The Poetical Works of William Cowper (Benham)/The Task/Book 4

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; — He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks; 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 indiff'rent 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 oh 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 th' Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd And jewell'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' imprison'd wranglers free, And give them voice and utt'rance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful 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, Out-scolds 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 ev'n critics criticize; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is 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 That it foretells us always comes to pass. Cat'racts 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, plunder'd of their sweets, Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Æthereal journies, submarine exploits, And Katterfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. 'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on 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 lib'rates and exempts me from them all. It turns submitted to my view, turns round With all its generations; I behold The tumult, and am still. The sound of war Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride And avarice that make man a wolf to man; Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats By which he speaks the language of his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the sound. He travels, and expatiates, as the bee From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land; The manners, customs, policy 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, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. Oh Winter, ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 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, And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group The family dispers'd, and fixing thought, Not less dispers'd by day-light and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted 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, of 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 trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and, unfelt, the task proceeds. The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal; Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd — spare feast! — a radish and an egg! Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God That made them an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love, While we retrace with mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scap'd, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor'd — Fruits of omnipotent eternal love. Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh ev'nings, I reply, More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy. Is winter hideous in a garb like this? Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps, The pent-up breath of an unsav'ry throng, To thaw him into feeling; or the smart And snappish dialogue, that flippant wits Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile? The self-complacent actor, when he views (Stealing a side-long glance at a full house) The slope of faces, from the floor to th' roof, (As if one master-spring controlled them all) Relax'd into an 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 dullness, 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, Ensanguin'd hearts, clubs typical of strife, And spades, the emblem of untimely graves. What should be and what was an hour-glass once, Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast Well does the work of his destructive scythe. Thus deck'd, he charms a world whom fashion blinds To his true worth, most pleas'd when idle most; Whose only happy are their wasted hours. Ev'n misses, at whose age their mothers wore The back-string and the bib, assume the dress Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school Of card-devoted time, and, night by night, Plac'd at some vacant corner of the board, 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 that travels far oft turns aside, To view some rugged 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, with brush in hand and pallet spread, With colours mix'd for a far diff'rent 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 Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd In letting fall the curtain of repose On bird and beast, the other charg'd for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorn'd, nor needing aid, Like homely featur'd night, of clust'ring gems; A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow, Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot'ry calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round iv'ry reels, When they command whom man was born to please; I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still. Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze With lights, by clear reflection multiplied From many a mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk Whole, without stooping, tow'ring crest and all, My pleasures, too, begin. But me, perhaps, The glowing hearth may satisfy awhile With faint illumination, that uplifts The shadow 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 mercurial pow'rs, That never felt 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'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw. Nor less amus'd, have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films that play upon the bars, Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view Of superstition, prophesying still, Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near 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 and 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 toys, restores me to myself. How calm is my recess; and how the frost, Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear The silence and the warmth 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! Which even now, though silently perform'd, And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face Of universal nature undergoes. Fast falls a fleecy show'r: the downy flakes, Descending, and with never-ceasing lapse, Softly 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 less distinguish'd than ourselves; that thus We may with patience bear our mod'rate ills, And sympathize with others, suff'ring more. Ill fares the travell'r 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 clogg'd wheels; and in its sluggish pace, Noiseless, appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand 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 Presented bare against the storm, plods on. One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. O happy; and, in my account, denied That sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpair'd. The learned 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 waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appear'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 ev'ry feeling heart. Warm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad, and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brush-wood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys. The few small embers left she nurses well; And, while her infant race, with outspread hands And crowded knees, sit cow'ring o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warm'd. The man feels least, as more inur'd than she To winter, and the 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 brown loaf Lodg'd on the shelf, half eaten, without sauce Of sav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still; Sleep seems their only refuge: for, alas, Where penury is felt the thought is chain'd, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few! With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious parsimony takes but just Saves the small inventory, bed, and stool, Skillet, and old carv'd chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands; but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride, that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard 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 oft-times deaf to suppliants, who would blush To wear a tatter'd garb however coarse, Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth: These ask with painful shyness, and, refus'd Because deserving, silently retire! But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase; And all your num'rous 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 woe; Th' effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong. Woe to the gard'ner's 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 boarded hovel better guard The well-stack'd pile of riven logs and roots From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave Unwrench'd the door, however well secur'd, Where Chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd from the perch, He gives the princely bird, with all his wives, To his voracious bag, struggling in vain, And loudly wond'ring at the sudden change. — Nor this to feed his own! 'Twere some excuse Did pity of their suff'rings warp 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. Oh for a law to noose the villain's neck Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love! Pass where we may, through city or through town, Village, or hamlet, of this merry land, Though lean and beggar'd, ev'ry twentieth pace Conducts th' unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes That law has licens'd, as makes temp'rance 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, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk! The fiddle screams Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail'd Its wasted tones and harmony unheard: Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate, Perch'd on the sign-post, holds with even hand Her undecisive scales. In this she lays A weight of ignorance; in that, of pride; And smiles, delighted with th' eternal poise. Dire is the frequent curse, and its twin sound The cheek-distending oath, not to be prais'd As ornamental, musical, polite, Like those which modern senators employ, Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame! Behold the schools in which plebeian minds, Once simple, are initiated in arts Which some may practise with politer grace, But none with readier skill! — 'tis here they learn The road that leads, from competence and peace, To indigence and rapine; till at last Society, grown weary of the load, Shakes her encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little: vain th' attempt To advertise in verse a public pest, That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds His hungry acres, stinks, and is of use. Th' excise is fatten'd with the rich result Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks, For ever dribbling 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! Her cause demands th' assistance of your throat; — Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more. 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) Then were not all effaced: 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 these 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 For more than half the tresses it sustains; Her elbows ruffled, and her tott'ring form Ill propp'd upon French heels, she might be deem'd (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) of a rank Too proud for dairy work, or sale of eggs. Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels, No longer blushing for her awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care! The town has ting'd the country; and the stain Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe, The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs Down into scenes still rural; but, alas, Scenes rarely grac'd with rural manners now! Time was when, in the pastoral retreat, Th' unguarded door was safe; men did not watch T' invade another's right, or guard their own. Then sleep was undisturb'd by fear, unscar'd By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder was a wonder heard With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes. But farewell now to unsuspicious nights, And slumbers unalarm'd! 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. Ev'n day-light has its dangers; and the walk Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once Of other tenants than melodious birds, Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold. Lamented change! to which full many a cause 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, and sets 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 Less dainty than becomes his grave outside In lucrative concerns. Examine well His milk-white hand; the palm is hardly clean — But here and there an ugly smutch appears. Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it: he has touch'd Corruption! Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wild-fowl or ven'son; 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 serjeant's care, His pupil, and his torment, and his jest. His awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well: He stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk; He steps right onward, martial in his air, His form and movement; is as smart above As meal and larded locks can make him; wears His hat, or his plum'd helmet, with a grace; And, his three years of heroship expir'd, Returns indignant to the slighted plough. He hates the field, in which no fife or drum Attends him; drives his cattle to a march; And sighs for the smart comrades he has left. 'Twere well if his exterior change were all — But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost His ignorance and harmless manners too! To swear, to game, to drink; to show at home By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach, The great proficiency he made abroad; 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; Are 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 leagu'd with man By regal warrant, or self-join'd 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, and, by compression marr'd, Contracts defilement not to be endur'd.         Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate 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, Build factories with blood, conducting trade At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe Of innocent commercial justice red. Hence, too, the field of glory, as the world Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array, With all its majesty of thund'ring pomp, Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallantry for ev'ry 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, Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells Ere yet her ear was mistress of their pow'rs. No bard could please me but whose lyre was tun'd To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang, The rustic throng beneath his fav'rite beech. Then Milton 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 danced for joy. I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age As twice sev'n 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. Thee too, enamour'd of the life I 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 works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infus'd at the creation of the kind. And, though th' Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points — yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works, And all can taste them: minds that have been 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 stands 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 cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame! Ev'n in the stifling bosom of the town, A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd, That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green Is still the liv'ry she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of th' exub'rant whole. What are the casements lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs That man, 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 tea-pot there; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardour he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more. Hail, therefore, patroness of health, and ease, And contemplation, heart-consoling joys And harmless pleasures, in the throng'd abode Of multitudes unknown! hail, rural life! Address himself who will to the pursuit Of honours, or emolument, or fame; I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have Great talents. And God gives to ev'ry man The virtue, temper, understanding, taste, That lifts him into life; and lets him fall Just in the niche he was ordain'd 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 her wrongs; To monarchs dignity; to judges sense; To artists ingenuity and skill; To me an unambitious mind, content In the low vale of life, that early felt A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.