[THE TASK, A POEM, IN SIX BOOKS.]

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 lungs and blear the sight
 Of oracles like these? Great pity too,
 That having wielded th' elements, and built
 A thousand systems, each in his own way,
 They should go out in fume and be forgot? 
Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they
 But frantic who thus spend it? all for smoke —
 Eternity for bubbles, proves at last
 A senseless bargain. When I see such games
 Play'd by the creatures of a pow'r who swears
 That he will judge the earth, and call the fool
 To a sharp reck'ning that has 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. 
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 fomentation, and invite the seed. 
The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth
 And glossy, he commits to pots of size
 Diminutive, well fill'd with well prepar'd
 And fruitful soil, that has been treasur'd long,
 And 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.