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