[
THE
TASK
,
A
POEM
,
IN
SIX
BOOKS
.
]
ARGUMENT
of
the
SIXTH
BOOK
.
Bells
at
a
distance
.
—
Their
effect
.
—
A
fine
noon
in
winter
.
—
A
sheltered
walk
.
—
Meditation
better
than
books
.
—
Our
familiarity
with
the
course
of
nature
makes
it
ap
pear
less
wonderful
than
it
is
.
—
The
transformation
that
spring
effects
in
a
shrubbery
described
.
—
A
mistake
concerning
the
course
of
nature
corrected
.
—
God
main
tains
it
by
an
unremitted
act
.
—
The
amusements
fashionable
at
this
hour
of
the
day
reproved
.
—
Animals
happy
,
a
delightful
sight
.
—
Origin
of
cruelty
to
ani
mals
.
—
That
it
is
a
great
crime
proved
from
scripture
.
—
That
proof
illustrated
by
a
tale
.
—
A
line
drawn
be
tween
the
lawful
and
the
unlawful
destruction
of
them
.
—
Their
good
and
useful
properties
insisted
on
.
—
Apo
logy
for
the
encomiums
bestowed
by
the
author
on
ani
mals
.
—
Instances
of
man's
extravagant
praise
of
man
.
—
The
groans
of
the
creation
shall
have
an
end
.
—
A
view
taken
of
the
restoration
of
all
things
.
—
An
Invocation
and
an
Invitation
of
him
who
shall
bring
it
to
pass
.
The
retired
man
vindicated
from
the
charge
of
uselessness
.
—
Conclusion
.
BOOK
VI
.
THE
WINTER
WALK
AT
NOON
.
THERE
is
in
souls
a
sympathy
with
sounds
,
And
as
the
mind
is
pitch'd
the
ear
is
pleas'd
With
melting
airs
or
martial
,
brisk
or
grave
.
Some
chord
in
unison
with
what
we
hear
Is
touched
within
us
,
and
the
heart
replies
.
How
soft
the
music
of
those
village
bells
Falling
at
intervals
upon
the
ear
In
cadence
sweet
!
now
dying
all
away
,
Now
pealing
loud
again
and
louder
still
,
Clear
and
sonorous
as
the
gale
comes
on
.
With
easy
force
it
opens
all
the
cells
Where
mem'ry
slept
.
Wherever
I
have
heard
A
kindred
melody
,
the
scene
recurs
,
And
with
it
all
its
pleasures
and
its
pains
.
Such
comprehensive
views
the
spirit
takes
,
That
in
a
few
short
moments
I
retrace
(
As
in
a
map
the
voyager
his
course
)
The
windings
of
my
way
through
many
years
.
Short
as
in
retrospect
the
journey
seems
,
It
seem'd
not
always
short
;
the
rugged
path
And
prospect
oft
so
dreary
and
forlorn
Moved
many
a
sigh
at
its
disheart'ning
length
.
Yet
feeling
present
evils
,
while
the
past
Faintly
impress
the
mind
,
or
not
at
all
,
How
readily
we
wish
time
spent
revoked
,
That
we
might
try
the
ground
again
,
where
once
(
Through
inexperience
as
we
now
perceive
)
We
miss'd
that
happiness
we
might
have
found
.
Some
friend
is
gone
,
perhaps
his
son's
best
friend
A
father
,
whose
authority
,
in
show
When
most
severe
,
and
must'ring
all
its
force
,
Was
but
the
graver
countenance
of
love
.
Whose
favour
like
the
clouds
of
spring
,
might
low'r
And
utter
now
and
then
an
awful
voice
,
But
had
a
blessing
in
its
darkest
frown
,
Threat'ning
at
once
and
nourishing
the
plant
.
We
loved
,
but
not
enough
the
gentle
hand
That
reared
us
.
At
a
thoughtless
age
allured
By
ev'ry
gilded
folly
,
we
renounced
His
shelt'ring
side
,
and
wilfully
forewent
That
converse
which
we
now
in
vain
regret
.
How
gladly
would
the
man
recall
to
life
The
boy's
neglected
sire
!
a
mother
too
,
That
softer
friend
,
perhaps
more
gladly
still
Might
he
demand
them
at
the
gates
of
death
.
Sorrow
has
since
they
went
subdued
and
tamed
The
playful
humour
,
he
could
now
endure
,
(
Himself
grown
sober
in
the
vale
of
tears
)
And
feel
a
parent's
presence
no
restraint
.
But
not
to
understand
a
treasure's
worth
'Till
time
has
stol'n
away
the
slighted
good
,
Is
cause
of
half
the
poverty
we
feel
,
And
makes
the
world
the
wilderness
it
is
,
The
few
that
pray
at
all
pray
oft
amiss
,
And
seeking
grace
t'
improve
the
prize
they
hold
Would
urge
a
wiser
suit
,
than
asking
more
.
The
night
was
winter
in
his
roughest
mood
,
The
morning
sharp
and
clear
.
But
now
at
noon
Upon
the
southern
side
of
the
slant
hills
,
And
where
the
woods
fence
off
the
northern
blast
,
The
season
smiles
resigning
all
its
rage
And
has
the
warmth
of
May
.
The
vault
is
blue
Without
a
cloud
,
and
white
without
a
speck
The
dazzling
splendour
of
the
scene
below
.
Again
the
harmony
comes
o'er
the
vale
,
And
through
the
trees
I
view
th'
embattled
tow'r
Whence
all
the
music
.
I
again
perceive
The
soothing
influence
of
the
wafted
strains
,
And
settle
in
soft
musings
as
I
tread
The
walk
still
verdant
under
oaks
and
elms
,
Whose
outspread
branches
overarch
the
glade
.
The
roof
though
moveable
through
all
its
length
As
the
wind
sways
it
,
has
yet
well
sufficed
,
And
intercepting
in
their
silent
fall
The
frequent
flakes
,
has
kept
a
path
for
me
.
No
noise
is
here
,
or
none
that
hinders
thought
.
The
red-breast
warbles
still
,
but
is
content
With
slender
notes
and
more
than
half
suppress'd
.
Pleased
with
his
solitude
,
and
flitting
light
From
spray
to
spray
,
where'er
he
rests
he
shakes
From
many
a
twig
the
pendent
drops
of
ice
,
That
tinkle
in
the
wither'd
leaves
below
.
Stillness
accompanied
with
sounds
so
soft
Charms
more
than
silence
.
Meditation
here
May
think
down
hours
to
moments
.
Here
the
heart
May
give
an
useful
lesson
to
the
head
,
And
learning
wiser
grow
without
his
books
.
Knowledge
and
wisdom
,
far
from
being
one
,
Have
oft
times
no
connexion
.
Knowledge
dwells
In
heads
replete
with
thoughts
of
other
men
,
Wisdom
in
minds
attentive
to
their
own
.
Knowledge
,
a
rude
unprofitable
mass
,
The
mere
materials
with
which
wisdom
builds
,
'Till
smooth'd
and
squared
and
fitted
to
its
place
Does
but
incumber
whom
it
seems
t'
enrich
.
Knowledge
is
proud
that
he
has
learn'd
so
much
,
Wisdom
is
humble
that
he
knows
no
more
.
Books
are
not
seldom
talismans
and
spells
By
which
the
magic
art
of
shrewder
wits
Holds
an
unthinking
multitude
enthrall'd
.
Some
to
the
fascination
of
a
name
Surrender
judgment
hood-wink'd
.
Some
the
stile
Infatuates
,
and
through
labyrinths
and
wilds
Of
error
,
leads
them
by
a
tune
entranced
.
While
sloth
seduces
more
,
too
weak
to
bear
The
insupportable
fatigue
of
thought
,
And
swallowing
therefore
without
pause
or
choice
The
total
grist
unsifted
,
husks
and
all
.
But
trees
,
and
rivulets
whose
rapid
course
Defies
the
check
of
winter
,
haunts
of
deer
,
And
sheep-walks
populous
with
bleating
lambs
,
And
lanes
in
which
the
primrose
'ere
her
time
Peeps
through
the
moss
that
cloaths
the
hawthorn
root
,
Deceive
no
student
.
Wisdom
there
,
and
truth
,
Not
shy
as
in
the
world
,
and
to
be
won
By
slow
solicitation
,
seize
at
once
The
roving
thought
,
and
fix
it
on
themselves
.
What
prodigies
can
pow'r
divine
perform
More
grand
,
than
it
produces
year
by
year
,
And
all
in
sight
of
inattentive
man
?
Familiar
with
th'
effect
we
slight
the
cause
,
And
in
the
constancy
of
nature's
course
,
The
regular
return
of
genial
months
,
And
renovation
of
a
faded
world
,
See
nought
to
wonder
at
.
Should
God
again
As
once
in
Gibeon
,
interrupt
the
race
Of
the
undeviating
and
punctual
sun
,
How
would
the
world
admire
!
but
speaks
it
less
An
agency
divine
,
to
make
him
know
His
moment
when
to
sink
and
when
to
rise
Age
after
age
,
than
to
arrest
his
course
?
All
we
behold
is
miracle
,
but
seen
So
duly
,
all
is
miracle
in
vain
.
Where
now
the
vital
energy
that
moved
While
summer
was
,
the
pure
and
subtle
lymph
Through
th'
imperceptible
maeandring
veins
Of
leaf
and
flow'r
?
It
sleeps
;
and
the
icy
touch
Of
unprolific
winter
has
impress'd
A
cold
stagnation
on
th'
intestine
tide
.
But
let
the
months
go
round
,
a
few
short
months
,
And
all
shall
be
restored
.
These
naked
shoots
Barren
as
lances
,
among
which
the
wind
Makes
wintry
music
,
sighing
as
it
goes
,
Shall
put
their
graceful
foliage
on
again
,
And
more
aspiring
and
with
ampler
spread
Shall
boast
new
charms
,
and
more
than
they
have
lost
.
Then
,
each
in
its
peculiar
honors
clad
,
Shall
publish
even
to
the
distant
eye
Its
family
and
tribe
.
Laburnum
rich
In
streaming
gold
;
syringa
iv'ry-pure
;
The
scented
and
the
scentless
rose
;
this
red
And
of
an
humbler
growth
,
the
The
Guelder-rose
.
other
tall
,
And
throwing
up
into
the
darkest
gloom
Of
neighb'ring
cypress
or
more
sable
yew
Her
silver
globes
,
light
as
the
foamy
surf
That
the
wind
severs
from
the
broken
wave
.
The
lilac
various
in
array
,
now
white
,
Now
sanguine
,
and
her
beauteous
head
now
set
With
purple
spikes
pyramidal
,
as
if
Studious
of
ornament
,
yet
unresolved
Which
hue
she
most
approved
,
she
chose
them
all
.
Copious
of
flow'rs
the
woodbine
,
pale
and
wan
,
But
well
compensating
their
sickly
looks
With
never-cloying
odours
,
early
and
late
.
Hypericum
all
bloom
,
so
thick
a
swarm
Of
flow'rs
like
flies
cloathing
her
slender
rods
That
scarce
a
leaf
appears
.
Mezerion
too
Though
leafless
well
attired
,
and
thick
beset
With
blushing
wreaths
investing
ev'ry
spray
.
Althaea
with
the
purple
eye
,
the
broom
,
Yellow
and
bright
as
bullion
unalloy'd
Her
blossoms
,
and
luxuriant
above
all
The
jasmine
,
throwing
wide
her
elegant
sweets
,
The
deep
dark
green
of
whose
unvarnish'd
leaf
Makes
more
conspicuous
,
and
illumines
more
The
bright
profusion
of
her
scatter'd
stars
.
—
These
have
been
,
and
these
shall
be
in
their
day
.
And
all
this
uniform
uncoloured
scene
Shall
be
dismantled
of
its
fleecy
load
,
And
flush
into
variety
again
.
From
dearth
to
plenty
,
and
from
death
to
life
,
Is
Nature's
progress
when
she
lectures
man
In
heav'nly
truth
;
evincing
as
she
makes
The
grand
transition
,
that
there
lives
and
works
A
soul
in
all
things
,
and
that
soul
is
God
.
The
beauties
of
the
wilderness
are
his
,
That
make
so
gay
the
solitary
place
Where
no
eye
sees
them
.
And
the
fairer
forms
That
cultivation
glories
in
,
are
his
.
He
sets
the
bright
procession
on
its
way
,
And
marshals
all
the
order
of
the
year
.
He
marks
the
bounds
which
winter
may
not
pass
,
And
blunts
his
pointed
fury
.
In
its
case
Russet
and
rude
,
folds
up
the
tender
germ
Uninjured
,
with
inimitable
art
,
And
'ere
one
flow'ry
season
fades
and
dies
Designs
the
blooming
wonders
of
the
next
.
Some
say
that
in
the
origin
of
things
When
all
creation
started
into
birth
,
The
infant
elements
received
a
law
From
which
they
swerve
not
since
.
That
under
force
Of
that
controuling
ordinance
they
move
,
And
need
not
his
immediate
hand
,
who
first
Prescribed
their
course
,
to
regulate
it
now
.
Thus
dream
they
,
and
contrive
to
save
a
God
The
incumbrance
of
his
own
concerns
,
and
spare
The
great
Artificer
of
all
that
moves
The
stress
of
a
continual
act
,
the
pain
Of
unremitted
vigilance
and
care
,
As
too
laborious
and
severe
a
task
.
So
man
,
the
moth
,
is
not
afraid
it
seems
To
span
Omnipotence
,
and
measure
might
That
knows
no
measure
,
by
the
scanty
rule
And
standard
of
his
own
,
that
is
to
day
,
And
is
not
,
'ere
to-morrow's
sun
go
down
.
But
how
should
matter
occupy
a
charge
Dull
as
it
is
,
and
satisfy
a
law
So
vast
in
its
demands
,
unless
impell'd
To
ceaseless
service
by
a
ceaseless
force
,
And
under
pressure
of
some
conscious
cause
?
The
Lord
of
all
,
himself
through
all
diffused
,
Sustains
and
is
the
life
of
all
that
lives
.
Nature
is
but
a
name
for
an
effect
Whose
cause
is
God
.
He
feeds
the
secret
fire
By
which
the
mighty
process
is
maintain'd
,
Who
sleeps
not
,
is
not
weary
;
in
whose
sight
Slow-circling
ages
are
as
transient
days
;
Whose
work
is
without
labor
,
whose
design
No
flaw
deforms
,
no
difficulty
thwarts
,
And
whose
beneficence
no
charge
exhausts
Him
blind
antiquity
profaned
,
not
serv'd
,
With
self-taught
rites
and
under
various
names
Female
and
male
,
Pomona
,
Pales
,
Pan
,
And
Flora
and
Vertumnus
;
peopling
earth
With
tutelary
goddesses
and
gods
That
were
not
,
and
commending
as
they
would
To
each
some
province
,
garden
,
field
,
or
grove
.
But
all
are
under
one
.
One
spirit
—
His
Who
wore
the
platted
thorns
with
bleeding
brows
,
Rules
universal
nature
.
Not
a
flow'r
But
shows
some
touch
in
freckle
,
streak
or
stain
,
Of
his
unrivall'd
pencil
.
He
inspires
Their
balmy
odors
and
imparts
their
hues
,
And
bathes
their
eyes
with
nectar
,
and
includes
In
grains
as
countless
as
the
sea-side
sands
,
The
forms
with
which
he
sprinkles
all
the
earth
.
Happy
who
walks
with
him
!
whom
what
he
finds
Of
flavour
or
of
scent
in
fruit
or
flow'r
,
Or
what
he
views
of
beautiful
or
grand
In
Nature
,
from
the
broad
majestic
oak
To
the
green
blade
that
twinkles
in
the
fun
,
Prompts
with
remembrance
of
a
present
God
.
His
presence
who
made
all
so
fair
,
perceived
,
Makes
all
still
fairer
.
As
with
him
no
scene
Is
dreary
,
so
with
him
all
seasons
please
.
Though
winter
had
been
none
,
had
man
been
true
,
And
earth
be
punished
for
its
tenant's
sake
,
Yet
not
in
vengeance
;
as
this
smiling
sky
So
soon
succeeding
such
an
angry
night
,
And
these
dissolving
snows
,
and
this
clear
stream
Recov'ring
fast
its
liquid
music
,
prove
.
Who
then
that
has
a
mind
well
strung
and
tuned
To
contemplation
,
and
within
his
reach
A
scene
so
friendly
to
his
fav'rite
task
,
Would
waste
attention
at
the
chequer'd
board
,
His
host
of
wooden
warriors
to
and
fro
Marching
and
counter-marching
,
with
an
eye
As
fixt
as
marble
,
with
a
forehead
ridged
And
furrow'd
into
storms
,
and
with
a
hand
Trembling
,
as
if
eternity
were
hung
In
balance
on
his
conduct
of
a
pin
?
Nor
envies
he
aught
more
their
idle
sport
Who
pant
with
application
misapplied
To
trivial
toys
,
and
pushing
iv'ry
balls
Across
the
velvet
level
,
feel
a
joy
Akin
to
rapture
,
when
the
bawble
finds
Its
destin'd
goal
of
difficult
access
.
Nor
deems
he
wiser
him
,
who
gives
his
noon
To
Miss
,
the
Mercer's
plague
,
from
shop
to
shop
Wand'ring
,
and
litt'ring
with
unfolded
silks
The
polished
counter
,
and
approving
none
,
Or
promising
with
smiles
to
call
again
.
Nor
him
,
who
by
his
vanity
seduced
And
sooth'd
into
a
dream
that
he
discerns
The
difference
of
a
Guido
from
a
daub
,
Frequents
the
crowded
auction
.
Station'd
there
As
duely
as
the
Langford
of
the
show
,
With
glass
at
eye
,
and
catalogue
in
hand
,
And
tongue
accomplish'd
in
the
fulsome
cant
And
pedantry
that
coxcombs
learn
with
ease
,
Oft
as
the
price-deciding
hammer
falls
He
notes
it
in
his
book
,
then
raps
his
box
Swears
'tis
a
bargain
,
rails
at
his
hard
fate
That
he
has
let
it
pass
—
but
never
bids
.
Here
unmolefted
,
through
whatever
sign
The
sun
proceeds
,
I
wander
.
Neither
mist
,
Nor
freezing
sky
,
nor
sultry
,
checking
me
,
Nor
stranger
intermeddling
with
my
joy
.
Ev'n
in
the
spring
and
play-time
of
the
year
That
calls
the
unwonted
villager
abroad
With
all
her
little
ones
,
a
sportive
train
,
To
gather
king-cups
in
the
yellow
mead
,
And
prink
their
hair
with
daisies
,
or
to
pick
A
cheap
but
wholesome
sallad
from
the
brook
,
These
shades
are
all
my
own
.
The
tim'rous
hare
Grown
so
familiar
with
her
frequent
guest
Scarce
shuns
me
;
and
the
stock
dove
unalarm'd
Sits
cooing
in
the
pine-tree
,
nor
suspends
His
long
love-ditty
for
my
near
approach
.
Drawn
from
his
refuge
in
some
lonely
elm
That
age
or
injury
has
hollow'd
deep
,
Where
on
his
bed
of
wool
and
matted
leaves
He
has
outslept
the
winter
,
ventures
forth
To
frisk
awhile
,
and
bask
in
the
warm
sun
,
The
squirrel
,
flippant
,
pert
,
and
full
of
play
.
He
sees
me
,
and
at
once
,
swift
as
a
bird
Ascends
the
neighb'ring
beech
;
there
whisks
his
brush
And
perks
his
ears
,
and
stamps
and
scolds
aloud
,
With
all
the
prettiness
of
feign'd
alarm
,
And
anger
insignificantly
fierce
.
The
heart
is
hard
in
nature
,
and
unfit
For
human
fellowship
,
as
being
void
Of
sympathy
,
and
therefore
dead
alike
To
love
and
friendship
both
,
that
is
not
pleased
With
sight
of
animals
enjoying
life
,
Nor
feels
their
happiness
augment
his
own
.
The
bounding
fawn
that
darts
across
the
glade
When
none
pursues
,
through
mere
delight
of
heart
,
And
spirits
buoyant
with
excess
of
glee
;
The
horse
,
as
wanton
and
almost
as
fleet
,
That
skims
the
spacious
meadow
at
full
speed
,
Then
stops
and
snorts
,
and
throwing
high
his
heels
Starts
to
the
voluntary
race
again
;
The
very
kine
that
gambol
at
high
noon
,
The
total
herd
receiving
first
from
one
That
leads
the
dance
,
a
summons
to
be
gay
,
Though
wild
their
strange
vagaries
,
and
uncouth
Their
efforts
,
yet
resolved
with
one
consent
To
give
such
act
and
utt'rance
as
they
may
To
extasy
too
big
to
be
suppress'd
—
These
,
and
a
thousand
images
of
bliss
,
With
which
kind
nature
graces
ev'ry
scene
Where
cruel
man
defeats
not
her
design
,
Impart
to
the
benevolent
,
who
wish
All
that
are
capable
of
pleasure
,
pleased
,
A
far
superior
happiness
to
theirs
,
The
comfort
of
a
reasonable
joy
.
Man
scarce
had
ris'n
,
obedient
to
his
call
Who
form'd
him
,
from
the
dust
his
future
grave
,
When
he
was
crown'd
as
never
king
was
since
.
God
set
the
diadem
upon
his
head
,
And
angel
choirs
attended
.
Wond'ring
stood
The
new-made
monarch
,
while
before
him
pass'd
,
All
happy
and
all
perfect
in
their
kind
The
creatures
,
summon'd
from
their
various
haunts
To
see
their
sov'reign
,
and
confess
his
sway
.
Vast
was
his
empire
,
absolute
his
pow'r
,
Or
bounded
only
by
a
law
whose
force
'Twas
his
sublimest
privilege
to
feel
And
own
,
the
law
of
universal
love
.
He
ruled
with
meekness
,
they
obeyed
with
joy
.
No
cruel
purpose
lurk'd
within
his
heart
,
And
no
distrust
of
his
intent
in
theirs
.
So
Eden
was
a
scene
of
harmless
sport
,
Where
kindness
on
his
part
who
ruled
the
whole
Begat
a
tranquil
confidence
in
all
,
And
fear
as
yet
was
not
,
nor
cause
for
fear
.
But
sin
marr'd
all
.
And
the
revolt
of
man
,
That
source
of
evils
not
exhausted
yet
,
Was
punish'd
with
revolt
of
his
from
him
.
Garden
of
God
,
how
terrible
the
change
Thy
groves
and
lawns
then
witness'd
!
ev'ry
heart
,
Each
animal
of
ev'ry
name
,
conceived
A
jealousy
and
an
instinctive
fear
,
And
conscious
of
some
danger
,
either
fled
Precipitate
the
loath'd
abode
of
man
,
Or
growl'd
defiance
in
such
angry
sort
,
As
taught
him
too
to
tremble
in
his
turn
.
Thus
harmony
and
family
accord
Were
driv'n
from
Paradise
;
and
in
that
hour
The
seeds
of
cruelty
that
since
have
swell'd
To
such
gigantic
and
enormous
growth
,
Were
sown
in
human
nature's
fruitful
soil
.
Hence
date
the
persecution
and
the
pain
That
man
inflicts
on
all
inferior
kinds
Regardless
of
their
plaints
.
To
make
him
sport
,
To
gratify
the
frenzy
of
his
wrath
,
Or
his
base
gluttony
,
are
causes
good
And
just
in
his
account
,
why
bird
and
beast
Should
suffer
torture
,
and
the
streams
be
dyed
With
blood
of
their
inhabitants
impaled
.
Earth
groans
beneath
the
burthen
of
a
war
Waged
with
defenceless
innocence
,
while
he
,
Not
satisfied
to
prey
on
all
around
,
Adds
tenfold
bitterness
to
death
,
by
pangs
Needless
,
and
first
torments
'ere
he
devours
.
Now
happiest
they
that
occupy
the
scenes
The
most
remote
from
his
abhorr'd
resort
,
Whom
once
as
delegate
of
God
on
earth
They
fear'd
,
and
as
his
perfect
image
loved
.
The
wilderness
is
theirs
with
all
its
caves
,
Its
hollow
glenns
,
its
thickets
,
and
its
plains
Unvisited
by
man
.
There
they
are
free
,
And
howl
and
roar
as
likes
them
,
uncontroul'd
,
Nor
ask
his
leave
to
slumber
or
to
play
.
Woe
to
the
tyrant
if
he
dare
intrude
Within
the
confines
of
their
wild
domain
;
The
lion
tells
him
—
I
am
monarch
here
—
And
if
he
spare
him
,
spares
him
on
the
terms
Of
royal
mercy
,
and
through
gen'rous
scorn
To
rend
a
victim
trembling
at
his
foot
.
In
measure
as
by
force
of
instinct
drawn
,
Or
by
necessity
constrain'd
,
they
live
Dependent
upon
man
,
those
in
his
fields
,
These
at
his
crib
,
and
some
beneath
his
roof
,
They
prove
too
often
at
how
dear
a
rate
He
sells
protection
.
Witness
,
at
his
foot
The
spaniel
dying
for
some
venial
fault
,
Under
dissection
of
the
knotted
scourge
.
Witness
,
the
patient
ox
,
with
stripes
and
yells
Driv'n
to
the
slaughter
,
goaded
as
he
runs
To
madness
,
while
the
savage
at
his
heels
Laughs
at
the
frantic
suff'rers
fury
spent
Upon
the
guiltless
passenger
o'erthrown
.
He
too
is
witness
,
noblest
of
the
train
That
wait
on
man
,
the
flight-performing
horse
.
With
unsuspecting
readiness
he
takes
His
murth'rer
on
his
back
,
and
push'd
all
day
With
bleeding
sides
and
flanks
that
heave
for
life
To
the
far-distant
goal
,
arrives
and
dies
.
So
little
mercy
shows
who
needs
so
much
!
Does
law
,
so
jealous
in
the
cause
of
man
,
Denounce
no
doom
on
the
delinquent
?
None
.
He
lives
,
and
o'er
his
brimming
beaker
boasts
(
As
if
barbarity
were
high
desert
)
Th'
inglorious
feat
,
and
clamorous
in
praise
Of
the
poor
brute
,
seems
wisely
to
suppose
The
honors
of
his
matchless
horse
his
own
.
But
many
a
crime
,
deem'd
innocent
on
earth
,
Is
register'd
in
heav'n
,
and
these
no
doubt
,
Have
each
their
record
,
with
a
curse
annext
.
Man
may
dismiss
compassion
from
his
heart
,
But
God
will
never
.
When
he
charged
the
Jew
T'
assist
his
foe's
down-fallen
beast
to
rise
,
And
when
the
bush-exploring
boy
that
seized
The
young
,
to
let
the
parent
bird
go
free
,
Proved
he
not
plainly
that
his
meaner
works
Are
yet
his
care
,
and
have
an
interest
all
,
All
,
in
the
universal
father's
love
.
On
Noah
,
and
in
him
on
all
mankind
The
charter
was
conferr'd
by
which
we
hold
The
flesh
of
animals
in
fee
,
and
claim
O'er
all
we
feed
on
,
pow'r
of
life
and
death
.
But
read
the
instrument
,
and
mark
it
well
.
Th'
oppression
of
a
tyrannous
controul
Can
find
no
warrant
there
.
Feed
then
,
and
yield
Thanks
for
thy
food
.
Carnivorous
through
sin
Feed
on
the
slain
,
but
spare
the
living
brute
.
The
Governor
of
all
,
himself
to
all
So
bountiful
,
in
whose
attentive
ear
The
unfledged
raven
and
the
lion's
whelp
Plead
not
in
vain
for
pity
on
the
pangs
Of
hunger
unassuaged
,
has
interposed
,
Not
seldom
,
his
avenging
arm
,
to
smite
Th'
injurious
trampler
upon
nature's
law
That
claims
forbearance
even
for
a
brute
.
He
hates
the
hardness
of
a
Balaam's
heart
;
And
prophet
as
he
was
,
he
might
not
strike
The
blameless
animal
,
without
rebuke
,
On
which
he
rode
.
Her
opportune
offence
Saved
him
,
or
th'
unrelenting
seer
had
died
.
He
sees
that
human
equity
is
slack
To
interfere
,
though
in
so
just
a
cause
,
And
makes
the
task
his
own
.
Inspiring
dumb
And
helpless
victims
with
a
sense
so
keen
Of
injury
,
with
such
knowledge
of
their
strength
,
And
such
sagacity
to
take
revenge
,
That
oft
the
beast
has
seemed
to
judge
the
man
.
An
ancient
,
not
a
legendary
tale
,
By
one
of
sound
intelligence
rehears'd
(
If
such
,
who
plead
for
Providence
,
may
seem
In
modern
eyes
)
shall
make
the
doctrine
clear
.
Where
England
stretch'd
towards
the
setting
sun
Narrow
and
long
,
o'erlooks
the
western
wave
,
Dwelt
young
Misagathus
.
A
scorner
he
Of
God
and
goodness
,
atheist
in
ostent
,
Vicious
in
act
,
in
temper
savage-fierce
.
He
journey'd
,
and
his
chance
was
as
he
went
,
To
join
a
trav'ller
of
far
diff'rent
note
Evander
,
famed
for
piety
,
for
years
Deserving
honor
,
but
for
wisdom
more
.
Fame
had
not
left
the
venerable
man
A
stranger
to
the
manners
of
the
youth
,
Whose
face
too
was
familiar
to
his
view
.
Their
way
was
on
the
margin
of
the
land
,
O'er
the
green
summit
of
the
rocks
whose
base
Beats
back
the
roaring
surge
,
scarce
heard
so
high
.
The
charity
that
warm'd
his
heart
was
moved
At
sight
of
the
man-monster
.
With
a
smile
Gentle
,
and
affable
,
and
full
of
grace
,
As
fearful
of
offending
whom
he
wish'd
Much
to
persuade
,
he
plied
his
ear
with
truths
Not
harshly
thunder'd
forth
or
rudely
press'd
,
But
like
his
purpose
,
gracious
,
kind
,
and
sweet
.
And
dost
thou
dream
,
th'
impenetrable
man
Exclaim'd
,
that
me
,
the
lullabies
of
age
And
fantasies
of
dotards
such
as
thou
Can
cheat
,
or
move
a
moment's
fear
in
me
?
Mark
now
the
proof
I
give
thee
,
that
the
brave
Need
no
such
aids
as
superstition
lends
To
steel
their
hearts
against
the
dread
of
death
.
He
spoke
,
and
to
the
precipice
at
hand
Push'd
with
a
madman's
fury
.
Fancy
shrinks
,
And
the
blood
thrills
and
curdles
at
the
thought
Of
such
a
gulph
as
he
design'd
his
grave
.
But
though
the
felon
on
his
back
could
dare
The
dreadful
leap
,
more
rational
his
steed
Declined
the
death
,
and
wheeling
swiftly
round
Or
'ere
his
hoof
had
press'd
the
crumbling
verge
,
Baffled
his
rider
,
saved
against
his
will
.
The
frenzy
of
the
brain
may
be
redress'd
By
med'cine
well
applied
,
but
without
grace
The
heart's
insanity
admits
no
cure
.
Enraged
the
more
by
what
might
have
reform'd
His
horrible
intent
,
again
he
sought
Destruction
with
a
zeal
to
be
destroyed
,
With
sounding
whip
and
rowels
dyed
in
blood
.
But
still
in
vain
.
The
providence
that
meant
A
longer
date
to
the
far
nobler
beast
,
Spared
yet
again
th'
ignobler
for
his
sake
.
And
now
,
his
prowess
proved
,
and
his
sincere
Incurable
obduracy
evinced
,
His
rage
grew
cool
;
and
pleased
perhaps
t'
have
earn'd
So
cheaply
the
renown
of
that
attempt
,
With
looks
of
some
complacence
he
resumed
His
road
,
deriding
much
the
blank
amaze
Of
good
Evander
,
still
where
he
was
left
Fixt
motionless
,
and
petrified
with
dread
.
So
on
they
fared
;
discourse
on
other
themes
Ensuing
,
seem'd
to
obliterate
the
past
,
And
tamer
far
for
so
much
fury
shown
,
(
As
is
the
course
of
rash
and
fiery
men
)
The
rude
companion
smiled
as
if
transform'd
.
But
'twas
a
transient
calm
.
A
storm
was
near
,
An
unsuspected
storm
.
His
hour
was
come
.
The
impious
challenger
of
pow'r
divine
Was
now
to
learn
,
that
heav'n
though
slow
to
wrath
,
Is
never
with
impunity
defied
.
His
horse
,
as
he
had
caught
his
master's
mood
,
Snorting
,
and
starting
into
sudden
rage
,
Unbidden
,
and
not
now
to
be
controul'd
,
Rush'd
to
the
cliff
,
and
having
reach'd
it
,
stood
.
At
once
the
shock
unseated
him
.
He
flew
Sheer
o'er
the
craggy
barrier
,
and
immersed
Deep
in
the
flood
,
found
,
when
he
sought
it
not
,
The
death
he
had
deserved
,
and
died
alone
.
So
God
wrought
double
justice
;
made
the
fool
The
victim
of
his
own
tremendous
choice
And
taught
a
brute
the
way
to
safe
revenge
.
I
would
not
enter
on
my
list
of
friends
(
Though
grac'd
with
polish'd
manners
and
fine
sense
Yet
wanting
sensibility
)
the
man
Who
needlessly
sets
foot
upon
a
worm
.
An
inadvertent
step
may
crush
the
snail
That
crawls
at
evening
in
the
public
path
,
But
he
that
has
humanity
,
forewarned
,
Will
tread
aside
,
and
let
the
reptile
live
.
The
creeping
vermin
,
loathsome
to
the
sight
,
And
charged
perhaps
with
venom
,
that
intrudes
A
visitor
unwelcome
into
scenes
Sacred
to
neatness
and
repose
,
th'
alcove
,
The
chamber
,
or
refectory
,
may
die
.
A
necessary
act
incurs
no
blame
.
Not
so
when
held
within
their
proper
bounds
And
guiltless
of
offence
,
they
range
the
air
,
Or
take
their
pastime
in
the
spacious
field
.
There
they
are
privileged
.
And
he
that
hunts
Or
harms
them
there
,
is
guilty
of
a
wrong
,
Disturbs
th'
oeconomy
of
nature's
realm
,
Who
when
she
form'd
,
designed
them
an
abode
.
The
sum
is
this
:
if
man's
convenience
,
health
,
Or
safety
interfere
,
his
rights
and
claims
Are
paramount
,
and
must
extinguish
theirs
.
Else
they
are
all
—
the
meanest
things
that
are
,
As
free
to
live
and
to
enjoy
that
life
,
As
God
was
free
to
form
them
at
the
first
,
Who
in
his
sov'reign
wisdom
made
them
all
.
Ye
therefore
who
love
mercy
,
teach
your
sons
To
love
it
too
.
The
spring-time
of
our
years
Is
soon
dishonour'd
and
defiled
in
most
By
budding
ills
,
that
ask
a
prudent
hand
To
check
them
.
But
alas
!
none
sooner
shoots
,
If
unrestrain'd
,
into
luxuriant
growth
,
Than
cruelty
,
most
dev'lish
of
them
all
.
Mercy
to
him
that
shows
it
,
is
the
rule
And
righteous
limitation
of
its
act
By
which
heav'n
moves
in
pard'ning
guilty
man
;
And
he
that
shows
none
,
being
ripe
in
years
,
And
conscious
of
the
out'rage
he
commits
Shall
seek
it
,
and
not
find
it
in
his
turn
.
Distinguish'd
much
by
reason
,
and
still
more
By
our
capacity
of
grace
divine
,
From
creatures
that
exist
but
for
our
sake
,
Which
having
served
us
,
perish
,
we
are
held
Accountable
,
and
God
,
some
future
day
,
Will
reckon
with
us
roundly
for
th'
abuse
Of
what
he
deems
no
mean
or
trivial
trust
.
Superior
as
we
are
,
they
yet
depend
Not
more
on
human
help
,
than
we
on
theirs
.
Their
strength
,
or
speed
,
or
vigilance
,
were
giv'n
In
aid
of
our
defects
.
In
some
are
found
Such
teachable
and
apprehensive
parts
,
That
man's
attainments
in
his
own
concerns
Match'd
with
th'
expertness
of
the
brutes
in
theirs
,
Are
oft-times
vanquish'd
and
thrown
far
behind
.
Some
show
that
nice
sagacity
of
smell
,
And
read
with
such
discernment
,
in
the
ports
And
figure
of
the
man
,
his
secret
aim
,
That
oft
we
owe
our
safety
to
a
skill
We
could
not
teach
,
and
must
despair
to
learn
.
But
learn
we
might
,
if
not
too
proud
to
stoop
To
quadrupede
instructors
,
many
a
good
And
useful
quality
,
and
virtue
too
,
Rarely
exemplified
among
ourselves
.
Attachment
never
to
be
wean'd
,
or
changed
By
any
change
of
fortune
,
proof
alike
Against
unkindness
,
absence
,
and
neglect
;
Fidelity
,
that
neither
bribe
nor
threat
Can
move
or
warp
,
and
gratitude
for
small
And
trivial
favors
,
lasting
as
the
life
,
And
glist'ning
even
in
the
dying
eye
.
Man
praises
man
.
Desert
in
arts
or
arms
Wins
public
honor
;
and
ten
thousand
sit
Patiently
present
at
a
sacred
song
,
Commemoration-mad
;
content
to
hear
(
Oh
wonderful
effect
of
music's
pow'r
!
)
Messiah's
eulogy
,
for
Handel's
sake
.
But
less
,
methinks
,
than
sacrilege
might
serve
—
(
For
was
it
less
?
What
heathen
would
have
dared
To
strip
Jove's
statue
of
his
oaken
wreath
And
hang
it
up
in
honor
of
a
man
!
)
Much
less
might
serve
,
when
all
that
we
design
Is
but
to
gratify
an
itching
ear
,
And
give
the
day
to
a
musician's
praise
.
Remember
Handel
?
who
that
was
not
born
Deaf
as
the
dead
to
harmony
,
forgets
,
Or
can
,
the
more
than
Homer
of
his
age
?
Yes
—
we
remember
him
.
And
while
we
praise
A
talent
so
divine
,
remember
too
That
His
most
holy
book
from
whom
it
came
Was
never
meant
,
was
never
used
before
To
buckram
out
the
mem'ry
of
a
man
.
But
hush
!
—
the
muse
perhaps
is
too
severe
,
And
with
a
gravity
beyond
the
size
And
measure
of
th'
offence
,
rebukes
a
deed
Less
impious
than
absurd
,
and
owing
more
To
want
of
judgment
than
to
wrong
design
.
So
in
the
chapel
of
old
Ely
House
,
When
wand'ring
Charles
,
who
meant
to
be
the
third
,
Had
fled
from
William
,
and
the
news
was
fresh
,
The
simple
clerk
but
loyal
,
did
announce
,
And
eke
did
rear
right
merrily
,
two
staves
,
Sung
to
the
praise
and
glory
of
King
George
.
—
Man
praises
man
,
and
Garrick's
mem'ry
next
,
When
time
hath
somewhat
mellow'd
it
,
and
made
The
idol
of
our
worship
while
he
lived
,
The
God
of
our
idolatry
once
more
,
Shall
have
its
altar
;
and
the
world
shall
go
In
pilgrimage
to
bow
before
his
shrine
.
The
theatre
too
small
,
shall
suffocate
Its
squeezed
contents
,
and
more
than
it
admits
Shall
sigh
at
their
exclusion
,
and
return
Ungratified
.
For
there
some
noble
lord
Shall
stuff
his
shoulders
with
king
Richard's
bunch
,
Or
wrap
himself
in
Hamlet's
inky
cloak
,
And
strut
,
and
storm
and
straddle
,
stamp
and
stare
,
The
show
the
world
how
Garrick
did
not
act
.
For
Garrick
was
a
worshipper
himself
;
He
drew
the
Liturgy
,
and
framed
the
rites
And
solemn
ceremonial
of
the
day
,
And
call'd
the
world
to
worship
on
the
banks
Of
Avon
famed
in
song
.
Ah
pleasant
proof
!
That
piety
has
still
in
human
hearts
Some
place
,
a
spark
or
two
not
yet
extinct
.
The
mulb'ry
tree
was
hung
with
blooming
wreaths
,
The
mulb'ry
tree
stood
center
of
the
dance
,
The
mulb'ry
tree
was
hymn'd
with
dulcet
airs
,
And
from
his
touchwood
trunk
,
the
mulb'ry
tree
Supplied
such
relics
,
as
devotion
holds
Still
sacred
,
and
preserves
with
pious
care
.
So
'twas
an
hallow'd
time
.
Decorum
reign'd
,
And
mirth
without
offence
.
No
few
return'd
Doubtless
much
edified
,
and
all
refreshed
.
—
Man
praises
man
.
The
rabble
all
alive
,
From
tipling-benches
,
cellars
,
stalls
,
and
styes
,
Swarm
in
the
streets
.
The
statesman
of
the
day
,
A
pompous
and
slow-moving
pageant
comes
.
Some
shout
him
,
and
some
hang
upon
his
car
To
gaze
in's
eyes
and
bless
him
.
Maidens
wave
Their
'kerchiefs
,
and
old
women
weep
for
joy
.
While
others
not
so
satisfied
unhorse
The
gilded
equipage
,
and
turning
loose
His
streeds
,
usurp
a
place
they
well
deserve
.
Why
?
what
has
charm'd
them
?
Hath
he
saved
the
state
No
.
Doth
he
purpose
its
salvation
?
No
.
Inchanting
novelty
,
that
moon
at
full
,
That
finds
out
ev'ry
crevice
of
the
head
That
is
not
sound
and
perfect
,
hath
in
theirs
Wrought
this
disturbance
.
But
the
wane
is
near
,
And
his
own
cattle
must
suffice
him
soon
.
Thus
idly
do
we
waste
the
breath
of
praise
,
And
dedicate
a
tribute
,
in
its
use
And
just
direction
,
sacred
,
to
a
thing
Doomed
to
the
dust
,
or
lodged
already
there
.
Encomium
in
old
time
was
poet's
work
.
But
poets
having
lavishly
long
since
Exhausted
all
materials
of
the
art
,
The
task
now
falls
into
the
public
hand
.
And
I
,
contented
with
an
humble
theme
,
Have
poured
my
stream
of
panegyric
down
The
vale
of
nature
,
where
it
creeps
and
winds
Among
her
lovely
works
,
with
a
secure
And
unambitious
course
,
reflecting
clear
If
not
the
virtues
yet
the
worth
of
brutes
,
And
I
am
recompensed
,
and
deem
the
toils
Of
poetry
not
lost
,
if
verse
of
mine
May
stand
between
an
animal
and
woe
,
And
teach
one
tyrant
pity
for
his
drudge
.
The
groans
of
nature
in
this
nether
world
Which
heav'n
has
heard
for
ages
,
have
an
end
.
Foretold
by
prophets
,
and
by
poets
sung
Whose
fire
was
kindled
at
the
prophets
lamp
,
The
time
of
rest
,
the
promised
sabbath
comes
.
Six
thousand
years
of
sorrow
have
well-nigh
Fulfilled
their
tardy
and
disastrous
course
Over
a
sinful
world
.
And
what
remains
Of
this
tempestuous
state
of
human
things
,
Is
merely
as
the
working
of
a
sea
Before
a
calm
,
that
rocks
itself
to
rest
.
For
he
whose
car
the
winds
are
,
and
the
clouds
The
dust
that
waits
upon
his
sultry
march
When
sin
hath
moved
him
,
and
his
wrath
is
hot
,
Shall
visit
earth
in
mercy
;
shall
descend
Propitious
,
in
his
chariot
paved
with
love
,
And
what
his
storms
have
blasted
and
defaced
For
man's
revolt
,
shall
with
a
smile
repair
.
Sweet
is
the
harp
of
prophesy
.
Too
sweet
Not
to
be
wrong'd
by
a
mere
mortal
touch
;
Nor
can
the
wonders
it
records
,
be
sung
To
meaner
music
,
and
not
suffer
loss
.
But
when
a
poet
,
or
when
one
like
me
,
Happy
to
rove
among
poetic
flow'rs
Though
poor
in
skill
to
rear
them
,
lights
at
last
On
some
fair
theme
,
some
theme
divinely
fair
,
Such
is
the
impulse
and
the
spur
he
feels
To
give
it
praise
proportioned
to
its
worth
,
That
not
t'
attempt
it
,
arduous
as
he
deems
The
labor
,
were
a
task
more
arduous
still
.
Oh
scenes
surpassing
fable
,
and
yet
true
,
Scenes
of
accomplish'd
bliss
!
which
who
can
see
Though
but
in
distant
prospect
,
and
not
feel
His
soul
refresh'd
with
foretaste
of
the
joy
?
Rivers
of
gladness
water
all
the
earth
,
And
clothe
all
climes
with
beauty
;
the
reproach
Of
barreness
is
past
.
The
fruitful
field
Laughs
with
abundance
,
and
the
land
once
lean
,
Or
fertile
only
in
its
own
disgrace
,
Exults
to
see
its
thistly
curse
repealed
.
The
various
seasons
woven
into
one
,
And
that
one
season
an
eternal
spring
,
The
garden
fears
no
blight
,
and
needs
no
fence
For
there
is
none
to
covet
,
all
are
full
.
The
lion
and
the
libbard
and
the
bear
Graze
with
the
fearless
siocks
.
All
bask
at
noon
Together
,
or
all
gambol
in
the
shade
Of
the
same
grove
,
and
drink
one
common
stream
.
Antipathies
are
none
.
No
foe
to
man
Lurks
in
the
serpent
now
.
The
mother
sees
And
smiles
to
see
her
infant's
playful
hand
Stretch'd
forth
to
dally
with
the
crested
worm
,
To
stroak
his
azure
neck
,
or
to
receive
The
lambent
homage
of
his
arrowy
tongue
.
All
creatures
worship
man
,
and
all
mankind
One
Lord
,
one
Father
.
Error
has
no
place
;
That
creeping
pestilence
is
driv'n
away
,
The
breath
of
heav'n
has
chased
it
.
In
the
heart
No
passion
touches
a
discordant
string
,
But
all
is
harmony
and
love
.
Disease
Is
not
.
The
pure
and
uncontaminate
blood
Holds
its
due
course
,
nor
fears
the
frost
of
age
.
One
song
employs
all
nations
,
and
all
cry
"
Worthy
the
Lamb
,
for
he
was
slain
for
us
"
The
dwellers
in
the
vales
and
on
the
rocks
Shout
to
each
other
,
and
the
mountain
tops
From
distant
mountains
catch
the
flying
joy
,
'Till
nation
after
nation
taught
the
strain
,
Earth
rolls
the
rapturous
Hosanna
round
.
Behold
the
measure
of
the
promise
filled
,
See
Salem
built
,
the
labour
of
a
God
!
Bright
as
a
sun
the
sacred
city
shines
;
All
kingdoms
and
all
princes
of
the
earth
Flock
to
that
light
;
the
glory
of
all
lands
Flows
into
her
,
unbounded
is
her
joy
And
endless
her
encrease
.
Thy
rams
are
there
Nebaioth
and
Kedar
the
sons
of
Ishamael
and
progenitors
of
the
Arabs
,
in
the
prophetic
scripture
here
alluded
to
,
may
be
reasonably
considered
as
representatives
of
the
Gentiles
at
large
.
Nebaioth
,
and
the
flocks
of
Kedar
there
;
The
looms
of
Ormus
,
and
the
mines
of
Ind
,
And
Saba's
spicey
groves
pay
tribute
there
.
Praise
is
in
all
her
gates
.
Upon
her
walls
,
And
in
her
streets
,
and
in
her
spacious
courts
Is
heard
salvation
.
Eastern
Java
there
Kneels
with
the
native
of
the
farthest
West
,
And
Aethiopia
spreads
abroad
the
hand
And
worships
.
Her
report
has
travell'd
forth
Into
all
lands
.
From
every
clime
they
come
To
see
thy
beauty
and
to
share
thy
joy
O
Sion
!
an
assembly
such
as
earth
Saw
never
,
such
as
heav'n
stoops
down
to
see
.
Thus
heav'n-ward
all
things
tend
.
For
all
were
once
Perfect
,
and
all
must
be
at
length
restored
.
So
God
has
greatly
purposed
;
who
would
else
In
his
dishonoured
works
himself
endure
Dishonor
,
and
be
wrong'd
without
redress
.
Haste
then
,
and
wheel
away
a
shatter'd
world
Ye
slow-revolving
seasons
!
we
would
see
,
(
A
sight
to
which
our
eyes
are
strangers
yet
)
A
world
that
does
not
dread
and
hate
his
laws
,
And
suffer
for
its
crime
.
Would
learn
how
fair
The
creature
is
that
God
pronounces
good
,
How
pleasant
in
itself
what
pleases
him
.
Here
ev'ry
drop
of
honey
hides
a
sting
,
Worms
wind
themselves
into
our
sweetest
flow'rs
,
And
ev'n
the
joy
that
haply
some
poor
heart
Derives
from
heav'n
,
pure
as
the
fountain
is
Is
sullied
in
the
stream
;
taking
a
taint
From
touch
of
human
lips
,
at
best
impure
.
Oh
for
a
world
in
principle
as
chaste
As
this
is
gross
and
selfish
!
over
which
Custom
and
prejudice
shall
bear
no
sway
That
govern
all
things
here
,
should'ring
aside
The
meek
and
modest
truth
,
and
forcing
her
To
seek
a
refuge
from
the
tongue
of
strife
In
nooks
obscure
,
far
from
the
ways
of
men
.
Where
violence
shall
never
lift
the
sword
,
Nor
cunning
justify
the
proud
man's
wrong
,
Leaving
the
poor
no
remedy
but
tears
.
Where
he
that
fills
an
office
,
shall
esteem
Th'
occasion
it
presents
of
doing
good
More
than
the
perquisite
.
Where
law
shall
speak
Seldom
,
and
never
but
as
wisdom
prompts
And
equity
;
not
jealous
more
to
guard
A
worthless
form
,
than
to
decide
aright
.
Where
fashion
shall
not
sanctify
abuse
,
Nor
smooth
good-breeding
(
supplemental
grace
)
With
lean
performance
ape
the
work
of
love
.
Come
then
,
and
added
to
thy
many
crowns
Receive
yet
one
,
the
crown
of
all
the
earth
,
Thou
who
alone
art
worthy
!
it
was
thine
By
antient
covenant
'ere
nature's
birth
,
And
thou
hast
made
it
thine
by
purchase
since
,
And
overpaid
its
value
with
thy
blood
.
Thy
saints
proclaim
thee
king
;
and
in
their
hearts
Thy
title
is
engraven
with
a
pen
Dipt
in
the
fountain
of
eternal
love
.
Thy
saints
proclaim
thee
king
;
and
thy
delay
Gives
courage
to
their
foes
,
who
,
could
they
see
The
dawn
of
thy
last
advent
long-desired
,
Would
creep
into
the
bowels
of
the
hills
,
And
flee
for
safety
to
the
falling
rocks
.
The
very
spirit
of
the
world
is
tired
Of
its
own
taunting
question
ask'd
so
long
,
"
Where
is
the
promise
of
your
Lord's
approach
?
"
The
infidel
has
shot
his
bolts
away
,
'Till
his
exhausted
quiver
yielding
none
,
He
gleans
the
blunted
shafts
that
have
recoiled
,
And
aims
them
at
the
shield
of
truth
again
.
The
veil
is
rent
,
rent
too
by
priestly
hands
,
That
hides
divinity
from
mortal
eyes
,
And
all
the
mysteries
to
faith
proposed
Insulted
and
traduced
,
are
cast
aside
As
useless
,
to
the
moles
and
to
the
bats
.
They
now
are
deem'd
the
faithful
and
are
praised
,
Who
constant
only
in
rejecting
thee
,
Deny
thy
Godhead
with
a
martyr's
zeal
,
And
quit
their
office
for
their
errors
sake
.
Blind
and
in
love
with
darkness
!
yet
ev'n
these
Worthy
,
compared
with
sycophants
,
who
knee
Thy
name
,
adoring
,
and
then
preach
thee
man
.
So
fares
thy
church
.
But
how
thy
church
may
fare
The
world
takes
little
thought
;
who
will
may
preach
,
And
what
they
will
.
All
pastors
are
alike
To
wand'ring
sheep
,
resolved
to
follow
none
.
Two
gods
divide
them
all
,
pleasure
and
gain
.
For
these
they
live
,
they
sacrifice
to
these
,
And
in
their
service
wage
perpetual
war
With
conscience
and
with
thee
.
Lust
in
their
hearts
,
And
mischief
in
their
hands
,
they
roam
the
earth
To
prey
upon
each
other
;
stubborn
,
fierce
,
High-minded
,
foaming
out
their
own
disgrace
.
Thy
prophets
speak
of
such
;
and
noting
down
The
features
of
the
last
degen'rate
times
,
Exhibit
ev'ry
lineament
of
these
.
Come
then
,
and
added
to
thy
many
crowns
Receive
yet
one
,
as
radiant
as
the
rest
,
Due
to
thy
last
and
most
effectual
work
,
Thy
word
fulfilled
,
the
conquest
of
a
world
.
He
is
the
happy
man
,
whose
life
ev'n
now
Shows
somewhat
of
that
happier
life
to
come
.
Who
doomed
to
an
obscure
but
tranquil
state
Is
pleased
with
it
,
and
were
he
free
to
chuse
,
Would
make
his
fate
his
choice
.
Whom
peace
,
the
fruit
Of
virtue
,
and
whom
virtue
,
fruit
of
faith
,
Prepare
for
happiness
;
bespeak
him
one
Content
indeed
to
sojourn
while
he
must
Below
the
skies
,
but
having
there
his
home
.
The
world
o'erlooks
him
in
her
busy
search
Of
objects
more
illustrious
in
her
view
;
And
occupied
as
earnestly
as
she
Though
more
sublimely
,
he
o'erlooks
the
world
.
She
scorns
his
pleasures
,
for
she
knows
them
not
;
He
seeks
not
hers
,
for
he
has
proved
them
vain
.
He
cannot
skim
the
ground
like
summer
birds
Pursuing
gilded
flies
,
and
such
he
deems
Her
honors
,
her
emoluments
,
her
joys
.
Therefore
in
contemplation
is
his
bliss
,
Whose
pow'r
is
such
,
that
whom
she
lifts
from
earth
She
makes
familiar
with
a
heav'n
unseen
,
And
shows
him
glories
yet
to
be
revealed
.
Not
slothful
he
,
though
seeming
unemployed
,
And
censured
oft
as
useless
.
Stillest
streams
Oft
water
fairest
meadows
,
and
the
bird
That
flutters
least
,
is
longest
on
the
wing
.
Ask
him
indeed
,
what
trophies
he
has
raised
,
Or
what
atchievements
of
immortal
fame
He
purposes
,
and
he
shall
answer
—
none
.
His
warfare
is
within
.
There
unfatigued
His
fervent
spirit
labors
.
There
he
fights
,
And
there
obtains
fresh
triumphs
o'er
himself
,
And
never-with'ring
wreaths
,
compared
with
which
The
laurels
that
a
Caesar
reaps
are
weeds
.
Perhaps
the
self-approving
haughty
world
That
as
she
sweeps
him
with
her
whistling
silks
Scarce
deigns
to
notice
him
,
or
if
she
see
Deems
him
a
cypher
in
the
works
of
God
,
Receives
advantage
from
his
noiseless
hours
Of
which
she
little
dreams
.
Perhaps
she
owes
Her
sunshine
and
her
rain
,
her
blooming
spring
And
plenteous
harvest
,
to
the
pray'r
he
makes
,
When
Isaac
like
,
the
solitary
saint
Walks
forth
to
meditate
at
even-tide
,
And
think
on
her
,
who
thinks
not
for
herself
.
Forgive
him
then
,
thou
bustler
in
concerns
Of
little
worth
,
and
idler
in
the
best
,
If
author
of
no
mischief
and
some
good
,
He
seek
his
proper
happiness
by
means
That
may
advance
,
but
cannot
hinder
thine
.
Nor
though
he
tread
the
secret
path
of
life
,
Engage
no
notice
,
and
enjoy
much
ease
,
Account
him
an
incumbrance
on
the
state
,
Receiving
benefits
,
and
rend'ring
none
.
His
sphere
though
humble
,
if
that
humble
sphere
Shine
with
his
fair
example
,
and
though
small
His
influence
,
if
that
influence
all
be
spent
In
soothing
sorrow
and
in
quenching
strife
,
In
aiding
helpless
indigence
,
in
works
From
which
at
least
a
grateful
few
derive
Some
taste
of
comfort
in
a
world
of
woe
,
Then
let
the
supercilious
great
confess
He
serves
his
country
;
recompenses
well
The
state
beneath
the
shadow
of
whose
vine
He
sits
secure
,
and
in
the
scale
of
life
Holds
no
ignoble
,
though
a
slighted
place
.
The
man
whose
virtues
are
more
felt
than
seen
,
Must
drop
indeed
the
hope
of
public
praise
,
But
he
may
boast
what
few
that
win
it
can
,
That
if
his
country
stand
not
by
his
skill
,
At
least
his
follies
have
not
wrought
her
fall
.
Polite
refinement
offers
him
in
vain
Her
golden
tube
,
through
which
a
sensual
world
Draws
gross
impurity
,
and
likes
it
well
,
The
neat
conveyance
hiding
all
th'
offence
.
Not
that
he
peevishly
rejects
a
mode
Because
that
world
adopts
it
.
If
it
bear
The
stamp
and
clear
impression
of
good
sense
,
And
be
not
costly
more
than
of
true
worth
,
He
puts
it
on
,
and
for
decorum
sake
Can
wear
it
e'en
as
gracefully
as
she
.
She
judges
of
refinement
by
the
eye
,
He
by
the
test
of
conscience
,
and
a
heart
Not
soon
deceived
;
aware
that
what
is
base
No
polish
can
make
sterling
,
and
that
vice
Though
well
perfumed
and
elegantly
dress'd
,
Like
an
unburied
carcase
trick'd
with
flow'rs
Is
but
a
garnish'd
nuisance
,
fitter
far
For
cleanly
riddance
than
for
fair
attire
.
So
life
glides
smoothly
and
by
stealth
away
,
More
golden
than
that
age
of
fabled
gold
Renown'd
in
ancient
song
;
not
vex'd
with
care
Or
stained
with
guilt
,
beneficent
,
approved
Of
God
and
man
,
and
peaceful
in
its
end
.
So
glide
my
life
away
!
and
so
at
last
My
share
of
duties
decently
fulfilled
,
May
some
disease
,
not
tardy
to
perform
Its
destin'd
office
,
yet
with
gentle
stroke
,
Dismiss
me
weary
to
a
safe
retreat
Beneath
the
turf
that
I
have
often
trod
.
It
shall
not
grieve
me
,
then
,
that
once
when
called
To
dress
a
Sofa
with
the
flow'rs
of
verse
,
I
play'd
awhile
,
obedient
to
the
fair
With
that
light
task
,
but
soon
to
please
her
more
Whom
flow'rs
alone
I
knew
would
little
please
,
Let
fall
th'
unfinish'd
wreath
,
and
roved
for
fruit
.
Roved
far
and
gather'd
much
.
Some
harsh
,
'tis
true
,
Pick'd
from
the
thorns
and
briars
of
reproof
,
But
wholesome
,
well-digested
.
Grateful
some
To
palates
that
can
taste
immortal
truth
,
Insipid
else
,
and
sure
to
be
despised
.
But
all
is
in
his
hand
whose
praise
I
seek
.
In
vain
the
poet
sings
,
and
the
world
hears
,
If
he
regard
not
,
though
divine
the
theme
.
'Tis
not
in
artful
measures
,
in
the
chime
And
idle
tinkling
of
a
minstrel's
lyre
To
charm
his
ear
,
whose
eye
is
on
the
heart
.
Whose
frown
can
disappoint
the
proudest
strain
,
Whose
approbation
—
prosper
even
mine
.