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 FIFTH BOOK.

A frosty morning.—The foddering of cattle.—the wood|man and his dog.—The poultry.—Whimsical effects of frost at a waterfall.—The Empress of Russia's palace of ice.—Amusements of monarchs.—War one of them. Wars, whence.—And whence monarchy.—The evils of it.—English and French loyalty contrasted.—The Bastile and a prisoner there.—Liberty the chief recom|mendation of this country.—Modern patriotism ques|tionable, and why.—The perishable nature of the best human institutions.—Spiritual liberty not perishable.— The slavish state of man by nature.—Deliver him Deist if you can.—Grace must do it.—The respective merits of patriots aud martyrs stated.—Their different treatment.—Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free.—His relish of the works of God.—Ad|dress to the Creator.

BOOK V.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

'TIS morning; and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending fires the horizon. While the clouds That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense,

In spite of gravity and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance I view the muscular proportioned limb Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair As they designed to mock me, at my side Take step for step, and as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaister'd wall Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents And coarser grass upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder, not like hungr'ing man Fretfull if unsupplied, but silent, meek,

And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. He from the stack carves out th' accustomed load, Deep-plunging and again deep plunging oft His broad keen knife into the solid mass. Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away. No needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman leaving unconcerned The cheerfull haunts of man, to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy and lean and shrew'd, with pointed ears And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk Wide-scampering snatches up the drifted snow With iv'ry teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powder'd coat and barks for joy.

Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark. Nor stops for aught. But now and then with pressure of his thumb T' adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube That fumes beneath his nose. The trailing cloud Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. Now from the roost or from the neighb'ring pale, Where diligent to catch the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossipp'd side by side, Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the shelt'ring eaves To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved T' escape th' impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook,

Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd To sad necessity the cock foregoes His wonted strut, and wading at their head With well-considered steps, seems to resent His alter'd gait and stateliness retrenched. How find the myriads that in summer cheer The hills and vallies with their ceaseless songs Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? Earth yields them nought: the imprison'd worm is safe Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Lie covered close, and berry-bearing thorns That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose) Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. The long protracted rigor of the year Thins all their num'rous flocks. In chinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end As instinct prompts, self buried 'ere they die. The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now Repays their labor more; and perch'd aloft

By the way-side, or stalking in the path, Lean pensioners upon the trav'llers track, Pick up their nauscous dole, though sweet to them, Of voided pulse or half digested grain. The streams are lost amid the splendid blank O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood Indurated and fixt the snowy weight Lies undissolved, while silently beneath And unperceived the current steals away. Not so, where scornful of a check it leaps The mill-dam, dashes on the wrestless wheel, And wantons in the pebbly gulph below. No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force Can but arrest the light and smokey mist That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. And see where it has hung th' embroidered banks With forms so various, that no pow'rs of art, The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene! Here glitt'ring turrets rise, upbearing high (Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof

Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees And shrubs of fairy land. The chrystal drops That trickle down the branches, fast congeal'd Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, And prop the pile they but adorned before. Here grotto within grotto safe defies The sun-beam. There imboss'd and fretted wild The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain The likeness of some object seen before. Thus nature works as if to mock at art, And in defiance of her rival pow'rs; By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats As she with all her rules can never reach. Less worthy of applause though more admired, Because a novelty, the work of man, Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ! Thy most magnificent and mighty freak, The wonder of the North. No forest fell

When thou would'st build: no quarry sent its stores T' enrich thy walls. But thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glassy wave. In such a palace Aristaeus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear. In such a palace poetry might place The armoury of winter, where his troops The gloomy clouds find weapons, arro'wy sleet Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, And snow that often blinds the trav'ller's course, And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. Silently as a dream the fabric rose. No sound of hammer or of saw was there. Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjoined, nor other cement ask'd Than water interfused to make them one. Lamps gracefully disposed and of all hues Illumined ev'ry side. A wat'ry light Gleamed through the clear transparency, that seemed

Another moon new-risen, or meteor fall'n From heav'n to earth, of lambent flame serene. So stood the brittle prodigy, though smooth And slipp'ry the materials, yet frost-bound Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within That royal residence might well befit, For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths Of flow'rs that feared no enemy but warmth, Blushed on the pannels. Mirrour needed none Where all was vitreous, but in order due Convivial table and commodious seat (What seemed at least commodious seat) were there, Sofa and couch and high-built throne august. The same lubricity was found in all, And all was moist to the warm touch, a scene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. Alas! twas but a mortifying stroke Of undesigned severity, that glanced, (Made by a monarch) on her own estate,

On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 'Twas durable. As worthless as it seemed Intrinsically precious. To the foot Treach'rous and false, it smiled and it was cold.

Great princes have great play-things. Some have played At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain-high. Some have amused the dull sad years of life, Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad, With schemes of monumental fame, and sought By pyramids and mausolaean pomp, Short-lived themselves, t' immortalize their bones. Some seek diversion in the tented field, And make the sorrows of mankind their sport. But war's a game, which were their subjects wise, King's should not play at. Nations would do well T' extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds

Are gratified with mischief, and who spoil Because men suffer it, their toy the world.

When Babel was confounded, and the great Confed'racy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shépherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley those, God drave asunder and assigned their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. Peace was awhile their care. They plough'd and sow'd And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife. But violence can never longer sleep Than human passions please. In ev'ry heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war, Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood; The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquenched

The seeds of murther in the breast of man. Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line Of his descending progeny was found The first artificer of death; the shrew'd Contriver who first sweated at the forge, And forced the blunt and yet unblooded steel To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. Him Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, The sword and faulchion their inventor claim, And the first smith was the first murd'rer's son. His art survived the waters; and 'ere long When man was multiplied and spread abroad In tribes and clans, and had begun to call These meadows and that range of hills his own, The tasted sweets of property begat Desire of more; and industry in some To improve and cultivate their just demesne, Made others covet what they saw so fair. Thus wars began on earth. These fought for spoil, And those in self-defence. Savage at first

The onset, and irregular. At length One eminent above the rest, for strength, For stratagem or courage, or for all, Was chosen leader. Him they served in war, And him in peace for sake of warlike deeds Rev'renced no less. Who could with him compare? Or who so worthy to controul themselves As he whose prowess had subdued their foes? Thus war affording field for the display Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, Which have their exigencies too, and call For skill in government, at length made king. King was a name too proud for man to wear With modesty and meekness, and the crown, So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, Was sure t' intoxicate the brows it bound. It is the abject property of most, That being parcel of the common mass, And destitute of means to raise themselves, They sink and settle lower than they need.

They know not what it is to feel within A comprehensive faculty that grasps Great purposes with ease, that turns and wields Almost without an effort, plans too vast For their conception, which they cannot move. Conscious of impotence they soon grow drunk With gazing, when they see an able man Step forth to notice; and besotted thus Build him a pedestal and say, stand there, And be our admiration and our praise. They roll themselves before him in the dust, Then most deserving in their own account When most extravagant in his applause, As if exalting him they raised themselves. Thus by degrees self-cheated of their found And sober judgment that he is but man, They demi-deify and fume him so That in due season he forgets it too. Inflated and astrut with self-conceit He gulps the windy diet, and 'ere long

Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks The world was made in vain if not for him. Thenceforth they are his cattle. Drudges born To bear his burthens, drawing in his gears And sweating in his service. His caprice Becomes the soul that animates them all. He deems a thousand or ten thousand lives Spent in the purchase of renown for him An easy reck'ning, and they think the same. Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings Were burnished into heroes, and became The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp, Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died. Strange that such folly as lifts bloated man To eminence fit only for a God, Should ever drivel out of human lips Ev'n in the cradled weakness of the world! Still stranger much, that when at length mankind Had reached the sinewy firmness of their youth, And could discriminate and argue well

On subjects more mysterious, they were yet Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear And quake before the Gods themselves had made. But above measure strange, that neither proof Of sad experience, nor examples set By some whose patriot virtue has prevailed, Can even now, when they are grown matute In wisdom, and with philosophic deeps Familiar, serve t' emancipate the rest! Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone To rev'rence what is ancient and can plead A course of long observance for its use, That even servitude the worst of ills, Because deliver'd down from sire to son, Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing. But is it fit, or can it bear the shock Of rational discussion, that a man Compounded and made up like other men Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust And folly in as ample measure meet

As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, Should be a despot absolute, and boast Himself the only freeman of his land? Should when he pleases, and on whom he will Wage war, with any or with no pretence Of provocation giv'n or wrong sustained, And force the beggarly last doit, by means That his own humour dictates, from the clutch Of poverty, that thus he may procure His thousands weary of penurious life A splendid opportunity to die? Say ye, who (with less prudence than of old Jotham ascribed to his assembled trees In politic convention) put your trust I' th' shadow of a bramble, and reclined In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch, Rejoice in him and celebrate his sway, Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs Your self-denying zeal that holds it good To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang

His thorns with streamers of continual praise? We too are friends to loyalty. We love The king who loves the law; respects his bounds And reigns content within them. Him we serve Freely and with delight, who leaves us free. But recollecting still that he is man, We trust him not too far. King, though he be, And king in England too, he may be weak And vain enough to be ambitious still, May exercise amiss his proper pow'rs, Or covet more than freemen chuse to grant: Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours, T' administer, to guard, t' adorn the state, But not to warp or change it. We are his, To serve him nobly in the common cause True to the death, but not to be his slaves. Mark now the diff'rence, ye that boast your love Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. We love the man. The paultry pageant you. We the chief patron of the Commonwealth;

You the regardless author of its woes. We for the sake of liberty, a king; You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake. Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free. Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. Were king-ship as true treasure as it seems, Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, I would not be a king to be beloved Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, Where love is mere attachment to the throne, Not to the man who fills it as he ought.

Whose freedom is by suff'rance, and at will Of a superior, he is never free. Who lives and is not weary of a life. Exposed to manacles, deserves them well. The state that strives for liberty, though foiled And forced t' abandon what she bravely sought,

Deserves at least applause for her attempt, And pity for her loss. But that's a cause Not often unsuccessful; pow'r usurp'd Is weakness when oppos'd; conscious of wrong 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight. But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts The surest presage of the good they seek.* 1.1

Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more To France, than all her losses and defeats Old or of later date, by sea or land,

Her house of bondage worse than that of old Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastile. Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts, Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music such as suits their sov'reign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men! There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fall'n at last, to know That ev'n our enemies, so oft employed In forging chains for us, themselves were free. For he that values liberty, confines His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds; her cause engages him Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. There dwell the most forlorn of human kind Immured though unaccused, condemn'd untried, Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. There like the visionary emblem seen By him of Babylon, life stands a stump,

And filletted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone, To count the hour-bell and expect no change; And ever as the sullen sound is heard, Still to reflect that though a joyless note To him whose moments all have one dull pace, Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it music; that it summons some To theatre or jocund feast or ball; The wearied hireling finds it a release From labor, and the lover that has chid Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke Upon his heart-strings trembliug with delight— To fly for refuge from distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools— To read engraven on the mouldy walls In stagg'ring types, his predecessors tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own— To turn purveyor to an overgorged

And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest Is made familiar, watches his approach, Comes at his call and serves him for a friend— To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro The studs that thick emboss his iron door, Then downward and then upward, then aflant And then alternate, with a sickly hope By dint of change to give his tasteless task Some relish, till the sum exactly found In all directions, he begins again— Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around With woes, which who that suffers, would not kneel And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? That man should thus encroach on fellow man, Abridge him of his just and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon th' endearments of domestic life And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedless word To barrenness and solitude and tears,

Moves indignation. Makes the name of king, (Of king whom such prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Manichean God, Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eye sight of discov'ry, and begets In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To to be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore still, blame-worthy as thou art, With all thy lose of empire, and though squeezed By public exigence 'till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief

Among the nations, seeing thou art free! My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine; Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft And plausible than social life requires, And thou hast need of discipline and art To give thee what politer France receives From Nature's bounty—that humane address And sweetness, without which no pleasure is In converse, either starved by cold reserve, Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl; Yet being free, I love thee. For the sake Of that one feature, can be well content, Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside. But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure Chains no where patiently, and chains at home Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain

Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me. I should then with double pain Feel all the rigor of thy fickle clime, And if I must bewail the blessing lost For which our Hampdens and our Sidney's bled, I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less austere, In scenes which having never known me free Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forebode impossible events, And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may! But th' age of virtuous politics is past, And we are deep in that of cold pretence. Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes Deep in his soft credulity the stamp Designed by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, Incurs derision for his easy faith

And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough. For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not? can he love the whole Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend Who is, in truth, the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, Who slights the charities for whose dear sake That country, if at all, must be beloved? 'Tis therefore, sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain Healthful and undisturbed by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd controul, And hew'd them link from link. Then Albion's sons Were sons indeed. They felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs, And shining each in his domestic sphere,

Shone brighter still once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore, many whose sequester'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on Anticipate perforce some dire event; And seeing the old castle of the state That promised once more firmness, so assail'd That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake, Stand motionless expectants of its fall. All has its date below. The fatal hour Was register'd in heaven 'ere time began. We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works Die too. The deep foundations that we lay, Time ploughs them up, and not a trace remains, We build with what we deem eternal rock, A distant age asks where the fabric stood, And in the dust sifted and search'd in vain, The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

But there is yet a liberty unsung By poets, and by senators unpraised,

Which monarchs cannot grant, nor all the power•• Of earth and hell confed'rate take away. A liberty, which persecution, fraud, Oppression, prisons, have no power to bind, Which whoso tastes can be enslaved no more. 'Tis liberty of heart, derived from heav'n, Bought with HIS blood who gave it to mankind, And seal'd with the same token. It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure By th' unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God. His other gifts All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, And are august, but this transcends them all, His other works, this visible display Of all-creating energy and might, Are grand no doubt, and worthy of the word That finding an interminable space Unoccupied, has filled the void so well, And made so sparkling what was dark before. But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true,

Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, Might well suppose th' artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himself Pronounced it transient glorious as it is, And still designing a more glorious far, Doom'd it, as insufficient for his praise. These therefore are occasional and pass. Form'd for the confutation of the fool Whose lying heart disputes against a God, That office served, they must be swept away. Not so the labours of his love. They shine In other heav'ns than these that we behold, And fade not. There is paradise that fears No forfeiture, and of its fruits he sends Large prelibation oft to saints below. Of these the first in order, and the pledge And confident assurance of the rest Is liberty. A flight into his arms 'Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way,

A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, And full immunity from penal woe.

Chains are the portion of revolted man, Stripes and a dungeon; and his body serves The triple purpose. In that sickly, foul, Opprobrious residence, he finds them all. Propense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created things Careless of their Creator. And that low And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs To a vile clod, so draws him, with such force Resistless from the center he should seek, That he at last forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward, his ambition is to sink, To reach a depth profounder still, and still Profounder, in the fathomless abyss Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. But 'ere he gain the comfortless repose He seeks, an acquiescence of his soul

In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures— What does he not? from lusts oppos'd in vain, And self-reproaching conscience. He foresees The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, Fortune and dignity; the loss of all That can enoble man, and make frail life Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes Ages of hopeless misery. Future death, And death still future. Not an hasty stroke Like that which sends him to the dusty grave, But unrepealable enduring death. Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears; What none can prove a forg'ry, may be true, What none but bad men wish exploded, must. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst Of laughter his compunctions are sincere, And he abhors the jest by which he shines.

Remorse begets reform. His master-lust Falls first before his resolute rebuke, And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace ensues, But spurious and short-liv'd, the puny child Of self-congratulating pride, begot On fancied Innocence. Again he falls, And fights again; but finds his best essay A presage ominous, portending still Its own dishonor by a worse relapse. Till Nature, unavailing Nature foiled So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause, Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd; With shallow shifts and old devices, worn And tatter'd in the service of debauch, Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight.

"Hath God indeed giv'n appetites to man, "And stored the earth so plenteously with means

"To gratify the hunger of his wish, "And doth he reprobate and will he damn "The use of his own bounty? making first "So frail a kind, and then enacting laws "So strict, that less than perfect must despair? "Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth, "Dishonors God, and makes a slave of man. "Do they themselves, who undertake for hire "The teacher's office, and dispense at large "Their weekly dole of edifying strains, "Attend to their own music? have they faith "In what with such solemnity of tone "And gesture they propound to our belief? "Nay—conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice "Is but an instrument on which the priest "May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, "The unequivocal authentic deed "We find sound argument, we read the heart.

Such reas'nings (if that name must needs belong T' excuses in which reason has no part)

Serve to compose a spirit well inclined To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urged (As often as libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreserved assent. Till harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair, He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill, Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease, 'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness; moral truth How lovely, and the moral-sense how sure Consulted and obey'd, to guide his steps Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs

Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise, Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.— Ah, tinkling cymbal and high-sounding brass Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm Th' eclipse that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam, And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring soul. The still small voice is wanted. He must speak Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect, Who calls for things that are not, and they come.

Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if like him of fabulous renown They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus and omnipotent in song. But transformation of apostate man

From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And he by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, atchieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength By weakness, and hostility by love.

Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and sculpture in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass, To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust. But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who posted at the shrine of truth, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood Well spent in such a strife may earn indeed

And for a time insure to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim, Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies. Yet few remember them. They lived unknown Till persecution dragg'd them into fame And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew —No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song, And History, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise.* 1.2

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes confed'rate for his harm Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green wyths. He looks abroad into the varied field Of Nature, and though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. His are the mountains, and the vallies his, And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who with filial confidence inspired Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say—my father made them all. Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of int'rest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love

That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world So cloathed with beauty, for rebellious man? Yes—ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast or in the chace, in song or dance A liberty like his, who unimpeach'd Of usurpation and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his father's work, And has a richer use of yours, than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city, plann'd or 'ere the hills Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea, With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in ev'ry state, And no condition of this changeful life So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less. For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine.

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. Th' oppressor holds His body bound, but knows not what a range His spirit takes unconscious of a chain, And that to bind him is a vain attempt Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

Acquaint thyself with God if thou would'st taste His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before; Thine eye shall be instructed, and thine heart Made pure, shall relish with divine delight 'Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone And eyes intent upon the scanty herb It yields them, or recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it and admires, but rests content

With what he views. The landscape has his praise, But not its author. Unconcern'd who form'd The paradise he sees, he finds it such, And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind that has been touch'd from heav'n, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught To read his wonders, in whose thought the world, Fair as it is, existed 'ere it was. Not for its own sake merely, but for his Much more who fashioned it, he gives it praise; Praise that from earth resulting as it ought To earth's acknowledg'd sov'reign, finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him. The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed New faculties, or learns at least t' employ More worthily the pow'rs she own'd before; Discerns in all things, what with stupid gaze Of ignorance till then she overlook'd, A ray of heav'nly light gilding all forms Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute

The unambiguous sootsteps of the God Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with heav'n, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Sweet conference. Enquires what strains were they With which heav'n rang, when ev'ry star, in haste To gratulate the new-created earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy.—"Tell me, ye shining hosts "That navigate a sea that knows no storms "Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, "If from your elevation, whence ye view "Distinctly scenes invisible to man, "And systems of whose birth no tidings yet "Have reach'd this nether world, ye spy a race "Favor'd as our's, transgressors from the womb "And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise, "And to possefs a brighter heav'n than yours?

"As one who long detain'd on foreign shores "Pants to return, and when he sees afar "His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks "From the green wave emerging, darts an eye "Radiant with joy towards the happy land; "So I with animated hopes behold "And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, "That shew like beacons in the blue abyss "Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home "From toilsome life to never-ending rest. "Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires "That give assurance of their own success, "And that infused from heav'n, must thither tend."

So reads he nature whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious word! Which whoso sees, no longer wanders lost With intellects bemazed in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built With means that were not till by thee employ'd,

World's that had never been had'st thou in strength Been less, or less benevolent than strong. They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r And goodness infinite, but speak in ears That hear not, or receive not their report. In vain thy creatures testify of thee 'Till thou proclaim thyself. Their's is indeed A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, And with the boon gives talents for its use. 'Till thou art heard, imaginations vain Possess the heart, and fables false as hell Yet deemed oracular, lure down to death The uninform'd and heedless souls of men. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, The glory of thy work, which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and proved Then skilful most when most severely judged. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st:

Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r (If pow'r she be that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we doat, refusing while we can Instruction, and inventing to ourselves Gods such as guilt makes welcome, Gods that sleep, Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amused spectators of this bustling stage. Thee we reject, unable to abide Thy purity, 'till pure as thou art pure, Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. Then we are free. Then liberty like day Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heav'n Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not 'Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song, A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works, Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise.

In that blest moment, nature throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who retired Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied. Thou art the source and centre of all minds, Their only point of rest, eternal word! From thee departing, they are lost and rove At random, without honor, hope, or peace. From thee is all that sooths the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer and his will to serve. But oh thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou can'st, without thee we are poor, And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The author hopes that he shall not be censured for unneces|sary warmth upon so interesting a subject. He is aware that it is become almost fashionable to stigmatize such sentiments as no better than empty declamation. But it is an ill symptom, and peculiar to modern times.
• * 1.2

  See Hume.