The Task. Book IV. The Winter Evening.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,     That with its wearisome but needful length     Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon     Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;--     He comes, the herald of a noisy world,     With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,     News from all nations lumbering at his back.     True to his charge the close-packed load behind,     Yet careless what he brings, his one concern     Is to conduct it to the destined inn,     And, having dropped the expected bag--pass on.     He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,     Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief     Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;     To him indifferent whether grief or joy.     Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,     Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet     With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks,     Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,     Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,     Or nymphs responsive, equally affect     His horse and him, unconscious of them all.     But oh, the important budget! ushered in     With such heart-shaking music, who can say     What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?     Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,     Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?     Is India free? and does she wear her plumed     And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,     Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,     The popular harangue, the tart reply,     The logic and the wisdom and the wit     And the loud laugh--I long to know them all;     I burn to set the imprisoned wranglers free,     And give them voice and utterance once again.     Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,     Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,     And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn     Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,     That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,     So let us welcome peaceful evening in.     Not such his evening, who with shining face     Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed     And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,     Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage;     Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb     And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath     Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,     Or placemen all tranquillity and smiles.     This folio of four pages, happy work!     Which not even critics criticise, that holds     Inquisitive attention while I read     Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,     Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break,     What is it but a map of busy life,     Its fluctuations and its vast concerns?     Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge     That tempts ambition. On the summit, see,     The seals of office glitter in his eyes;     He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his heels,     Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,     And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down     And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.     Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft     Meanders, lubricate the course they take;     The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved     To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs,     Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,     However trivial all that he conceives.     Sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise,     The dearth of information and good sense     That it foretells us, always comes to pass.     Cataracts of declamation thunder here,     There forests of no meaning spread the page     In which all comprehension wanders lost;     While fields of pleasantry amuse us there,     With merry descants on a nation's woes.     The rest appears a wilderness of strange     But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks     And lilies for the brows of faded age,     Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,     Heaven, earth, and ocean plundered of their sweets.     Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,     Sermons and city feasts and favourite airs,     Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,     And Katterfelto with his hair on end     At his own wonders, wondering for his bread.     'Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat     To peep at such a world; to see the stir     Of the great Babel and not feel the crowd;     To hear the roar she sends through all her gates     At a safe distance, where the dying sound     Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.     Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease     The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced     To some secure and more than mortal height,     That liberates and exempts me from them all.     It turns submitted to my view, turns round     With all its generations; I behold     The tumult and am still. The sound of war     Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;     Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride     And avarice that makes man a wolf to man;     Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats     By which he speaks the language of his heart,     And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.     He travels and expatiates, as the bee     From flower to flower so he from land to land;     The manners, customs, policy of all     Pay contribution to the store he gleans,     He sucks intelligence in every clime,     And spreads the honey of his deep research     At his return--a rich repast for me.     He travels and I too. I tread his deck,     Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes     Discover countries, with a kindred heart     Suffer his woes and share in his escapes;     While fancy, like the finger of a clock,     Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.     Oh Winter, ruler of the inverted year,     Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,     Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks     Fringed with a beard made white with other snows     Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,     A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne     A sliding car indebted to no wheels,     But urged by storms along its slippery way,     I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,     And dreaded as thou art. Thou hold'st the sun     A prisoner in the yet undawning East,     Shortening his journey between morn and noon,     And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,     Down to the rosy west; but kindly still     Compensating his loss with added hours     Of social converse and instructive ease,     And gathering at short notice in one group     The family dispersed, and fixing thought     Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.     I crown thee king of intimate delights,     Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,     And all the comforts that the lowly roof     Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours     Of long uninterrupted evening know.     No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;     No powdered pert proficients in the art     Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors     Till the street rings; no stationary steeds     Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound     The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:     But here the needle plies its busy task,     The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,     Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,     Unfolds its bosom; buds and leaves and sprigs     And curly tendrils, gracefully disposed,     Follow the nimble finger of the fair;     A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow     With most success when all besides decay.     The poet's or historian's page, by one     Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;     The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds     The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;     And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,     And in the charming strife triumphant still,     Beguile the night, and set a keener edge     On female industry; the threaded steel     Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.     The volume closed, the customary rites     Of the last meal commence: a Roman meal,     Such as the mistress of the world once found     Delicious, when her patriots of high note,     Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,     And under an old oak's domestic shade,     Enjoyed--spare feast!--a radish and an egg.     Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,     Nor such as with a frown forbids the play     Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth;     Nor do we madly, like an impious world,     Who deem religion frenzy, and the God     That made them an intruder on their joys,     Start at His awful name, or deem His praise     A jarring note; themes of a graver tone     Exciting oft our gratitude and love,     While we retrace with memory's pointing wand     That calls the past to our exact review,     The dangers we have scaped, the broken snare,     The disappointed foe, deliverance found     Unlooked for, life preserved and peace restored,     Fruits of omnipotent eternal love:--     Oh evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed     The Sabine bard. Oh evenings, I reply,     More to be prized and coveted than yours,     As more illumined and with nobler truths,     That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.     Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?     Needs he the tragic fur, the smoke of lamps,     The pent-up breath of an unsavoury throng     To thaw him into feeling, or the smart     And snappish dialogue that flippant wits     Call comedy, to prompt him with a smile?     The self-complacent actor, when he views     (Stealing a sidelong glance at a full house)     The slope of faces from the floor to the roof,     As if one master-spring controlled them all,     Relaxed into an universal grin,     Sees not a countenance there that speaks a joy     Half so refined or so sincere as ours.     Cards were superfluous here, with all the tricks     That idleness has ever yet contrived     To fill the void of an unfurnished brain,     To palliate dulness and give time a shove.     Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing,     Unsoiled and swift and of a silken sound.     But the world's time is time in masquerade.     Theirs, should I paint him, has his pinions fledged     With motley plumes, and, where the peacock shows     His azure eyes, is tinctured black and red     With spots quadrangular of diamond form,     Ensanguined hearts, clubs typical of strife,     And spades, the emblem of untimely graves.     What should be, and what was an hour-glass once,     Becomes a dice-box, and a billiard mast     Well does the work of his destructive scythe.     Thus decked he charms a world whom fashion blinds     To his true worth, most pleased when idle most,     Whose only happy are their wasted hours.     Even misses, at whose age their mothers wore     The back-string and the bib, assume the dress     Of womanhood, sit pupils in the school     Of card-devoted time, and night by night,     Placed at some vacant corner of the board,     Learn every trick, and soon play all the game.     But truce with censure. Roving as I rove,     Where shall I find an end, or how proceed?     As he that travels far, oft turns aside     To view some rugged rock, or mouldering tower,     Which seen delights him not; then coming home,     Describes and prints it, that the world may know     How far he went for what was nothing worth;     So I, with brush in hand and pallet spread     With colours mixed for a far different use,     Paint cards and dolls, and every idle thing     That fancy finds in her excursive flights.     Come, Evening, once again, season of peace,     Return, sweet Evening, and continue long!     Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,     With matron-step slow moving, while the night     Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed     In letting fall the curtain of repose     On bird and beast, the other charged for man     With sweet oblivion of the cares of day;     Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid,     Like homely-featured night, of clustering gems,     A star or two just twinkling on thy brow     Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine     No less than hers, not worn indeed on high     With ostentatious pageantry, but set     With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,     Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.     Come, then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,     Or make me so. Composure is thy gift;     And whether I devote thy gentle hours     To books, to music, or to poet's toil,     To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,     Or twining silken threads round ivory reels     When they command whom man was born to please,     I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.     Just when our drawing-rooms begin to blaze     With lights, by clear reflection multiplied     From many a mirror, in which he of Gath,     Goliath, might have seen his giant bulk     Whole without stooping, towering crest and all,     My pleasures too begin. But me perhaps     The glowing hearth may satisfy a while     With faint illumination, that uplifts     The shadow to the ceiling, there by fits     Dancing uncouthly to the quivering flame.     Not undelightful is an hour to me     So spent in parlour twilight; such a gloom     Suits well the thoughtful or unthinking mind,     The mind contemplative, with some new theme     Pregnant, or indisposed alike to all.     Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powers     That never feel a stupor, know no pause,     Nor need one; I am conscious, and confess.     Fearless, a soul that does not always think.     Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild     Soothed with a waking dream of houses, towers,     Trees, churches, and strange visages expressed     In the red cinders, while with poring eye     I gazed, myself creating what I saw.     Nor less amused have I quiescent watched     The sooty films that play upon the bars     Pendulous, and foreboding in the view     Of superstition, prophesying still,     Though still deceived, some stranger's near approach.     'Tis thus the understanding takes repose     In indolent vacuity of thought,     And sleeps and is refreshed. Meanwhile the face     Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask     Of deep deliberation, as the man     Were tasked to his full strength, absorbed and lost.     Thus oft reclined at ease, I lose an hour     At evening, till at length the freezing blast     That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home     The recollected powers, and, snapping short     The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves     Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.     How calm is my recess! and how the frost     Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear     The silence and the warmth enjoyed within!     I saw the woods and fields at close of day     A variegated show; the meadows green     Though faded, and the lands, where lately waved     The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,     Upturned so lately by the forceful share;     I saw far off the weedy fallows smile     With verdure not unprofitable, grazed     By flocks fast feeding, and selecting each     His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves     That skirt the horizon wore a sable hue,     Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.     To-morrow brings a change, a total change,     Which even now, though silently performed     And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face     Of universal nature undergoes.     Fast falls a fleecy shower; the downy flakes,     Descending and with never-ceasing lapse     Softly alighting upon all below,     Assimilate all objects. Earth receives     Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green     And tender blade, that feared the chilling blast,     Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.     In such a world, so thorny, and where none     Finds happiness unblighted, or if found,     Without some thistly sorrow at its side,     It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin     Against the law of love, to measure lots     With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus     We may with patience bear our moderate ills,     And sympathise with others, suffering more.     Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks     In ponderous boots beside his reeking team;     The wain goes heavily, impeded sore     By congregating loads adhering close     To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace,     Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.     The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,     While every breath, by respiration strong     Forced downward, is consolidated soon     Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear     The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,     With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth     Presented bare against the storm, plods on;     One hand secures his hat, save when with both     He brandishes his pliant length of whip,     Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.     Oh happy, and, in my account, denied     That sensibility of pain with which     Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou!     Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed     The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired;     The learned finger never need explore     Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East,     That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone     Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee.     Thy days roll on exempt from household care,     Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts,     That drag the dull companion to and fro,     Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care.     Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest,     Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great,     With needless hurry whirled from place to place,     Humane as they would seem, not always show.     Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat,     Such claim compassion in a night like this,     And have a friend in every feeling heart.     Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long     They brave the season, and yet find at eve,     Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool.     The frugal housewife trembles when she lights     Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear,     But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys;     The few small embers left she nurses well.     And while her infant race with outspread hands     And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks,     Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed.     The man feels least, as more inured than she     To winter, and the current in his veins     More briskly moved by his severer toil;     Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs.     The taper soon extinguished, which I saw     Dangled along at the cold finger's end     Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf     Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce     Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still,     Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas,     Where penury is felt the thought is chained,     And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few.     With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care     Ingenious parsimony takes, but just     Saves the small inventory, bed and stool,     Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale.     They live, and live without extorted alms     From grudging hands, but other boast have none     To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg,     Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love.     I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair,     For ye are worthy; choosing rather far     A dry but independent crust, hard-earned     And eaten with a sigh, than to endure     The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs     Of knaves in office, partial in their work     Of distribution; liberal of their aid     To clamorous importunity in rags,     But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush     To wear a tattered garb however coarse,     Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth;     These ask with painful shyness, and, refused     Because deserving, silently retire.     But be ye of good courage! Time itself     Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase,     And all your numerous progeny, well trained,     But helpless, in few years shall find their hands,     And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want     What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare,     Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send.     I mean the man, who when the distant poor     Need help, denies them nothing but his name.     But poverty with most, who whimper forth     Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe,     The effect of laziness or sottish waste.     Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad     For plunder; much solicitous how best     He may compensate for a day of sloth,     By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong,     Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's hedge     Plashed neatly and secured with driven stakes     Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength     Resistless in so bad a cause, but lame     To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil--     An ass's burden,--and when laden most     And heaviest, light of foot steals fast away.     Nor does the boarded hovel better guard     The well-stacked pile of riven logs and roots     From his pernicious force. Nor will he leave     Unwrenched the door, however well secured,     Where chanticleer amidst his harem sleeps     In unsuspecting pomp; twitched from the perch     He gives the princely bird with all his wives     To his voracious bag, struggling in vain,     And loudly wondering at the sudden change.     Nor this to feed his own. 'Twere some excuse     Did pity of their sufferings warp aside     His principle, and tempt him into sin     For their support, so destitute; but they     Neglected pine at home, themselves, as more     Exposed than others, with less scruple made     His victims, robbed of their defenceless all.     Cruel is all he does. 'Tis quenchless thirst     Of ruinous ebriety that prompts     His every action, and imbrutes the man.     Oh for a law to noose the villain's neck     Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood     He gave them in his children's veins, and hates     And wrongs the woman he has sworn to love.     Pass where we may, through city, or through town,     Village or hamlet of this merry land,     Though lean and beggared, every twentieth pace     Conducts the unguarded nose to such a whiff     Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes     That law has licensed, as makes temperance reel.     There sit involved and lost in curling clouds     Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor,     The lackey, and the groom. The craftsman there     Takes a Lethean leave of all his toil;     Smith, cobbler, joiner, he that plies the shears,     And he that kneads the dough: all loud alike,     All learned, and all drunk. The fiddle screams     Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wailed     Its wasted tones and harmony unheard;     Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she,     Fell Discord, arbitress of such debate,     Perched on the sign-post, holds with even hand     Her undecisive scales. In this she lays     A weight of ignorance, in that, of pride,     And smiles delighted with the eternal poise.     Dire is the frequent curse and its twin sound     The cheek-distending oath, not to be praised     As ornamental, musical, polite,     Like those which modern senators employ,     Whose oath is rhetoric, and who swear for fame.     Behold the schools in which plebeian minds,     Once simple, are initiated in arts     Which some may practise with politer grace,     But none with readier skill! 'Tis here they learn     The road that leads from competence and peace     To indigence and rapine; till at last     Society, grown weary of the load,     Shakes her encumbered lap, and casts them out.     But censure profits little. Vain the attempt     To advertise in verse a public pest,     That, like the filth with which the peasant feeds     His hungry acres, stinks and is of use.     The excise is fattened with the rich result     Of all this riot; and ten thousand casks,     For ever dribbling out their base contents,     Touched by the Midas finger of the state,     Bleed gold for Ministers to sport away.     Drink and be mad then; 'tis your country bids!     Gloriously drunk, obey the important call,     Her cause demands the assistance of your throats;--     Ye all can swallow, and she asks no more.     Would I had fallen upon those happier days     That poets celebrate; those golden times     And those Arcadian scenes that Maro sings,     And Sidney, warbler of poetic prose.     Nymphs were Dianas then, and swains had hearts     That felt their virtues. Innocence, it seems,     From courts dismissed, found shelter in the groves;     The footsteps of simplicity, impressed     Upon the yielding herbage (so they sing),     Then were not all effaced. Then speech profane     And manners profligate were rarely found,     Observed as prodigies, and soon reclaimed.     Vain wish! those days were never: airy dreams     Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand,     Imparting substance to an empty shade,     Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.     Grant it: I still must envy them an age     That favoured such a dream, in days like these     Impossible, when virtue is so scarce     That to suppose a scene where she presides     Is tramontane, and stumbles all belief.     No. We are polished now. The rural lass,     Whom once her virgin modesty and grace,     Her artless manners and her neat attire,     So dignified, that she was hardly less     Than the fair shepherdess of old romance,     Is seen no more. The character is lost.     Her head adorned with lappets pinned aloft     And ribbons streaming gay, superbly raised     And magnified beyond all human size,     Indebted to some smart wig-weaver's hand     For more than half the tresses it sustains;     Her elbows ruffled, and her tottering form     Ill propped upon French heels; she might be deemed     (But that the basket dangling on her arm     Interprets her more truly) of a rank     Too proud for dairy-work, or sale of eggs;     Expect her soon with foot-boy at her heels,     No longer blushing for her awkward load,     Her train and her umbrella all her care.     The town has tinged the country; and the stain     Appears a spot upon a vestal's robe,     The worse for what it soils. The fashion runs     Down into scenes still rural, but alas,     Scenes rarely graced with rural manners now.     Time was when in the pastoral retreat     The unguarded door was safe; men did not watch     To invade another's right, or guard their own.     Then sleep was undisturbed by fear, unscared     By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale     Of midnight murder was a wonder heard     With doubtful credit, told to frighten babes     But farewell now to unsuspicious nights,     And slumbers unalarmed. Now, ere you sleep,     See that your polished arms be primed with care,     And drop the night-bolt. Ruffians are abroad,     And the first larum of the cock's shrill throat     May prove a trumpet, summoning your ear     To horrid sounds of hostile feet within.     Even daylight has its dangers; and the walk     Through pathless wastes and woods, unconscious once     Of other tenants than melodious birds,     Or harmless flocks, is hazardous and bold.     Lamented change! to which full many a cause     Inveterate, hopeless of a cure, conspires.     The course of human things from good to ill,     From ill to worse, is fatal, never fails.     Increase of power begets increase of wealth;     Wealth luxury, and luxury excess;     Excess, the scrofulous and itchy plague     That seizes first the opulent, descends     To the next rank contagious, and in time     Taints downward all the graduated scale     Of order, from the chariot to the plough.     The rich, and they that have an arm to check     The licence of the lowest in degree,     Desert their office; and themselves, intent     On pleasure, haunt the capital, and thus     To all the violence of lawless hands     Resign the scenes their presence might protect.     Authority itself not seldom sleeps,     Though resident, and witness of the wrong.     The plump convivial parson often bears     The magisterial sword in vain, and lays     His reverence and his worship both to rest     On the same cushion of habitual sloth.     Perhaps timidity restrains his arm,     When he should strike he trembles, and sets free,     Himself enslaved by terror of the band,     The audacious convict whom he dares not bind.     Perhaps, though by profession ghostly pure,     He, too, may have his vice, and sometimes prove     Less dainty than becomes his grave outside     In lucrative concerns. Examine well     His milk-white hand. The palm is hardly clean--     But here and there an ugly smutch appears.     Foh! 'twas a bribe that left it. He has touched     Corruption. Whoso seeks an audit here     Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish,     Wildfowl or venison, and his errand speeds.     But faster far and more than all the rest     A noble cause, which none who bears a spark     Of public virtue ever wished removed,     Works the deplored and mischievous effect.     'Tis universal soldiership has stabbed     The heart of merit in the meaner class.     Arms, through the vanity and brainless rage     Of those that bear them, in whatever cause,     Seem most at variance with all moral good,     And incompatible with serious thought.     The clown, the child of nature, without guile,     Blest with an infant's ignorance of all     But his own simple pleasures, now and then     A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair,     Is balloted, and trembles at the news.     Sheepish he doffs his hat, and mumbling swears     A Bible-oath to be whate'er they please,     To do he knows not what. The task performed,     That instant he becomes the serjeant's care,     His pupil, and his torment, and his jest;     His awkward gait, his introverted toes,     Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks,     Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees,     Unapt to learn and formed of stubborn stuff,     He yet by slow degrees puts off himself,     Grows conscious of a change, and likes it well.     He stands erect, his slouch becomes a walk,     He steps right onward, martial in his air,     His form and movement; is as smart above     As meal and larded locks can make him: wears     His hat or his plumed helmet with a grace,     And, his three years of heroship expired,     Returns indignant to the slighted plough.     He hates the field in which no fife or drum     Attends him, drives his cattle to a march,     And sighs for the smart comrades he has left.     'Twere well if his exterior change were all--     But with his clumsy port the wretch has lost     His ignorance and harmless manners too.     To swear, to game, to drink, to show at home     By lewdness, idleness, and Sabbath-breach,     The great proficiency he made abroad,     To astonish and to grieve his gazing friends,     To break some maiden's and his mother's heart,     To be a pest where he was useful once,     Are his sole aim, and all his glory now!     Man in society is like a flower     Blown in its native bed. 'Tis there alone     His faculties expanded in full bloom     Shine out, there only reach their proper use.     But man associated and leagued with man     By regal warrant, or self-joined by bond     For interest sake, or swarming into clans     Beneath one head for purposes of war,     Like flowers selected from the rest, and bound     And bundled close to fill some crowded vase,     Fades rapidly, and by compression marred     Contracts defilement not to be endured.     Hence chartered boroughs are such public plagues,     And burghers, men immaculate perhaps     In all their private functions, once combined,     Become a loathsome body, only fit     For dissolution, hurtful to the main.     Hence merchants, unimpeachable of sin     Against the charities of domestic life,     Incorporated, seem at once to lose     Their nature, and, disclaiming all regard     For mercy and the common rights of man,     Build factories with blood, conducting trade     At the sword's point, and dyeing the white robe     Of innocent commercial justice red.     Hence too the field of glory, as the world     Misdeems it, dazzled by its bright array,     With all the majesty of thundering pomp,     Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,     Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught     On principle, where foppery atones     For folly, gallantry for every vice.     But slighted as it is, and by the great     Abandoned, and, which still I more regret,     Infected with the manners and the modes     It knew not once, the country wins me still.     I never framed a wish or formed a plan     That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss,     But there I laid the scene. There early strayed     My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice     Had found me, or the hope of being free.     My very dreams were rural, rural too     The first-born efforts of my youthful muse,     Sportive, and jingling her poetic bells     Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers.     No bard could please me but whose lyre was tuned     To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats     Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe     Of Tityrus, assembling as he sang     The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.     Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:     New to my taste, his Paradise surpassed     The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue     To speak its excellence; I danced for joy.     I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age     As twice seven years, his beauties had then first     Engaged my wonder, and admiring still,     And still admiring, with regret supposed     The joy half lost because not sooner found.     Thee, too, enamoured of the life I loved,     Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit     Determined, and possessing it at last     With transports such as favoured lovers feel,     I studied, prized, and wished that I had known,     Ingenious Cowley: and though now, reclaimed     By modern lights from an erroneous taste,     I cannot but lament thy splendid wit     Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.     I still revere thee, courtly though retired,     Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers,     Not unemployed, and finding rich amends     For a lost world in solitude and verse.     'Tis born with all. The love of Nature's works     Is an ingredient in the compound, man,     Infused at the creation of the kind.     And though the Almighty Maker has throughout     Discriminated each from each, by strokes     And touches of His hand, with so much art     Diversified, that two were never found     Twins at all points--yet this obtains in all,     That all discern a beauty in His works,     And all can taste them: minds that have been formed     And tutored, with a relish more exact,     But none without some relish, none unmoved.     It is a flame that dies not even there,     Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds,     Nor habits of luxurious city life,     Whatever else they smother of true worth     In human bosoms, quench it or abate.     The villas, with which London stands begirt     Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads,     Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,     The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer     The citizen, and brace his languid frame!     Even in the stifling bosom of the town,     A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms     That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled     That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,     Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well     He cultivates. These serve him with a hint     That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green     Is still the livery she delights to wear,     Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.     What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,     The prouder sashes fronted with a range     Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,     The Frenchman's darling? are they not all proofs     That man, immured in cities, still retains     His inborn inextinguishable thirst     Of rural scenes, compensating his loss     By supplemental shifts, the best he may?     The most unfurnished with the means of life,     And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds     To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air,     Yet feel the burning instinct: over-head     Suspend their crazy boxes planted thick     And watered duly. There the pitcher stands     A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;     Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets     The country, with what ardour he contrives     A peep at nature, when he can no more.     Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease     And contemplation, heart-consoling joys     And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode     Of multitudes unknown, hail rural life!     Address himself who will to the pursuit     Of honours, or emolument, or fame,     I shall not add myself to such a chase,     Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.     Some must be great. Great offices will have     Great talents. And God gives to every man     The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,     That lifts him into life, and lets him fall     Just in the niche he was ordained to fill.     To the deliverer of an injured land     He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, a heart     To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;     To monarchs dignity, to judges sense;     To artists ingenuity and skill;     To me an unambitious mind, content     In the low vale of life, that early felt     A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long     Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.