The task: a poem, in six books. By William Cowper, ... To which are added, by the same author, An epistle to Joseph Hill, Esq. ... To which are added, ... an epistle ... and the history of John Gilpin.

ARGUMENT of the THIRD BOOK.

Self-recollection and reproof.—Address to domestic happi|ness. —Some account of myself.—The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wise.—Justification of my censures.—Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher.—The question, What is truth? answered by other questions.—Domestic happiness ad|dressed again.—Few lovers of the country.—My tame hare.—Occupations of a retired gentleman in his gar|den.— Pruning.—Framing.—Greenhouse.—Sowing of flower-seeds.—The country preferable to the town even in the winter.—Reasons why it is deserted at that season.—Ruinous effects of gaming and of expensive improvement.—Book concludes with an apostrophé to the metropolis.

BOOK III.

THE GARDEN.

AS one who long in thickets and in brakes Entangled, winds now this way and now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or having long in miry ways been foiled And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging, and half despairing of escape, If chance at length he find a green-swerd 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 deserved) Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last. But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road I mean to tread. I feel myself at large, Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil, If toil await me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound, What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the satyric 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 fears 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 chearful 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 survived 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 chrystal cup. Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,

Heav'n born and destined to the skies again. Thou art not known where pleasure is adored, 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-tied love Joys that her stormy raptures never yeild. Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made Of honor, dignity, and fair renown, 'Till prostitution elbows us aside In all our crowded streets, and senates seem Convened for purposes of empire less, Than to release th' adultress from her bond. Th' adultress! what a theme for angry verse, What provocation to th' indignant heart That feels for injured 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 chariotted along

In guilty splendor, 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 ashamed to own. Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time Not to be pass'd. And she that had renounced Her sex's honor, was renounced 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 received, But was an wholesome rigor 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 honor in those days, And judg'd offenders well. And he that sharp'd, And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd, Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold His country, or was slack when she required

His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid with the blood that he had basely spared The price of his default. But now, yes, now, We are become so candid and so fair, So lib'ral in construction, and so rich In christian charity, a good-natured age! That they are safe, sinners of either sex, Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, well bred, Well equipaged, 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 charged 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 chace of fancied happiness, still wooed 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 remainder 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 cooevals 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 fixt, 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 teaze the Iungs 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 lived 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 deceived. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but she sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me therefore common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil

Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up!

'Twere well, says one sage erudite, profound, Terribly 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 meandring there And catechise it well. Apply your glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own. And if it be, What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,

To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind. True; I am no proficient, I confess, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in th' 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 wond'rous, 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 stile. 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 baptized 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 pray'r Has flow'd from lips wet with Castalian dews. Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage! Sagacious reader of the works of God, And in his word sagacious. Such too thine Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, And fed on manna. And such thine in whom Our British Themis gloried with just cause Immortal Hale! for deep discernment praised And sound integrity not more, than famed For sanctity of manners undefiled.

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades Like the fair 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 enquirer, not a spark. What's that which brings contempt upon a book And him that writes it, though the stile be neat, The method clear, and argument exact? That makes a minister in holy things The joy of many and the dread of more, His name a theme for praise and for reproach?— That while it gives us worth in God's account, Depreciates and undoes us in our own? What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,

That learning is too proud to gather up, But which the poor and the despised of all Seek and obtain, and often find unsought? Tell me, and I will tell thee, what is truth.

Oh friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural leisure pass'd! Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets, Though many boast thy favours, and affect To understand and chuse thee for their own. But foolish man foregoes 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 fishes eye; Could pageantry and dance and feast and song Be quell'd in all our summer-month retreats; How many self-deluded nymphs and swains Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves, Would find them hideous nurs'ries of the spleen, And crowd the roads, impatient for the town! They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought,

For all the savage din of the swift pack And clamours of the field? detested sport, That owes its pleasures to another's pain, That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued With eloquence that agonies inspire Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs! Vain tears alas! and sighs that never find A corresponding tone in jovial souls. Well—one at least is safe. One 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 mayst 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, Delighful industry enjoyed at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad— Can he want occupation who has these? Will he be idle who has much 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 divulged in vain, To its just point the service of mankind. He that attends to his interior self, That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks A social, not a dissipated life, Has business. Feels himself engaged t' atchieve 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 perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment digested well. Or if the garden with its many cares, All well repay'd, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard labor 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' expence 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.* 1.1 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 stteam 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 matured, 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 ay 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 stercorarious heap Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, And potent to resist the freezing blast. For 'ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf Decidu'ous, and when now November dark Checks vegetation in the torpid plant Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins. Warily therefore, and with prudent heed He seeks a favor'd spot. That where he builds Th' agglomerated pile, his frame may front The sun's meridian disk, and at the back Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread Dry fern or 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 labor ends. Thrice must the voluble and restless earth Spin round upon her axle, 'ere the warmth Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass Diffused, attain the surface. When behold! A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad In volumes wheeling slow, the vapor dank,

And purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage Th' impatient fervor 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 somentation, 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 drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds. These on the warm and genial earth that hides The smoking manure and o'erspreads it all, He places lightly, and as time subdues The rage of fermentation, plunges deep

In the soft medium, 'till they stand 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 produced, two rough indented leaves, Cautious, he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that portends a future sprout, And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, Prolific all, and harbingers of more. The crowded roots demand enlargement now And transplantation in an ampler space. Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, Blown on the summit of 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 insures 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 labor and the skill That day and night are exercised, and hang Upon the ticklish balance of suspense, That ye may garnish your profuse regales With summer fruits brought forth by wintry suns. Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam, Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies Minute as dust and numberless, oft work Dire disappointment that admits no cure, And which no care can obviate. It were long,

Too long to tell 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 labor, worthless when produced.

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 sear. Th' amomum there with intermingling flow'rs And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts

Her crimson honors, 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 convened 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 retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, A noble show! while Roscius trod the stage; And so, while Garrick as renown'd as he,

The sons of Albion; fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty seen In ev'ry flash of his far-beaming eye. Nor taste alone and well contrived 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 vigor, injured soon, not soon restored. 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 pleased, The scent regaled, each odorif'rous leaf, Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, All healthful, are 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 gayly dress'd, appears A flow'ry island from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deemed a labor due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Here also gratefull 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 mispent, 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 charged th' incumber'd soil, And fairly laid the Zodiac in the dust. He therefore who would see his flow'rs disposed Sightly and in just order, 'ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds Forecasts the future whole. That when the scene Shall break into its preconceived 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

Uninjured, 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 cloath the soil that feeds them, far diffused And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, Like virtue, thriving most where little seen. Some more aspiring catch the neighbour shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch Else 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' improv'rish'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 sollies 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 uncontroul'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 Allured 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 Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed. Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles, And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extoll. Not as the prince in Sushan, when he call'd Vain-glorious of her charms his Vashti forth To grace the full pavilion. Hi 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 unperfumed 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 volcano's 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 That had surviv'd the father, serv'd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful Lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrew'd sharper, 'ere it buds again. Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, Then advertised, and auctioneer'd away.

The country starves, and they that feed th' o'ercharged And surfeited lew'd 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— The 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 exposed It may enjoy th' advantage of the north And agueish 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 vallies rise, And streams as if created for his use,

Pursue the track of his directing wand Sinuous or strait, now rapid and now slow, Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades, Ev'n as he bids. Th' enraptur'd owner smiles. 'Tis finish'd. And yet finish'd as it seems, Still wants a grace, th' loveliest it could show, A mine to satisfy the enormous cost. Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day Labor'd, and many a night pursued 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' indear 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 duely, when his vote Well-managed, shall have earn'd its worthy price. Oh innocent compared with arts like these, Crape and cock'd pistol and the whistling ball Sent through the trav'llers temples! he that finds One drop of heav'ns 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, av'rice, penury incurr'd By endless riot; vanity, the lust Of pleasure and variety, dispatch As duely 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 spendthrist and the leech That sucks him. There the sycophant and he That 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 FOR TUNES MENDED HERE" These are the charms that sully and eclipse The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, That at the sound of Winter's hoary wing, Unpeople all our counties, of such herds Of flutt'ring, loit'ring, cringing, begging, loose And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, 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 pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee! Ten righteous would have saved a city once, And thou hast many righteous.—Well for thee— That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious at this hour, Than Sodom in her day had pow'r to be, For whom God heard his Abr'am plead in vain.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Miraturque novos fructus et non sua poma. VIRG.