdom; that suggest, By ev'ry pleasing image they present, Reflections such as meliorate the heart, Compose the passions, and exalt the mind; Scenes such as these 'tis his supreme delight To fill with riot, and defile with blood. Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes We persecute, annihilate the tribes That draw the sportsman over hill and dale, Fearless, and rapt away from all his cares; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again, Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreat; 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 endu'd 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 hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes — thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou may'st frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm'd; For I have gain'd 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 a friend. How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle; and who justly, in return, Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry 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, therefore, studious of laborious ease, Not slothful; happy to deceive the time, Not waste it; and aware that human life Is but a loan to be repaid with use, When he shall call his debtors to account From whom are all our blessings; business finds Ev'n here: while sedulous I seek t' improve, 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 keeps it; has a mind That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life; Has business; feels himself engag'd t' 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 in storms, Or dives not for it, or brings up instead, Vainly industrious, 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; then to his book, Well chosen, and not sullenly perus'd In selfish silence, but imparted oft As ought occurs that she might smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment, digested well. Or, if the garden with its many cares, All well repaid, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, Oft loit'ring lazily, if not o'erseen, Or misapplying his unskilful strength. Nor does he govern only or direct, But much performs himself. No works indeed That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, Servile employ; but such as may amuse, Not tire, demanding rather skill than force. Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees That meet (no barren interval between) With pleasure more than ev'n their fruits afford, Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel: These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge; No meaner hand may discipline the shoots, None but his steel approach them. What is weak, 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, And ventilate and warm the swelling buds. Hence summer has her riches, autumn hence, And hence ev'n winter fills his wither'd hand With blushing fruits, and plenty, not his own. Fair recompense of labour well bestow'd,         And wise precaution; which a clime so rude Makes needful still, whose spring is but the child Of churlish winter, in her froward moods Discov'ring much the temper of her sire. For oft, as if in her the stream of 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 unassay'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, Phillips, shines for aye The solitary shilling. Pardon then, Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame, 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 fare, A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. The stable yields a stercoraceous heap, Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, And potent to resist the freezing blast: For, ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf Deciduous, when now November dark Checks vegetation 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 The agglomerated pile his frame may front The sun's meridian disk, and at the back Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread Dry fern or litter'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 forms secure The shapely side, that as it rises takes, By just degrees, an overhanging breadth, Shelt'ring the base with its projected eaves: Th' uplifted frame, compact at ev'ry joint, And overlaid with clear translucent glass, He settles next upon the sloping mount, Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure From the dash'd pane the deluge as it falls. He shuts it close, and the first labour ends. Thrice must the voluble and restless earth Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth, Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass Diffus'd, attain the surface: when, behold! A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Bœotian, 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 bosom, threat'ning death To his young hopes, requires discreet delay. Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft The way to glory by miscarriage foul, Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch Th' auspicious moment, when the temper'd heat, Friendly to vital motion, may afford Soft fomentation, and invite the seed. The seed, selected wisely, plump, and smooth, And glossy, he commits to pots of size Diminutive, well fill'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 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, 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 th' apparent fruit. These have their sexes; and, when summer shines, The bee transports the fertilizing meal From flow'r to flow'r, and ev'n the breathing air Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass The glad espousals, and ensures the crop. Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have His dainties, and the world's more num'rous half Lives by contriving delicates for you) Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares, The vigilance, the labour, and the skill, That day and night are exercis'd, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat, and cold, and wind, and steam, Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies, Minute as dust, and numberless, oft work Dire disappointment that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long, Too long, to tell 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 propitious clime, There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug, While the winds whistle and the snows descend. The spiry myrtle with unwith'ring leaf Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and western India there, The 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. Th' amomum there with intermingling flow'rs And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts 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 frown, if screen'd from his shrewd bite, Live there, and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, Levantine regions these; th' Azores send Their jessamine, her jessamine remote Caffraia: 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 pass But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flow'r,         Must 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 depends Their vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor'd. 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 disseminating death. Discharge but these kind offices, (and who Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?) Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleas'd,         The scent regal'd, each odorif'rous leaf, Each op'ning blossom, freely breathes abroad Its gratitude, and thanks him 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 clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polish'd mind. Without it all is gothic as the scene To which th' insipid citizen resorts Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, But proud of his uncouth ill-chosen task, Has made a heav'n on earth; with suns and moons Of close-ramm'd stones has charg'd th' encumber'd soil, And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. He, therefore, who would see his flow'rs dispos'd 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 th' 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 chaplet, recompensing well The strength they borrow with the grace they lend. All hate the rank society of weeds, Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust Th' impoverish'd earth; an overbearing race, That, like the multitude made faction-mad, Disturb good order, and degrade true worth. Oh, blest seclusion from a jarring world, Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat Cannot indeed to guilty man restore Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; But it has peace, and much secures the mind From all assaults of evil; proving still A faithful barrier, not o'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 breast, To combat may be glorious, and success Perhaps may crown us; but to fly is safe. Had I the choice of sublunary good, What could I wish that I possess not here? Health, leisure, means 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 seek the guiltless joys that I describe, Allur'd by my report: but sure no less, That, self-condemn'd, they must neglect the prize, And what they will not taste must yet approve. What we admire we praise; and, when we praise, Advance it into notice, that, its worth 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 ordain'd Should best secure them and promote them most; Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive Forsak'n, or through folly not enjoy'd. Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles, And chaste, though unconfin'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 envy, none partake. My charmer is not mine alone; my sweets, And she that sweetens all my bitters too, Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form And lineaments divine I trace a hand That errs not, and find raptures still 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 ev'n the few she finds! Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves, and flow'rs, 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 unharmonious, yet secure From clamour, and whose very silence charms; To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse That Metropolitan volcanos 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 th' o'ercharg'd And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, By a just judgment strip and starve themselves. The wings that waft our riches out of sight Grow on the gamester's elbows; and th' alert And nimble motion of those restless joints, That never tire, soon fans them all away. Improvement too, the idol of the age, Is fed with many a victim. Lo, he comes! 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,         It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, And aguish east, till time shall have transform'd Those naked acres to a shelt'ring grove. He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn; Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise: And streams, as if created for his use, Pursue the track of his directing wand, Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades — Ev'n as he bids! Th' enraptured 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 He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy! 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 an usurious loan, To be refunded duly, when his vote, Well-manag'd, shall have earn'd its worthy price. Oh innocent, compar'd with arts like these, Crape, and cock'd pistol, and the whistling ball Sent through the trav'ller'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 Fish up his dirty and dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and sick'ning at his own success. Ambition, avarice, penury incurr'd By endless riot, vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, dispatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, The world of wand'ring knights and squires to town. London ingulphs them all! The shark is there, And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he Who, with bare-headed and obsequious bows, Begs a warm office, doom'd to a cold jail And groat per diem, if his patron frown. The levee swarms, as if, in golden pomp, Were character'd on ev'ry statesman's door, "BATTER'D 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 counties 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, Chequer'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 yet shock'st 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 whom God heard his Abr'am plead in vain.