((The Sofa Argument of the first book.=Historical deduction of seats, From the stool to the Sofa=A school-boy's ramble=A walk in the country=The scene described=Rural sounds as well as sights delightful=Another walk=Mistake concerning the charms of solitude corrected=Colonnades commended=Alcove, And the view from it=The wilderness=The grove=The thresher =The necessity and the benefits of exercise=The works of nature superior to, and in some instances inimitable by, art= The wearisomeness of what is commonly called a life of pleasure= Change of scene sometimes expedient= A common described, and the character of crazy Kate introduced= Gipsies= The blessings of civilized life= That state most favourable to virtue= The South Sea islanders compassionated, but chiefly Omai= His presesnt state of mind supposes=Civilized life friendly to virtue, but not great cities= Great cities, and London in particular, allowed their due praise, but censured= Fete champetre= The book concludes with a reflection on the fatal effects of dissipation and effeminacy upon our public measures. )) I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touch'd with awe The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand, Escap'd with pain from that advent'rous flight, Now seek repose upon an humbler theme; The theme though humble, yet august and proud Th' occasion for the Fair commands the song, Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use, Save their own painted skins, our sires had none. As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth, Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile: The hardy chief upon the rugged rock Wash'd by the sea, or on the grav'ly bank Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud, Fearless of wrong, repos'd his weary strength. Those barb'rous ages past, succeeded next Dull in design, and clumsy to perform. Joint-stools were then created; on three legs Upborn they stood. Three legs upholding firm A massy slab, in fashion square or round. On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,

And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms: And such in ancient halls and mansions drear May still be seen; but perforated sore, And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found, By worms voracious eating through and through. At length a generation more refin'd Improv'd the simple plan; made three legs four, Gave them a twisted form vermicular, And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd, Induc'd a splendid cover, green and blue, Yellow and red, of tap'stry richly wrought, And woven close, or needle-work sublime. There might ye see the piony spread wide, The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass, Lap-dog and lambkin with black staring eyes, And parrots with twin cherries in their beak. Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright With Nature's varnish; sever'd into stripes That interlac'd each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice-work, that brac'd The new machine, and it became a chair. But restless was the chair; the back erect Distress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease; The slipp'ry seat betray'd the sliding part That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down, Anxious in vain to find the distant floor. These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had plac'd In modest mediocrity, content With base materials, sat on well-tann'd hides, Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth, With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn, Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fixt; If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd. No want of timber then was felt or fear'd In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood Pond'rous and fixt by its own massy weight. An alderman of Cripplegate contriv'd: And some ascribe th' invention to a priest Burly and big, and studious of his ease. But, rude at first, and not with easy slope Receding wide, they press'd against the ribs, And bruis'd the side; and, elevated high, Taught the rais'd shoulders to invade the ears. Long time elaps'd or e'er our rugged sires Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in,

And ill at ease behind. The ladies first 'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex. Ingenious fancy, never better pleas'd Than when employ'd t' accommodate the fair, Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devis'd The soft settee; one elbow at each end, And in the midst an elbow it receiv'd, United yet divided, twain at once. So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne; And so two citizens who take the air, Close pack'd, and smiling, in a chaise and one. But relaxation of the languid frame, By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs, was bliss reserv'd for happier days. So slow The growth of what is excellent; so hard T' attain perfection in this nether world. Thus first necessity invented stools, Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs, And luxury th' accomplish'd Sofa last. The nurse sleeps sweetly, hir'd to watch the sick, Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he, Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour To sleep within the carriage more secure, His legs depending at the open door. Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk, The tedious rector drawling o'er his head; And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead, Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour To slumber in the carriage more secure, Nor sleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk, Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet, Compar'd with the repose the Sofa yields. Oh may I live exempted (while I live From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb, Though on a Sofa, may I never feel: For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropt by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs; have lov'd the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink, E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds T' enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames; And still remember, nor without regret Of hours that sorrow since has much endear'd,

How oft, my slice of pocket store consum'd, Still hung'ring, pennyless and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws, Or blushing crabs, or berries, that emboss The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere, Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite Disdains not; nor the palate, undeprav'd By culinary arts, unsav'ry deems. No Sofa then awaited my return; Nor Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue; and, though our years As life declines speed rapidly away, And not a year but pilfers as he goes Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep; A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees Their length and colour from the locks they spare; Th' elastic spring of an unwearied foot That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That play of lungs, inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me, Mine have not pilfer'd yet; nor yet impair'd My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth'd Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing and of pow'r to charm me still, And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirm'd by long experience of thy worth Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjur'd up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have born The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration, feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discern'd The distant plough slow moving, and beside His lab'ring team, that swerv'd not from the track The sturdy swain diminish'd to a boy! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along its sinuous course

Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlook'd, our fav'rite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow'r. Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the list'ning ear, Groves, heaths, and smoking villages, remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years. Praise justly due to those that I describe. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast flutt'ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of neighb'ring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To sooth and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone, whose notes Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and ev'n the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought Devis'd the weather-house, that useful toy! Fearless of humid air and gathering rains, Forth steps the man emblem of myself!

More delicate, his tim'rous mate retires. When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet, Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay, Or ford the rivulets, are best at home, The task of new discov'ries falls on me. At such a season, and with such a charge, Once went I forth; and found, till then unknown, A cottage, whither oft we since repair: 'Tis perch'd upon the green-hill top, but close Environ'd with a ring of branching elms That overhang the thatch, itself unseen Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset With foliage of such dark redundant growth, I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest. And, hidden as it is, and far remote From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear In village or in town, the bay of curs Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels, And infants clam'rous whether pleas'd or pain'd, Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine. The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure. Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat Dearly obtains the refuge it affords. Its elevated scite forbids the wretch To drink sweet waters of the crystal well; He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch, And, heavy-laden, brings his bev'rage home, Far-fetch'd and little worth; nor seldom waits, Dependant on the baker's punctual call, To hear his creaking panniers at the door, Angry and sad, and his last crust consum'd. So farewell envy of the peasant's nest! If solitude make scant the means of life, Society for me!=thou seeming sweet, Be still a pleasing object in my view; My visit still, but never mine abode. Not distant far, a length of colonnade Invites us. Monument of ancient taste, Now scorn'd, but worthy of a better fate. Our fathers knew the value of a screen From sultry suns; and, in their shaded walks And long protracted bow'rs, enjoy'd at noon The gloom and coolness of declining day. We bear our shades about us; self-depriv'd Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.

Thanks to Benevolus'=he spares me yet These chesnuts rang'd in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade. Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge We pass a gulph, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink, Hence, ancle-deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft, Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures earth; and, plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischiefs he has done. That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And, posted on this speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first, progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field, homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge, The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth, Alike, yet various, Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish gray; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. Some glossy-leav'd, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beech of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odours: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire, Now green, now tawny, and, ere autumn yet Have chang'd the woods, in scarlet honours bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interpos'd between), Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen. Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little naiad her impov'rish'd urn All summer long, which winter fills again. The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lord of this enclos'd demesne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share; the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun? By short transition we have lost his glare, And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice That yet a remnant of your race survives. How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the light Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And dark'ning and enlight'ning, as the leaves Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot. And now, with nerves new-brac'd and spirits cheer'd,

We tread the wilderness, whose well-roll'd walks, With curvature of slow and easy sweep Deception innocent give ample space To narrow bouds. The grove receives us next; Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms We may discern the thresher at his task. Thump after thump resounds the constant flail That seems to swing uncertain, and yet falls Full on the destin'd ear. Wide flies the chaff. The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam. Come hither, ye that press your beds of down And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread Before he eats it. 'Tis the primal curse, But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan. By ceaseless action all that is subsists. Constant rotation of th' unwearied wheel That nature rides upon maintains her health, Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves. Its own revolvency upholds the world. Winds from all quarters agitate the air, And fit the limpid element for use, Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams, All feel the fresh'ning impulse, and are cleans'd By restless undulation: ev'n the oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: He seems indeed indignant, and to feel Th' impression of the blast with proud disdain, Frowning as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder: but the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns= More fixt below, the more disturb'd above. The law, by which all creatures else are bound, Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives No mean advantage from a kindred cause, From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. The sedentary stretch their lazy length When custom bids, but no refreshment find, For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul, Reproach their owner with that love of rest To which he forfeits ev'n the rest he loves. Not such th' alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords, And their's alone seems worthy of the name.

Good health, and, its associate in most, Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; The pow'rs of fancy and strong thought are their's; Ev'n age itself seems privileg'd in them With clear exemption from its own defects. A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The vet'ran shows, and , gracing a gray beard With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Sprightly, and old almost without decay. Farthest retires= an idol, at whose shrine Who oft'nest sacrifice are favour'd least. The love of Nature, and the scene she draws, Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, Renounce the odours of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom; Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God Th'inferior wonders of an artist's hand! Lovely indeed the mimic works of art; But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire= None more admires= the painter's magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls: But imitative strokes can do no more Than please the eye= sweet Nature ev'ry sense. The air salubrious of her lofty hills, The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods= no works of man May rival these; these all bespeak a pow'r Peculiar, and exclusively her own Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; 'Tis free to all= 'tis ev'ry day renew'd; Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapours, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at last to liberty and light: His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue; His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires; He walks, he leaps, he runs= is wing'd with joy, And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze.

He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd With acrid salts; his very heart athirst To gaze at Nature in her green array, Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd With visions prompted by intense desire:; Fair fields appear below, such as he left, Far distant, such as he would die to find= The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadnaess, that o'ershade, distort, And mar the face of beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, These Flora banishes, and gives the fair Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. It is the constant revolution, stale And tasteless, of the same repeated joys, That palls and satiates, and makes languid life A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart Recoils from its own choice= at the full feast Is famish'd= finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread. The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort, Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cypher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room Between supporters; and, once seated, sit, Through dowright inability to rise, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. These speak a loud memento. Yet ev'n these Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he That overhangs a torrent to a twig. They love it, and yet loath it; fear to die, Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. Then wherefore not renounce them? No= the dread, The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, And their invet'rate habits, all forbid. Whom call we gay? That honour has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name.

The innocent are gay= the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest. Himself a songster, is as gay as he. But save me from the gaiety of those Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed: And save me too from their's whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance; From gaiety that fills the bones with pain, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off, Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale, Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Delight us; happy to renounce awhile, Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more. Then forests, or the savage rock, may please, That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man. His hoary head, Conspicuous many a league, the mariner Bound homeward, and in hope already there. Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dang'rous to the touch, has yet its blooms, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets. There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid ribband bound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died.

Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves At what a sailor suffers; fancy, too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death= And never smil'd again! And now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never. =Kate is craz'd! I see a column of slow rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel= flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard faring race! They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their flutt'ring rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature; and, though capable of arts By which the world might profit, and himself Self-banish'd from society, prefer Such squalid sloth to honourable toil! Yet even these, though, feigning sickness oft, They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful note When safe occasion offers; and, with dance,

Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring much, Need other physic none to heal th'effects Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold. Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure. Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, The manners and the arts of civil life. His wants, indeed, are many; but supply Is obvious, plac'd within the easy reach Of temp'rate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns, And terrible to sight, as when she springs (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote And barb'rous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind, By culture tam'd, by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matur'd. War and the chase engross the savage whole; War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot, The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! His hard condition with severe constraint Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside. Thus fare the shiv'ring natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep, Towards th' antarctic. Ev'n the favour'd isles, So lately found, although the constant sun Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue; and, inert Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain In manners= victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, plac'd remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plough'd perhaps by British bark again: But, far beyond the rest, and with most cause,

Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, Or else vain glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here With what superior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. The dream is past; and thou hast found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, [found And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou Their former charms? And, having seen our state, Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports, And heard our music; are thy simple friends, Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights, As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Lost nothing by comparison with our's? Rude as thou art, (for we return'd thee rude And ignorant, except of outward show) I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart And spiritless, as never to regret Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known. Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking of the surge that bathes thy foot If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, A patriot's for his country: thou art sad At thought of her forlorn and abject state, From which no pow'r of thine can raise her up. Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err, Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus. She tells me, too, that duly ev'ry morn Thou climb'st the mountain top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the wat'ry waste For sight of ship from England. Ev'ry speck Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears. But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, And sends thee to thy cabin, well-prepar'd To dream all night of what the day denied. Alas! expect it not. We found no bait Disinterested good, is not our trade. We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be brib'd, to compass earth again, By other hopes and richer fruits than your's. But, though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial soil of cultivated life

Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft: in proud and gay And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow, As to a common and most noisome sew'r, The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In gross and pamper'd cities sloth and lust, And wantonness and gluttonous excess. In cities vice is hidden with most ease, Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond th' achievement of successful flight. I do confess them nurs'ries of the arts, In which they flourish most; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd The fairest capital of all the world, By riot and incontinence the worst. There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees All her reflected features. Bacon there Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips. Nor does the chissel occupy alone The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much; Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incision of her guided steel She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, The richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms. Where finds philosophy her eagle eye, With which she gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots? In London: where her implements exact, With which she calculates, computes, and scans, Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London= opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing, London? Babylon of old Not more the glory of the earth than she, A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And show this queen of cities, that so fair

May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is slack in discipline; more prompt T' avenge than to prevent the breach of law: That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and oft-times honour too, To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts Into his overgorg'd and bloated purse The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes. Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of holy writ, she has presum'd t' annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing fashion to the post of truth, And cent'ring all authority in modes And customs of her own, till sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorc'd. God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Possess ye, therefore, ye, who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine, There only minds like your's can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The moon-beam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious note: the thrush departs Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth; It plagues your country. Folly such as your's, Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan, His made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

(( The Time=Piece Argument of the Second Book.=Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book= Peace among the nations recommended, on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow= Prodigies enumerated= Sicilian earthquakes= Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin= God the agent in them= the philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved= Our own late miscarriages accounted for Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau= But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation= The reverend Advertiser of engraved sermons= Petit-maitre parson= The good preacher= Pictures of a theatrical clerical coxcomb= Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved= Apostrophe to popular applause= Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with= Sum of the whole matter= Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity= Their folly and extravagance= The mischiefs of profusion= Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities.)) Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own; and, having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd Make enemies of nations, who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground,

To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave. And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home.=Then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, emancipate and loos'd. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's pow'r Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. Sure there is need of social intercourse, Between the nations, in a world that seems To toll the death-bell of its own decease, And by the voice of all its elements To preach the gen'ral doom! When were the winds Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? Fires from beneath, and meteors from above, Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, Have kindled beacons in the skies; and th' old And crazy earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and forgone her usual rest. Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And Nature with a dim and sickly eye To wait the close of all? But grant her end More distant, and that prophecy demands A longer respite, unaccomplish'd yet; Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve And stand expos'd by common peccancy To what no few have felt, there should be peace, And brethren in calamity should love.

Alas for Sicily! rude fragments now Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show, Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; While God performs upon the trembling stage Of his own works his dreadful part alone. How does the earth receive him?=With what signs Of gratulation and delight, her king? Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flow'rs, her aromatic gums, Disclosing paradise where'er he treads? She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb, Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, For he has touch'd them. From th' extremest point His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong, and the vallies rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air. What solid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid: and the fixt and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on ev'ry side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted; and, with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enomous and o'erbearing height. Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge. Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep= A prince with half his people! Ancient tow'rs,

And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the uproductive shades of death, Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free. Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast. Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, That ev'n a judgment, making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heav'n, that it burns down to earth, And, in the furious inquest that it makes On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. The minister of man, to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath he draws A plague into his blood; and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise t' o'erwhelm him : or, if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And, needing none assistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulphs. What then!= were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast anchor'd isle Mov'd not, while their's was rock'd, like a light skiff, The sport of ev'ry wave? No: none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But, where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spar'd not them, Tremble and be amaz'd at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns (since from the least The greatest oft originate); could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose

One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Than God might be surpris'd, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth philosophy, though eagle-ey'd In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his instrument, forgets Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men, In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, And putrefy the breath of blooming health. He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects; Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend th' effects, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eye with eye-salve; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught; And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still= My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime

Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart As any thund'rer there. And I can feel Thy follies, too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill th' ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n Each in his field of glory, one in arms, And one in council= Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown, If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd. Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements, and despair of new. Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, (That no rude savour maritime invade) The nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft, Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds, May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore! True, we have lost an empire= let it pass. True; we may thank the perfidy of France,

That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew. A brave man knows no malice, but at once Forgets in peace the injuries of war, And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. And, sham'd as we have been, to th' very beard Brav'd and defied, and in our own sea prov'd Too weak for those decisive blows that once Ensur'd us mast'ry there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own! Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame ye might conceal at home In foreign eyes!= be grooms, and win the plate Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!= 'Tis gen'rous to communicate your skill To those that need it. Folly is soon learn'd: And, under such preceptors, who can fail! There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, Th' expedients and inventions, multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win= T' arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views; Then to dispose his copies with such art, That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less Than by the labour and the skill it cost; Are occupations of the poet's mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That, lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels th' anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Or seldon such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find There least amusement where he found the most. But is amusement all? Studious of song,

I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; But where are its sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdu'd? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd; Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands. The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)= The pulpit (when the sat'rist has at last, Strutting and vap'ring in an empty school, Spent all his force and made no proselyte) I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)= Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard, Support, and ornament, of virtue's cause. There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies!= His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wand'rer, binds the broken heart, And, arm'd himself in panoply complete Of heav'nly temper, furnishes with arms, Bright as his own, and trains, by ev'ry rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect! Are all such teachers?= would to heav'n all were! But hark= the doctor's voice!= fast wedg'd between Two empirics he stands, and with swoln cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report Announces to the world his own and their's! He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to pray'r

Th' adagio and andante it demands. He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zig-zag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gall'ry critics by a thousand arts. Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? Oh, name it not in Gath!= it cannot be, That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before= Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the church! I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause. To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves. But, loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse; Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes; But rare at home, and never at his books, Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships= a stranger to the poor; Ambitious of preferment for its gold, And well-prepar'd, by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love of world, To make God's work a sinecure; a slave From such apostles, oh, ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On sculls that cannot teach, and will not learn. Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own= Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master-strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And natural in gesture; much impress'd Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.

Behold the picture!= Is it like?= Like whom? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text; Cry= hem: and, reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene! In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loath All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust. What!= will a man play tricks, will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the di'mond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and, instead of truth, Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, And start theatric, practised at the glass! I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine; and all besides, Tho' learn'd with labour, and tho' much admir'd By curious eyes and judgments ill-inform'd, To me is odious as the nasal twang Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the prest nostril, spectacle-bestrid. Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task perform'd, relapse into themselves, And, having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to ev'ry eye= Who'er was edified, themselves were not! An eye-brow; next, compse a straggling lock; Then with an air, most gracefully perform'd, Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand depending low: The better hand, more busy, gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids th' indebted eye With op'ra glass, to watch the moving scene, And recognize the slow-retiring fair.=

Now this is fulsome; and offends me more Than in a churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coarseness would. An heav'nly mind May be indiff'rent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel as beneath her care; But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint, in its deportment and attire, Can lodge an heav'nly mind= demands a doubt. He that negociates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; To break a jest, when pity would inspire Pathetic exhortation; and t' address The skittish fancy with facetious tales, When sent with God's commission to the heart! So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, And I consent you take it for your text, Your only one, till sides and benches fail. No: he was serious in a serious cause, And understood too well the weighty terms That he had ta'en in charge. He would not stoop To conquer those by jocular exploits, Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vian. Oh, popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; But, swell'd into a gust= who then, alas! With all his canvass set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy pow'r? Praise from the rivel'd lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude; and in the looks of lean Respectful of the smutch'd artificer; Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb The bias of the purpose. How much more, Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite, In language soft as adoration breathes? Ah, spare your idol! think him human still Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome, Drew from the stream below. More favour'd, we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain head.

To them it flow'd much mingled and defil'd With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, But falsely. Sages after sages strove In vain to filter off a crystal draught Pure from the lees, which often more enhanc'd The thirst than slak'd it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild. In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man? Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is? Where must he find his Maker? with what rites Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless? Or does he sit regardless of his works? His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? Knots worthy of solution, which alone A deity could solve. Their answers, vague, And all at random, fabulous and dark, Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life Defective and unsanction'd, prov'd too weak To bind the roving appetite, and lead Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd, 'Tis revelation satisfies all doubts, Explains all mysteries, except her own, And so illuminates the path of life, That fools discover it, and stray no more. Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, My man of morals, nurtur'd in the shades Of Academus= is this false or true? Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short Grace, knowledge, comfort= an unfathom'd store? How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text, Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd! Men that, if now alive, would sit content And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too! And thus it is.=The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flatt'ry made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and t' exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn; Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;

Perverting often, by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct; Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace The noblest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen. For ghostly counsel; if it either fall Below the exigence, or be not back'd With show of love, at least with hopeful proof Of some sincerity on th' giver's part; Or be dishonour'd, in th' exterior form And mode of its conveyance, by such tricks As move derision, or by foppish airs And histrionic mumm'ry, that let down The pulpit to the level of the stage; Drops from the lips a disregarded thing. The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught, While prejudice in men of stronger minds Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. A relaxation of religion's hold Upon the roving and untutor'd heart Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapt, The laity run wild.=But do they now? Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd. As nations, ignorant of God, contrive A wooden one, so we, no longer taught By monitors that mother church supplies, Now make our own. Posterity will ask (If e'er posterity see verse of mine) Some fifty or an hundred lustrums hence, What was a monitor in George's days! My very gentle reader, yet unborn, Since heav'n would sure grow weary of a world Productive only of a race like our's, A monitor is wood= plank shaven thin. We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd And neatly fitted, it compresses hard The prominent and most unsightly bones, And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use Sov'reign and most effectual to secure A form, not now gymnastic as of yore, From rickets and distortion, else our lot. But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect= One proof at least of manhood! while the friend Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge. Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore, And by caprice as multiplied as his,

Just please us while the fashion is at full, But change with ev'ry moon. The sycophant, Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date; Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye; Finds one ill made, another obsolete, This fits not nicely, that is ill conceiv'd; And, making prize of all that he condemns With our expenditure defrays his own. Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour. We have run Through ev'ry change that fancy at the loom, Exhausted, has had genius to supply And, studious of mutation still, discard A real elegance, a little us'd, For monstrous novelty and strange disguise. We sacrifice to dress, till household joys And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellar dry, And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires; And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, Where peace and hospitality might reign. What man that lives, and that knows how to live, Would fail t' exhibit at the public shows A form as splendid as the proudest there, Though appetite raise outcries at the cost? A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough, With reasonable forecast and dispatch, T' ensure a side-box station at half price. You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress, His daily fare as delicate. Alas! With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet! The rout is folly's circle, which she draws With magic wand. So potent is the spell, That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring, Unless by heav'n's peculiar grace, escape. There we grow early gray, but never wise; There form connexions, but acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure, hopeless of success; Waste youth in occupations only fit For second childhood, and devote old age To sports which only childhood could excuse. There they are happiest who dissemble best Their weariness; and they the most polite Who squander time and treasure with a smile, Though at their own destruction. She, that asks Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all, And hates their coming. They (what can they less?)

Make just reprisals; and, with cringe and shrug, And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her. All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace, Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies, And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass To her who, frugal only that her thrift May feed excesses she can ill afford, Is hackney'd home unlacquey'd; who, in haste Alighting, turns the key in her own door, And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, Finds a cold bed her only comfort left. Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, On fortune's velvet altar off'ring up Their last poor pittance=fortune, most severe Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far Than all that held their routs in Juno's heav'n.= So fare we in this prison-house the world. And tis a fearful spectacle to see So many maniacs dancing in their chains. They gaze upon the links that hold them fast With eyes of anguish,execrate their lot, Then shake them in despair, and dance again! Now basket up the family of plagues That waste our vitals; peculation, sale Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen As the necessities their authors feel; Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat At the right door. Profusion is the sire. Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base In character, has litter'd all the land, And bred, within the mem'ry of no few, A priesthood such as Baals was of old, A people such as never was till now. It is a hungry vice:=it eats up all That gives society its beauty, strength, Convenience, and security, and use: Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd And gibbeted as fast as catchpole claws Can seize the slipp'ry prey: unties the knot Of union, and converts the sacred band That holds mankind together to a scourge. Profusion, deluging a state with lusts Of grossest nature and of worst effects, Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds,

And warps, the consciences of public men, Till they can laugh at virtue; mock the fools That trust them; and, in th' end, disclose a face That would have shock'd credulity herself, Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse= Since all alike are selfish, why not they? This does profusion and th'accursed cause Of such deep mischief has itself a cause. In colleges and halls, in ancient days, When learning, virtue,piety, and truth, Were precious, and inculcated with care, There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head, Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er, Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth, But strong for service still, and unimpair'd. His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile Play'd on his lips; and in his speech was heard Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love. The occupation dearest to his heart Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke The head of modest and ingenuous worth, That blush'd at its own praise; and press the youth Close to his side tht pleas'd him. Learning grew, The mind was well inform'd, the passions held Subordinate, and diligence was choice. If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must, That one among so many overleap'd The limits of controul, his gentle eye Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke: His frown was full of terror, and his voice Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe As left him not, till penitence had won Lost favour back again, and clos'd the breach. But discipline, a faithful servant long, Declin'd at length into the vale of years: A palsy struck his arm; his voice sparkling eye Was quench'd in rheums of age; his voice unstrung, Grew tremulous, and mov'd derision more Than rev'rence in perverse rebellious youth. So colleges and halls neglected much Their good old friend; and Discipline at length, O'erlook'd and unemploy'd, fell sick and died. Then study languish'd, emulation slept, And virtue fled. The schools became a scene Of solemn farce, where Ignorance in stilts, His cap well lin'd with logic not his own, With parrot tongue perform'd the scholar's part,

Proceeding soon a graduated dunce. Then compromise had place, and scrutiny Became stone blind; precedence went in truck, And he was competent whose purse was so. A dissolution of all bonds ensued: The curbs, invented for the mulish mouth Of head-strong youth, were broken; bars and bolts Grew rusty by disuse; and massy gates Forgot their office, op'ning with a touch; Till gowns at length are found mere masquerade; The tassell'd cap and the spruce band a jest, A mockery of the world! What need of these For gamesters,jockeys, brothellers impure, Spendthrifts, and booted sportsmen, oft'ner seen With belted waists and pointers at their heels Than in the bounds of duty? What was learn'd, If aught was learn'd in childhood, is forgot; And such expense as pinches parents blue, Is squander'd in pursuit of idle sports And vicious pleasures; buys the boy a name, That sits a stigma on his father's house, And cleaves through life inseparably close To him that wears it. What can after-games Of riper joys, and commerce with the world, The lewd vain world, that must receive him soon, Add to such erudition, thus acquir'd, Where science and where virtue are profess'd? They may confirm his habits, rivet fast His folly, but to spoil him is a task That bids defiance to th' united pow'rs Of fashion,dissipation,taverns,stews. Now, blame we most the nurslings or the nurse? The children, crook'd, and twisted, and deform'd, Through want of care; or her, whose winking eye And slumb'ring oscitancy mars the brood? The nurse no doubt. Regardless of her change, She needs herself correction; needs to learn, That it is dang'rous sporting with the world, With things so sacred as a nation's trust, The nurture of her youth, her dearest pledge. All are not such. I had a brother once- Peace to the mem'ry of a man of worth, A man of letters, and of manners too! Of manners sweet as virtue always wears, When gay good-nature dresses her in smiles. He grac'd a college, in which order yet

Was sacred; and was honour'd, lov'd, and wept, By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. Some minds are temper'd happily, and mixt With such ingredients of good sense and taste Of what is excellent in man, of thirst With such a zeal to be what they approve, That no restraints can circumscribe them more Than they themselves by choice,for wisdom's sake; Nor can example hurt them: what they see Of vice in others but enhancing more The charms of virtue in their just esteem. If such escape contagion, and emerge Pure, from so foul a pool, to shine abroad, And give the world their talents and themselves, Expos'd their inexperience to the snare, And left them to an indirected choice. See, then, the quiver broken and decay'd, In which are kept our arrows! Rusting there In wild disorder, and unfit for use, What wonder if, discharg'd into the world, They shame their shooters with a random flight, Their points, obtuse, and feathers drunk with wine! Well may the church wage unsuccessful war, With such artill'ry arm'd. Vice parries wide Th' undreaded volley with a sword of straw, And stands an impudent and fearless mark. Have we not track'd the felon home, and found His birth-place and his dam? The country mourns= Mourns, because ev'ry plague that can infest Society, and that saps and worms the base Of th' edifice that policy has rais'd, Swarms in all quarters; meets the eye, the ear, And suffocates the breath at ev'ry turn. Profusion breeds them; and the cause itself Of that calamitous mischief has been found: Found, too, where most offensive, in the skirts Of the rob'd pedagogue! Else let th'arraign'd Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge. So, when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm, And wav'd his rod divine, a race obscene, Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains, Were cover'd with the pest; the streets were fill'd; The croaking nuisance lurk'd in ev'ry nook; Nor palaces, nor even chambers, scap'd; And the land stank=so num'rous was the fry.

((The Garden Argument of the Third Book.=Self-recollection and reproof= Address to domestic happiness=Some account of myself=The vanity of many of their persuits who are reputed wise=Justification of my censures=Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher=The question, What is truth? answerd by other questions=Domestic happiness addressed of a retired gentleman in his garden=Pruning=Framing =Greenhouse=Sowing of flower- seeds=The country preferable to the town even in the winter=Reasons why it is deserted at that season=Ruinous effects of gaming and of expensive improvement Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.)) 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 foil'd And sore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging, and half despairing of escape; If chance at length he find a greensward smooth And faithful to the root, 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 deserv'd), Long held, and scarcely disengag'd 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 satiric thong? 'Twere wiser far For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes, And charmed with rural beauty, to repose, Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine, My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains; Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft And sheltr'd Sofa, while the nitrous air Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth; There, undisturb'd by folly, and appriz'd

How great the danger of disturbing her, To muse in silence, or at least confine 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 surviv'd 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 crystal cup. Thou art the nurse of virtue=in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Heav'n-born, and destin'd to the skies again. Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd, 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-tried love, Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made Of honour, dignity, and fair renown! Till prostitution elbows us aside In all our crowded streets; and senates seem Coven'd 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 injur'd love! but I disdain The nauseous task to paint her as she is, Creul, abando'd, glorying in her shame! No:-let her pass, and chariotted along In guilty splendour, shake the public ways; The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white! And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch, Whom chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own. Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time, Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounc'd Her sex's honour, was renounc'd 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 receiv'd; And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss was of all. Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, And judg'd offenders well. Then 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 requir'd His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid, with the blood that he had basely spar'd, 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,(good-natur'd age!) That they are safe, sinners of either sex, Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, well bred, Well equipag'd, 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 stricken deer,that left the herd Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt My panting side was charg'd, 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 Then 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

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 creature of a pow'r who swears That he will judge the earth, and call the fool To a sharp reck'ning that has liv'd 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 deceiv'd. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amus'd. 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 many man that lives Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, And catechise it well; apply thy 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 your's. Cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds. And bid them hide themelves in earth beneath; I cannot analyse the air nor catch That seems half quench'd in the immense abyss: Such pow'rs I boast not=neither can I rest <169> 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 heav'ns By strides of human wisdom. In his works Through wondrous,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 style. But never yet did philosophic tube, That brings the planets home into the eye Of observation,and discovers,else Not visible,his family of words, 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 retrogade, and mad mistake. But if his word once teach us,shoot a ray Through all the heart's dark chambers,and reveal Truths indiscern'd but by that holy light, Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptiz'd 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 prais'd And sound integrity,not more than fam'd For sanctity of manners undefil'd. 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 design'd him no reply. And wherefore? will not God inpart 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,inquirer not a spark. What's that which brings contempt upon a book, And him who writes it; though the style 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 despisz'd of all, Seek and obtain,and often find unsought? Tell me=and I will tell thee what is truth. O, 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 choose 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 suggests, By ev'ry pleasing image they present, 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 the hill and dale, Fearless,and rapt away from all his cares;

Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye; Should never game-fowl hatch her eggs again Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song, Be quell'd in all our summer-months' retreat; 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 no one 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 Cultur'd 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 endu'd 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 may'st 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 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, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,

And nature in her cultivated trim Dress'd 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; bus'ness finds Ev'n here: while sedulous I seek t'improve, At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd, That mind he gave me; driving it,though slack Too oft, and much impeded in its work By causes not to be divulg'd 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 engag'd t' achieve 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 sucess 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, In selfish silence, but imparted oft As ought occurs that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment,digested well. Or,if the garden with its many cares, All well repaid, demand him, he attends The welcome call, conscious how much the hand Of lubbard labour 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 profilic 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 measure'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 a labour well bestow'd, And wise precaution; which a clime so rude Makes need 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 stream of mild Maternal nature had revers'd its course, 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 the 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 meerly=is an art That toiling ages have but just matur'd,

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 aye 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 subline, 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 stercoraceous heap, Impregnated with quick fermenting salts, And potent to resist the freezing blast: For, ere the beech and elm have cost their leaf Deciduous, when now November dark Checks vegetation in the torpid plant Expos'd to his cold breath, the task begins. Warily, therefore, and with prudent heed, He seeks a favour'd spot; tht where he builds Th' agglomerated pile his frame may front The sun's meridan 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. 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 labour 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 Diffus'd, attain the surface: when, behold! A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Boetian, rising fast, And fast condens'd upon the dewy sash,

Asks egress; which obtain'd, the overchard'd And drench'd conservatory breathes abroad, In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank; And purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage Th' impatient fervour 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 drank 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 emmers'd. Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick, And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first Pale, wan, and livid, but assuming soon, Strain'd through the friendly mats, a vivid green. Two leaves produc'd, two rough indented leaves, Cautious he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that protends 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. Indulg'd in what they wish, they soon supply Larg foliage, overshadowing golden flow'rs, Blown in 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 ensures 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 labour, and the skill. That day and night are exercis'd, 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 labour, worthless when produc'd. 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 florishes. 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 fear. Th' amomum there with intermingling flowr's And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours, 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 conven'd 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 retir'd, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand. So once were rang'd 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 Shakespear's beauty, seen In ev'ry flash of his farbeaming eye. Nor taste alone snd well-contriv'd 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 vigour, injur'd soon, not soon restor'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 detatch'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 pleas'd, The scent, regal'd, each odorif'rous leaf, Each op'ning 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 gaily dress'd, appears A flow'ry island, from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deem'd a labour due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste. Here also grateful mixture of well-match'd And sorted hues (each giving 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, Ans 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 charg'd th' encumber'd soil And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust. He therfore, who would see his flow'rs dispos'd Sightly and in just order, ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Shall break into its preconceiv'd 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 Uninjur'd 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 clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffus'd And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair, Like virtue, thriving most where litte 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' impov'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 follies past; From all assaults of evil; proving still 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 uncontroll'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. 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, Allur'd 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 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 Forsak'n, or through folly not enjoy'd. Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles, And chaste, though unconfin'd, whom I extol. Not as the prince in Shushan, when he call'd, Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth To grace the full pavilion. His 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 unperfum'd 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 volcanos make, 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 Who had surviv'd the father, ser'vd the son. Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arriv'd, And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last landcapes, gaz'd upon a while, Then advertis'd, and auctioneer'd away. The country starves, and they that feed th' o'ercharg'd And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues By just judgement 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! Th' 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 expos'd, It may enjoy th' advantage of the north, And anguish 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 villas rise: And streams, as if created for his use, Pursue the track of his directing wand, Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, Now murm'ring soft, now roaring in cascades= Ev'n as he bids! Th' entaptur'd owner smiles. 'Tis finish'd, and yet, finish'd as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, Drain'd to the last poor item of his wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves th' accomplish'd plan That he has touch'd, retouch'd, many a long day Labour'd, and many a night pursu'd 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' endear 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 duly when his vote, Well manag'd, shall have earn'd its worthy price. Oh innocent, compar'd with arts like these. Crape, and crock'd pistol, and the whistling ball Sent through the trav'ller's temples! He that finds One drop of heav'n's 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 dependant bread From pools and ditches of the commom wealth, 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 duly 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 spendthrift, and the leech That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he Who, 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 Fortunes Mended Here." These are the charms that sully and eclipse That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to be amus'd, That at the sound of winter's hoary wing Unpeople all our countries 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 pleasent and yet shock'st me, I can laugh And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity, when I think in thee! Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, And thou hast many righteous.=Well for thee! That salt that preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour Then Sodom in her day had pow'r to be, For whom God heard his Abr'am plead in vain. ((The Winter Evening Arguement Of The Fourth Book.=The post comes in=The newspaper is read=The world contemplated at a distance=Address to winter=The rural amusements of a winter evening compared with the fasionable ones=Address to evening=A brownstudy= Fall of snow in the evening=The waggoner=A poor familypiece The rural thief=Public houses=The multitude of them censured=The farmer'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 newrecruit and his transformation=Reflection on bodies corporate=The love of rural objects natural to all,and never to be totally extinguished.)) 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 spattr'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 Pehaps to thousands, and of joy to some; To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the full of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears, that trickld down the writer's cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charg'd 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 tidings? have our troops awak'd? 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 plum'd And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, 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 Trows up steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides, Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, 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 on soft Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd 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. Cat'racts 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, Aetheral 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; At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd 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 in the pride And av'rice that make a man a wolf to a 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 by 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 urg'd 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 And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group The family dispers'd, and fixing thought, Not less dispers'd by day-light and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights. Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know. No rattling 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: and buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, and gracefully dispos'd, 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 clos'd, the customary rite 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'd domestic shade, Enjoy'd=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 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 the mem'ry's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scap'd , the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor'd= Fruits of omnipotent eternal love, Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh ev'nings, I reply, More to be priz'd and coveted than yours, As more illumin'd amd 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 of joy Half so refin'd or so sincere as our's. Cards were superflous here, with all the tricks That idleness has ever yet contriv'd To fill the void of am unfurnish'd brain, To palliate dulness, and give time a shove. Time, as he passes us, has a dove's wing, Unsoil'd, and swift, and of a silken sound; But the world's time is time in masquerade! Their's, should I paint him, has his pinions fledg'd With motley plumes; and where the peacock shows His azure eyes, is tinctur'd 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 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 mothers 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 returns 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 mix'd for a far diff'rent use,

Paint cards and dolls, and ev'ry idle thing That fancy finds in her excursive flights. Come, Ev'ning, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Ev'ning, 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 charg'd 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 her's. not worn indeed in high With stentatious 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'ry calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And, whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round iv'ry reels, 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 mirror, in which he of Gath, Goliath, 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 ceiling, 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 thoughtful or unthinking mind The mind contemplative, with some new theme Pregnant, or indispos'd alike to all. Laugh ye, who boast your more mercurial powr's, 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 wih a waking dream of houses, tow'rs, Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd

In the red cinders, while with poring eye I gaz'd myself creating what i saw. No less amus'd have I quiescent watch'd The sooty films that play upon the bars, Pendulous, and foreboding, in the view Of superstition, and prophesying still, Though still deceiv'd, some stranger's near approach. 'Tis thus the understanding takes respose 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 ev'ning,till at length the freezing blast That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home The recollected pow'rs; 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, 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 wav'd 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, graz'd 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 notic'd 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'ing 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 found,

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 sympathise with others, suff'ring 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 Forc'd 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 One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. Oh happy; and in my account, denied That sensibility of pain wuth 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 On the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. The days roll on, exempt from household care; The waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull campanion 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. Arm'd, while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at ere, Ill clad and fed but sparely, time too cool. The frugal housewife trembles when he 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 mov'd by his severer toil; Yet he too, finds his own distress in their's. The taper soon extinguish'd, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declin'd, and the brown loaf Lodg'd on the shelf, half eaten, without sauce Of sav'ry cheese, or butter, costlier still; 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 the cold carv'd 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; choosing 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 refus'd Because deserving, silently retire! But be ye good of 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 labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your viirtues, 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 secur'd with driven stakes Deep in the loamy bank. Uptorn by strength, To better deeds, he bundles up the spoil= An ass's burden=and, when laden most And heavist 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 secur'd, Where Chanticleer amidst his haram sleeps In unsuspecting pomp. Twitch'd 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 suff'rings warp aside His principle, and tempt him into sin For their support, so destitute.=But they Neglected pine at home; themselves, as more Expos'd 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 villains neck Who starves his own; who persecutes the blood He gave them in his children's veins, and hates And wrongs the women 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 th' unguarded nose to such a whiff Of stale debauch, forth-issuing from the styes That law has licens'd, as makes temp'rance reel. There sit, involv'd and lost in curling clouds Of Indian fume, and guzzling deep, the boor. The lackey, and the groom: the craftsmen there Takes a Leathen leave of all his toil; Smith, cobbler,joiner, he that plies the shears, And he that kneads the dough; all loud alike, All learned, and all drunk! The fiddle screams

Plaintive and piteous, as it wept and wail'd Its wasted tones and harmony unheard: Fierce the dispute, whate'er the theme; while she, 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 prais'd 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 plebian minds, Once simple are initiate 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 encumber'd lap, and casts them out. But censure profits little: vain th' attempt To advertise 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, Touch'd 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 Sidney, 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 effac'd: then speech profane, And manners profligate, were rarely found; Observ'd as prodigies, and soon reclaim'd. Sat for the picture; and the poet's hand,

Imparting substance to an empty shade, Impos'd a gay delirium for a truth. Grant it:I still must envy them an age That favour'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-weaver's 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 deem'd (But that the basket dangling on her arm Interprets her more truly) 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 awkward load, Her train and her umbrella all her care! The town has ting'd 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 grac'd 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, unscar'd By drunken howlings; and the chilling tale Of midnight murder 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; 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 scrofulous 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 rest On the same cushion of habitual sloth. Perhaps timidity restrains his arm; When he should strike he trembles, and sets free, Himself enslav'd 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 touch'd Corruption! Whoso seeks an audit here Propitious, pays his tribute, game or fish, Wild-fowl or ven'son; and his errand speeds. A noble cause, which none who bears a spark Of publc virtue ever wish'd remov'd, 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 infant'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 awkward gait, his introverted toes, Bent knees, round shoulders, and dejected looks, Procure him many a curse. By slow degrees, Unapt to learn, and form'd of stubborn stuff, He yet by slow degrees puts off himself, Grows cocscious 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 plum'd helmet, with a grace; And, his three years of heroship expir'd, 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 show at home By lewdness, idleness, and sabbath-breach, The great proficiency he made abroad; T' astonish and to grieve his gazing friends, 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 leagu'd with man By regal warrant, or self-join'd by bond For int'rest-sake, or swarming into clans Beneath one hand 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 marr'd,

Contracts defilement not to be endur'd. Hence charter'd boroughs are such public plagues; And burghers, men immaculate perhaps In all private functions, once combin'd, 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 lose This 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 dyeing 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 its majesty of thund'ring pomp, Enchanting music, and immortal wreaths, Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught On principle, where foppery atones For folly, gallentry 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 early 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, 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 tun'd 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 exellence. I danced for joy. I marvell'd much that, at so ripe an age As twice sev'n years, his beauties had then first Engag'd my wonder; and, admiring still, And still admiring, with regret suppos'd The joy half lost because not sooner found.

Thee too, enamour'd of the life I lov'd, Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit Determin'd, and possessing it at last With transports such as favour'd lovers feel, I studied, priz'd, and wish'd that I had known, Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd 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 retir'd; 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, 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 unmov'd. It is a flame that dies not even there. Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life; 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 soothe the rich possessor; much consol'd, 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 lin'd with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed, The Frenchman's darling ? are they not all proofs That man, immur'd in cities, still retains His inborn inextinguishable thirst Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts, the best he may? The most unfurnish'd 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 duly. there the pitcher stands And 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 honours, or employment, or fame; I shall not add myself to such a chase, Thwart his attempts, or envy his success. Some must be great. Great offices will have 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 injur'd 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.

((The Winter Morning Walk Arguement of the Fifth book.=A frosty morning=The foddering of cattle=The woodman and his dog=The poultry= Whimsical effects of frost at a waterfall=The Empress of Russia's palace of ice=Amusements of monarchs=War, one of them= Wars, whence=And whence monarchy=The evils of it=English and French loyalty contrasted=The Bastile, and a prisoner there=Liberty the chief recommendation of this country= Modern patriotism questionable, and why=The perishable nature of the best human institutions=Spiritual liberty not perishable The slavish state of man by nature=Deliver him, Deist, if you can=Grace must do it=The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated=Their different treatment=Happy freedom 0f the man whom grace makes free=His relish of the works of God=Address to the Creator.)) 'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Ascending, fires th' horizon: while the clouds, That crowd away before the driving wind, More ardent as the disk emerges more, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And, tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev'ry herb and ev'ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity, and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, I view the muscular proportion'd limb Transform'd to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, As they design'd to mock me, at my side Take step for step; and, as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall, Prepost'rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad And fledg'd with icy feathers, nod superb, The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hung'ring man, Fretful if unsupply'd; but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-pac'd swain's delay. He from the stack carves out th' accustom'd load.

Deep-plunging, and again deep-plunging oft, His broad keen knife into the solid mass: Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanc'd weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcern'd The cheerful haunts of man; to wield the axe And drive the wedge, in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur- His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk Wide-scamp'ring, snatches up the drifted snow With iv'ry teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy. Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, But now and then with pressure of his thumb T' adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. Now from the roost, or from the neighb'ring pale, Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side, Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call The feather'd tribes domestic. Half on wing, And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the shelt'ring eaves To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye The scatter'd grain; and, thievishly resolv'd T' escape th' impending famine, often scar'd, As oft return--a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each--the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resign'd To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut; and, wading at their head With well-consider'd steps, seems to resent His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd. How find the myriads, that in summer cheer The hills and vallies with their ceaseless songs, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? Earth yields them nought: th' imprison'd worm is safe

Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Lie cover'd close; and berry-bearing thorns, That feed the thrush,(whatever some suppose) Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. The long protracted rigour of the year Thins all their num'rous flocks. In chinks and holes Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die. The very rooks and daws forsake the fields, Where neither grub, nor root, nor earth-nut, now Repays their labour more; and,perch'd aloft By the way-side,or stalking in the path Lean pensioners upon the trav'llers track, Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them, Of voided pulse or half-digested grain. The streams are lost amid the splendid blank, O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood, Lies undissolv'd; while silently beneath, And unperceiv'd, the current steals away. Not so where,scornful of a check,it leaps The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel, And wantons in the pebbly gulph below: No frost can bind it there; its utmost force Can but arrest the light and smoky mist That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. And see where it has hung th' embroider'd banks With forms so various, that no pow'rs of art, The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene! Here glitt'ring turrets rise, upbearing high (fantastic misarrangement!) on the roof Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops That trickle down the branches,fast congeal'd, Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, And prop the pile they but adorn'd before. Here grotto within grotto safe defies The sun-beam; there, emboss'd and fretted wild, The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes Capricous, in which fancy seeks in vain The likeness of some object seen before. Thus nature works as if to mock at art, And in defiance of her rival pow'rs; By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats As she with all her rules can never reach. Less worthy of applause,though more admir'd, Because a novelty, the work of man,

Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ Thy most magnificent and mighty freak. The wonder of the North. No forest fell When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores T' enrich thy walls: but thou didst hew the floods, And make thy marble of the glossy wave. In such a palace Aristaeus found Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale Of his lost bees to her maternal ear; In such a palace poetry might place The armory of winter; where his troops, The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet, Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail, And wraps him in an unexpected tomb. Silently as a dream the fabric rose;= No sound of hammer or of saw was there: Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts Were soon conjon'd; nor other cement ask'd Than water interfus'd to make them one. Lamps gracefully dispos'd, and of all hues, Illumin'd ev'ry side: a wat'ry light Gleam'd through the clear transparency, that seem'd Another moon new risen, or meteor fall'n From heav'n to earth,of lambent flame serene. So stood the brittle prodigy; though smooth And slipp'ry the materials, yet frost-bound Firm as a rock. Nor wanted aught within, That royal residence might well befit, For grandeur or for use. Long wavy wreaths Of flow'rs, that fear'd no enemy but warmth, Blush'd on the pannels. Mirror needed none Where all was vitreous; but in order due Convivial table and commodious seat (What seem'd at least commodious seat) were there; Sofa, and couch, and high-built throne august. The same lubricity was found in all, And all was moist to the warm touch; a scene Of evanescent glory, once a stream, And soon to slide into a stream again. Alas! 'twas but a mortifying stroke Of undesign'd severity, that glanc'd (Made by monarch) on her own estate, On human grandeur and the courts of kings. 'Twas transient in its nature, as in show 'Twas durable: as worthless,as it seem'd Intrinsically precious; to the foot Treach'rous and false; it smil'd, and it was cold.

Great princes have great playthings. Some have play'd At hewing mountains into men,and some At building human wonders mountain-high. Some have amus'd the dull, sad years of life (Life spent in idolence,and therefore sad) With schemes of monumental fame; and sought By pyramids and mausolean pomp, Short-lived themselves, t' immortalize their bones. Some seek diversion in the tented field, But war's a game,which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at. Nations would do well T' extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes, whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world. When Babel was confounded, and the great Confed'racy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley those, God drave asunder, and assign'd their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal, and he bade them dwell in peace. Peace was awhile their care: they plough'd, and sow'd, And reap'd their plenty, without grudge or strife. But violence can never longer sleep Than human passions please. In ev'ry heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fi'ry war; Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood: The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquench'd The seeds of murder in the breast of man. Soon, by righteous judgement, in the line Of his descending progeny was found The first artificer of death; the shrewd Contriver who first sweated at the forge, And forc'd the blunt and yet unbloodied steel To a keen edge, and made it bright for war, Him, Tubal nam'd,the Vulcan of old times, The sword and vulcan their inventor claim: And the first smith was the first murd'rer's son. His art surviv'd the waters; and ere long,

When man was multiplied and spread abroad In tribes and clans, and had begun to call These meadows and that range of hills his own, The tasted sweets of property begat Desire of more, and industry in some, T' improve and cultivate their just demesne, Made others covet what they saw so fair. Thus war began on earth; these fought for spoil, The onset, and irregular. At length One eminent above the rest, for strength, For stratagem,or courage, or for all, Was chosen leader; him they serv'd in war, And him in peace,for sake of warlike deeds Rev'renc'd no less. Who could with him compare? Or who so worthy to control themselves As he whose prowess had subd'ued their foes? Thus war, affording field for the display Of virtue, made one chief, whom times of peace, Which have their exigencies too,and call For skill in government, at length made king. King was a name too proud for man to wear With modesty and meekness; and the crown, So dazzling in their eyes who set it on, Was sure t' intoxicate the brows it bound. It is the abject property of most, That, being parcel of the common mass, And destitute of means to raise themselves, They sink, and settle lower than they need. They know not what it is to feel within A comprehensive faculty, that grasps Great purposes with ease, that runs and wields, Almost without an effort,plans too vast For their conception,which they cannot move. Conscious of impotence,they soon grow drunk With gazing, when they see an able man Step forth to notice: and besotted thus, Build him a pedestal, and say, Stand there, And be our admiration and our praise. They roll themselves before him in the dust, Then most deserving in their own account When most extravagant in his applause, As if exalting him they rais'd themselves. Thus by degrees. self-cheated of their sound And sober judgement,that he is but a man, They demi-deify and fume him so, That in due season he forgets it too. Inflated and astrut with self-conceit,

He gulps the windy diet; and ere long, Adopting their mistake, profoundly thinks The world was made in vain, if not for him. Thenceforth,they are his cattle: drudges born To bear his burdens; drawing in his gears, Becomes the soul that animates them all. He deems a thousand, or ten thousand lives, Spent in the purchase of renown for him, An easy reck'ning; and they think the same. Thus kings were first invented, and thus kings Were burnish'd into heroes, and became The arbiters of this terraqueous swamp; Storks among frogs, that have but croak'd and died. Strange, that such folly as lifts bloated man To eminence, fit only for a god, Should ever drivel put of human lips, Ev'n in the cradled weakness of the world! Still stranger much, that, when at length mankind Had reach'd the sinewy firmness of their youth, And could discriminate and argue well On subjects more mysterious, they were yet Babes in the cause of freedom, and should fear And quake before the gods themselves had made! But above measure strange, that neither proof Or sad experience, nor examples set By some whose patriot virtue has prevail'd, Can even now, when they are grown mature In wisdom,and with philosophic deeps Familiar, serve t' emancipate the rest! Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone To rev'rence what is ancient, and can plead A course of long observance for its use, That even servitude, the worst of ills, Because deliver'd down from sire to son, Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing! But is it fit,or can it bear the shock Of rational discussion, that man, Compounded and made up like other men Of elements tumultous in whom lust And folly in as ample measuremeet As in the bosoms of the slaves he rules, Should be a despot absolute, and boast Himself the only freeman of his land? Should, when he pleases, and on whom he will, Wage war, with any or with no pretence

Of provocation giv'n,or wrong sustain'd, And force the beggarly last doit, by means That his own humour dictates,from the clutch Of poverty, that thus he may procure A splendid oppportunuity to die? Say ye,who(with less prudence than of old Jotham ascrib'd to his assembled trees In politic convention) put your trust I' th' shadow of a bramble, and, reclin'd In fancied peace beneath his dang'rous branch, Rejoice in him, and celebrate his sway, Where find ye passive fortitude? Whence springs Your self-denying zeal, that holds it good To stroke the prickly grievance, and to hang His thorns with streamers of continual praise? We,too, are friends to loyalty. We love The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, And reigns content within them: him we serve Freely and with delight, who leaves us free: but recollecting still that he is man, We trust him not too far. King though he be, And king in England too, he may be weak, And vain enough to be ambitious still; May exercise amiss his proper powr's, Or covet more than freemen choose to grant: Beyond that mark is treason. He is our's, T' administer, to guard, t' adorn the state, But not to warp or change it. We are his To serve him nobly in the common cause, True to the death, but not to be his slaves. Mark now the diff'rence, ye that boast your love Of kings, between your loyalty and our's. We love the man; the paltry pageant you. We the chief patron of the commonwealth; You the regardless author of its woes, We, for the sake of liberty, of a king; You chains and bondage, for tyrant's sake. Our love is principle, and has its root In reason,is judicious, manly,free; Your's, a blind instinct,crouches to the rod, And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, I would not be a king to be belov'd Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning praise, Where love is mere attachment to the throne, Not to the man who fills it as he ought.

Of a superior, he is never free. Who lives, and is not weary of a life Expos'd to manacles, deserves them well. The state that strives for liberty, though foil'd. And forc'd t' abandon what she bravely sought, Deserves at least applause for her attempt, And pity for her loss. But that's a cause Not often unsuccessful: pow'r usurp'd Is weakness when oppos'd; conscious of wrong, 'Tis pusillanimous and prone to flight But slaves,that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts; The surest presage of the good they seek. Then shame to manhood,and opprobrious more To France than all her losses and defeats, Old or of later date,by sea or land, Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Which God aveng'd on Pharaoh=the Bastile! Ye horrid tow'rs, th' abode of broken hearts; Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music such as suits their sov'reign ears= The sighs and groans of miserable men! There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fall'n at last; to know That ev'n our enemies, so oft employ'd In forging chains for us, themselves were free. For he who values liberty confines His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds; her cause engages him Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man. There dwell the most forlorn of human kind; Immur'd though unaccus'd, condemn'd untried, Cruelly spar'd, and hopeless of escape! There, like the visionary emblem seen By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, And, filletted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. To count the hour-bell and expect no change;

And ever, as the sullen sound is heard, Still to reflect,that,though a joyless note Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it music; that it summons some To theatre, or jocund feast or ball: The wearied hireling finds it a release From labour; and the lover, who has chid Its long delay, feels ev'ry welcome stroke Upon his heart-strings, trembling with delight= To fly for refuge from distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard-shifting, and without her tools= To read engraven on the mouldy walls In stagg'ring types,his predecessor's tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own= To turn purveyor to an overgorg'd And bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest Is made familiar, watches his approach, Comes at his call,and serves him for a friend= To wear out time in numb'ring to and fro The studs that thick emboss his iron door; Then downward and then upward,then aslant And then alternate; with a sickly hope By dint of change to give his tasteless task Some relish; till the sum, exactly found In all directions, he begins again= Oh comfortless existence! hemm'd around With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel And beg for exile, or the pangs of death? That man should thus encroach on fellow man, Abridge him of his just and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon th' endearments of domestic life And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedless word To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, Moves, indignation; makes the name of king (Of king whom such prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Manichean god, Ador'd through fear, strong only to destroy. 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flow'r Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science; blinds The eyesight of discov'ry; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therfore still, blame-worthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire,and though squeez'd By public exigence till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free: My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours,and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft And plausible than social life requires, And thou hast need of discipline and art To give thee what politer France receives From nature's bounty=that humane address And sweetness, without which no pleasure is In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve, Or flush'd with fierce dispute,a senseless brawl: Yet, being free, I love thee: for the sake Of that feature can be well content, Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside. But, once enslav'd,farewell! I could endure Chains no where patiently: and chains at home, Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freeman, would disgust And shock me. Should then,with double pain, Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled, I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less austere; In scenes which having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forbode impossible events, And tremble at vain dreams? Heav'n grant I may! But the age of virtuous politics is past, And we are deep in that of cold pretence. And we too wise to trust them. He that takes Deep in his soft credulity the stamp Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, Incurs derision for his easy faith

And lack of knowledge,and with cause enough: For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not? Can he love the whole Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend Who is in truth,the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake That country,if at all, must be lov'd? 'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts So loose to private duty, that no brain, Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes, Can dream them trusty to the gen'ral weal. Such were not they of old, whose temper'd blades Dispers'd the shackles of usurp'd control, And hew'd them link from link: then Albion's sons Were sons indeed; they felt a filial heart Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs; And, shining each in his domestic sphere, Shone brighter still,once call'd to public view. 'Tis therefore many,whose sequester'd lot Forbids their interference, looking on, Anticipate perforce some dire event; And,seeing the old castle of the state, That promis'd once more firmness, so assail'd That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake. Stand motionless expectants of its fall. All has its date below; the fatal hour Was register'd inheav'n ere time began. We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works Die too; the deep foundations that we lay, Time ploughs them up and not a trace remains. We build with what we deem eternal rock: A distant age asks where the fabric stood; And in the dust,sifted and search'd in vain, The undiscoverable secret sleeps. But there is yet a liberty,unsung By poet, and by senators unprais'd, Which monarchs cannot grant,nor all the pow'rs Of earth and hell confed'rate take away: Oppression,prisons, have no power to bind; Which whoso tastes can be enslav'd no more. 'Tis liberty of heart, deriv'd from heav'n; Bought with HIS blood who gave it to mankind,

And seal'd with the same token! It is held By charter, and that charter sanction'd sure By th' unimpeachable and awful oath And promise of a God! His other gifts All bear the royal stamp that speaks them his, And are august; but this transcends them all. His other works, the visible display Of all-creating energy and might, Are grand,no doubt, and worthy of the word That, finding an interminable space Unoccupied, has fill'd the void so well, And made sp sparkling what was dark before. But these are not his glory. Man, 'tis true, Smit with the beauty of so fair a scene, Might well suppose th' artificer divine Meant it eternal, had he not himself Pronounc'd it transient, glorious as it is, And, still designing a more glorious far, Doom'd it as insufficient for his praise. These, therefore, are occasional,and pass; Form'd for the confutatin of the fool, Whose lyeing heart disputes against a God; That office serv'd, they must be swept away. Not so the labours of his love: they shine In other heav'ns than these that we behold, And fade not. There is paradise that fears No forfeiture,and of its fruits he sends Large prelibation oft to saints below. Of these the first in order, and the pledge And confident assurance of the rest, Is liberty:-a flight to his arms Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way. A clear escape from tyrannizing lust, And full immunity from penal woe. Chains are the portion of revolted man, Stripes and dungeon; and his body serves The triple purpose. In that sickly,foul, Opprobious residence, he finds them all. Propense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created things And sordid gravitation of his pow'rs To a vile clod so draws him, with such force Resistless from the centre he should seek, That he at last forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward; his ambition is to sink, To reach a depth profounder still, and still

Profounder,in the fathomless abyss Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. But, ere he gain the comfortless repose He seeks,and acquiescence of his soul, In heav'n-renouncing exile, he endures= What does he not? from lusts oppos'd in vain, And self-reproaching conscience. He forsees The fatal issue to his health, fame,peace, Fortune,and dignity; the loss of all That can ennoble man, and make frail life, Short as it is, supportable. Still worse, Far worse than all the plagues with which his sins Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes Ages of hopeless mis'ry. Future death And death still future. Not an hasty stroke, Like that which sends him to the dusty grave; But unrepealable enduring death! Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: What none can prove a forg'ry, may be true; What none but bad men wish exploded, must. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud, Nor drunk enough to drown it. In the midst Of laughter his compunctions are sincere And he abhors the jest by which he shines. Remorse begets reform. His master-lust Falls first before his resolute rebuke, And seems dethron'd and vanquished. Peace ensues, But spurious and short-liv'd; the puny child Of self-congratulating pride, begot On fancied innocence. Again he falls, And fights again, but finds his best essay A presage ominous, portending still Its own dishonour by a worse relapse. Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Takes part with appetite,and pleads the cause, Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd; And tatter'd in the service of debauch, Cov'ring his shame from his offended sight. "Hath God indeed so plenteously with means To gratify the hunger of his wish; And doth he reprobate, and will he damn, The use of his own bounty? making first So frail a kind, and then enacting laws

So strict,that less than perfect must despair? Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man. Do they themselves, who undertake for hire The teacher's office, and dispense at large Their weekly dole of edifying strains, Attend to their own music? have they faith In what with such solemnity of tone And gesture they propound to our belief? Nay=conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice Is but an instrument, on which the priest May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, The unequivocal authentic deed, We find sound arguement,we read the heart." Such reas'nings (if that name must need belong T' excuses in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit well inclin'd To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often, urg'd, (As often as, libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import) They gain at last his unreserv'd assent; Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing moves, Or nothing much, his constancy in ill; Vain tamp'ring has but foster'd his disease; 'Tis desp'rate, and he sleeps the sleep of death! Haste now, philosopher,and set him free, Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth How lovely,and the moral sense how sure, Consulted and obey'd,to guide his steps Directly to the FIRST AND ONLY FAIR. Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the pow'rs Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise: And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, Till it out-mantle all the pride of verse.= Ah, tinkling cymbal,and high sounding brass, Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm Th' eclipse that intercepts truth's heav'nly beam, And chills and darkens a wide-wand'ring soul. The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must speak, Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect; Who calls for things that are not, and they come.

Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast As if, like him of fabulous renown They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature,and were each An Orpheus,and omnipotent in song: But transformation of apostate man From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And he by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpow'ring strength By weakness, and hostility by love. Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Th' historic muse, Proud of the treasure,marches with it down To latest times; and sculpture,in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and t' immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who, posted at the shrine of truth, Have fall'n in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure, to his lov'd land, The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim= To walk with God, to be divinely free, To soar, and to anticipate the skies! Yet few remember them. They liv'd unknown Till persecution dragg'd them into fame, And chas'd them up to heav'n. Their ashes flew =No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious suff'rers little praise. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain

That hellish foes, confed'rate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green wyths. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor perhaps compar'd With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scen'ry all his own. His are the mountains, and the vallies his, And the resplendent rivers. His t' enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspir'd, Can lift to heav'n an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say=My father made them all! And they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of int'rest his, Whose heart with praise, and exalted mind Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd, and built, and still upholds,a world So cloth'd with beauty for rebellious man? Yes=ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find, In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his, who, unimpeach'd Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his father's work, And has a richer use of your's than you. He is indeed a freeman. free by birth Of no mean city; plann'd or ere the hills With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in ev'ry state; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose ev'ry day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less: For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine. No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. th' oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes,unconscious of a chain; And that to bind him is a vain attempt Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. Acquaint thyself with God,if thou would'st taste His works. Admitted once to his embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before: Thine eye shall be instructed; and thine heart,

Made pure, shall relish,with divine delight Till then unfelt,what hands divine have wrought. Brutes graze the mountain-top with faces prone And eyes intent upon the scanty herb It yields them; or, recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it, and admires; but rests content With what he views. The landscape has his praise, The paradise he sees, he finds it such, And such well-pleas'd to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind that has been touch'd from heav'n, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught To read his wonders,in which thought the world, Fair as it is, existed ere it was. Not for its own sake merely, but for his Much more fashion'd it, he gives it praise; Praise that, from earth resulting,as it ought, To earth's acknowledg'd sov'reign, finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him. The soul that sees him, or receives sublim'd New faculties, or learns at least t' employ More worthily the pow'rs she own'd before; Discerns in all things, what, with stupid gaze A ray of heav'nly light, gilding all forms Terrestial in the vast and the minute; The unambiguous footsteps of the God Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with heav'n, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man, That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Sweet conference: inquires what strains were they With which heav'n rang, when ev'ry star,in haste To gratulate the new-created earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy - "Tell me, ye shining hosts, That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man, And systems of whose birth no tidings yet Have reach'd this neither world, ye spy a race Favour'd as our's; transgressors from the womb, And hasting to a grave, yet doom'd to rise,

And to possess a brighter heav'n than your's? As one who long detain'd on foreign shores Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleach'd and batter'd rocks, From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy towards the happy land; So I with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish,your beamy fires, That show like beacons in the blue abyss, Ordain'd to guide th' embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires That give assurance of their own success, And that,infus'd from heav'n, must thither tend." So reads he nature whom the lamp of truth Illuminates. Thy lamp, mysterious word! Which whoso sees no longer wanders lost, With intellects bemaz'd in endless doubt, But runs the road of wisdom. Thou hast built, With means that were not till by thee employ'd, Worlds that had never been hadst thou in strength They are thy witnesses, who speak thy pow'r And goodness infinite, but speak in ears That hear not, or receive not their report. In vain thy creatures testify of thee Till thou proclaim thyself. Their's is indeed A teaching voice; but 'tis the praise of thine That whom it teaches it makes prompt to learn, And with the boon gives talents for its use. Till thou art head, imaginations vain Possess the heart, and fables false as hell; Yet,deem'd oracular, lure down to death The uniform'd and heedless souls of men. We give to chance, blind chance, ourselves as blind, The glory of thy work; which yet appears Perfect and unimpeachable of blame, Challenging human scrutiny, and prov'd Then skilful most when most severly judg'd. But chance is not; or is not where thou reign'st: Thy providence forbids that fickle pow'r (If power she be that works but to confound) To mix her wild vagaries with thy laws. Yet thus we dote, refusing while we can Instruction, and inventing to ourselves Gods such as guilt makes welcome; gods that sleep, Or disregard our follies, or that sit Amus'd spectators of this bustling stage.

Thee we reject, unable to abide Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure: Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause For which we shunn'd and hated thee before. Then we are free. Then liberty,like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heav'n Fires all the faculties with glorious joy. A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song= A loud hosanna sent from all they works; Which he that hears it with a shout repeats, And adds his rapture to the gen'ral praise, In that blest moment Nature, throwing wide Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile The author of her beauties, who, retir'd Behind his own creation, works unseen By the impure, and hears his power denied. Their only point of rest, eternal Word! From thee departing,they are lost, and rove At random, without honour, hope or peace. From thee is all that sooths the life of man, His high endeavour, and his glad success, His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. But oh thou bounteous giver of all good, Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown! Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away. ((The Winter Walk At Noon Arguement 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 appear less wonderful than it is=The transformation that spring effects in a shrubbery described=A mistake concerning the course of nature corrected=God maintains it by an unremitted act=The amusements fasionable at this hour of the day reproved=Animals happy, a delightful sight=Origin of cruelty to animals=That it is a great crime proved from scripture=That proof illustrated by a tale=A line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of them=Their good and useful properties insisted on= Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author upon animals=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.)) 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 touch'd 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, 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 has 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, Mov'd 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 revok'd, 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 lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd By ev'ry gilded folly, we renouc'd 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 tam'd 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, 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 suffic'd, 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 redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleas'd 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 twinkle in the winter'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 squar'd and fitted to its place, 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 style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them by a tune entranc'd. While sloth seduces more, too weak too 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 clothes 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 costancy 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 And 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 mov'd, While summer was,the pure and subtile lymph Through th'imperceptible meand'ring veins Of leaf and flow'r? It sleeps; and th' icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restor'd. 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 honours clad, Shall polish, even to the distant eye, Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich In streaming gold; syringa, iv'ry pure; The scentless and the scented rose; this red And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neigh'bring 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 unresolv'd Which hue she most approv'd, she chose them all; Copious of flow'rs the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never-cloying odours, early and late; Hypericum, all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flow'rs, like flies clothing her slender rods, That scarce a leaf appears; mezerion, too, Though leafless, well attir'd, 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,uncolour'd 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 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, Uninjur'd, 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 receiv'd 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 Prescrib'd their course,to regulate it now. Thus dream they, and contrive to save a God Th' 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 diffus'd, Sustains, and is 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; No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profan'd, 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 odours, 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 sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God! His presence, who made all so fair, perceiv'd, 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 punish'd 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 tun'd 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 ridg'd And furrow'd into storms,and with a hand Trembling, as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin?= Who pant with application misapplied To trivial toys,and pushing iv'ry balls Across a 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 Too miss,the mercer's plague, from shop to shop Wand'ring, and litt'ring with unfolded silks The polish'd counter, and approving none Or promising with smiles to call again.= Nor him, who by his vanity seduc'd,

And sooth'd into a dream that he discerns The diff'rence of a Guido from a daub, Frequents the crowded auction : station'd there As duly 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 pass=but never bids! Here, unmolested, through whatever sign The sin 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 th' 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 bathe in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play: Ascends the neighb'ring beach; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and cries 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 pleas'd 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 heel, 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 resolv'd with one consent To give such act and utt'rance as they may To ecstacy too big to be suppress'd= These, and a thousand images of bliss, With which kind graces ev'ry scene Where cruel man defeats not her design, Impart to the benevolent, who wish All that are capable of pleasure pleas'd, A far superior happiness to their's, The comfort of a reasonable joy. Man scarce had ris'n, obedient to his call Who firm'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 He rul'd with meekness, they obey'd wth joy; No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart, And no distrust of his intent in their's. So Eden was a scene of harmless sport, Where kindness on his part who rul'd 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, conceiv'd 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 driven 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 The man inflicts on all superior 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 impal'd. Earth groans beneath the burden of a war Wag'd 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 thee 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, lov'd. The wilderness is their's with all its caves, Its hollow glens,its thickets, and its plains, Unvisited by man. There they are free, And howl and roar as likes them, uncontrol'd; Wo to the tyrant, if he dare intrude Within the confines of their world domain! The lion tells him=I am monarch here! And, if he spare him, spares him in 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 Dependant 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'rer's 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 murd'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 brute,seems wisely to suppose The honours of his matchless horse his own! But many a crime, deem'd innocent on earth, Is registered in heav'n; and these, no doubt, Have each their record, with a curse annex'd. Man may dismiss compassion from his heart. But God will never. When he charg'd the Jew T' assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise; And when the bush-exploring boy, that seiz'd The young, to let the parent bird go free; Prov'd he not plainly that his meaner works Are yet his care,and have an int'rest all, 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 unfledg'd raven and the lion's whelp Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs Of hunger unassuag'd has interpos'd, 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

Sav'd 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 inj'ry, with such knowledge of their strength, And such sagacity to take revenge, That oft the beast has seem'd 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 fam'd for piety, for years Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth, 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 mov'd At sight of the man-monster. With a smile Gentle, and affiable, 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,ad 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 Declin'd the death, and wheeling swiftly round <231> Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge. Baffled his rider, sav'd against his will! The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By med'cine well applied, but without grace The hearts insanity admits no cure. Enrag'd the more, by what might have reform'd His horrible intent, again he sought Destruction, with zeal to be destroy'd, With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. But still in vain. The Providence, that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast, Spar'd yet again th' ignobler, for his sake. And now, his prowess prov'd, and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinc'd, His rage grew cool; and,pleas'd perhaps t' have earn'd So cheaply the renown of that attempt, With looks of some complacence he resum'd His road, deriding much the blank amaze Fixt motionless, and petrified with dread. So on they far'd. Discourse on other themes Ensuing, seem'd t' obliterate the past; And, tamer far for so much fury shown, (As is the course of rash and fiery men) The rude companion smil'd, 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, tho' slow to wrath, Is never with impunity defied. His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, Snorting, and starting into a sudden rage, Unbidden, and not now to be control'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, immers'd Deep in the flood, found,when he sought it not! The death he had deserv'd=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 (Tho'grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An advertant step may crush the snail That crawls at ev'ning in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn'd, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charg'd 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 privileg'd; and that hunts Or harms them there is guilt of a wrong, Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them in abode. Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extiguish their's. 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, therfore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring-time of our years Is soon dishounour'd and defil'd 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 outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. Distinguish'd much by reason, and still more By our capacity that exist but for our own sake. Which, having serv'd 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 their's. 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 their's, Are oft-times vanquish'd and thrown far behind. Some show that nice sagacity of smell, And read with such discernment, in the port 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 chang'd Against unkindness, absence, and neglect; Fidelity,that neither bribe nor threat Can move or warp; and gratitude for small And trivial favours,lasting as the life, And glist'ning even in the dying eye. Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms Wins public honour; 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 dar'd To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath, And hang it up in honour 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 from whom it came Was never meant, was never us'd before To buckram out the mem'ry of a man. But hush!=the muse perhaps is too severe; And, with 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 third,

Had fled from Willia, 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 liv'd The god of our idolatry once more, Shall have its alter; and the world shall go In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine. The theatre, too small, shall suffocate Its squeez'd content, and more than it admits 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, To show the world how Garrick did not act= For Garrick was a worshipper himself;= He drew the liturgy, and fram'd the rites And solemn ceremonial of the day, And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon, fram'd 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 centre 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 hollow'd time: decorum reign'd, And mirth without offence. no few return'd, Doubtless, much edified, and all refresh'd. =Man praises man. The rabble, all alive, From tippling-benches, cellars, stools, 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 guilded equipage, and, turning loose His steeds,usurp a place they well deserve. Why? what has charm'd them? Hath he sav'd the state? No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No. Enchanting novelty, that moon at full,

That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not sound and perfect, hath in their's 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 Doom'd to the dust,or lodg'd already there! But, poet's 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 pour'd my stream of panegyric down The vale of nature, where it creeps, and winds Among her lovely works with a secure And unambitious course, reflectig clear, If not the virtues, yet the worth, of brutes. And I am recompens'd, 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 promis'd sabbath, comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Fulfill'd 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 mov'd him, and his wrath is hot, Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend, Propitious, in his chariot pav'd with love; And what his storms have blasted and defac'd For man's revolt shall with a smile repair. Sweet is the harp of prophecy; 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 proportion'd to its worth, That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems The labour, were a task more arduous still. 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 crimes with beauty; the reproach Of barrenness 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 repeal'd. The various seasons woven into one, And that one season an eternal spring, The garden fears no blights 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 flocks; 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 playfull hand Stetch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, To stroke 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 chas'd it. In the heart No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Disease Is not: the pure and uncontam'nate 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 fill'd; 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 And endless her increase. Thy rams are there, Nebaioth and the flocks of Kedar there; The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, And Saba's spicy 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 ev'ry 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 restor'd. So God has greatly purpos'd; who would else In his dishonour'd works himself endure Dishonour, 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 even 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 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:=

Th' occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite;=where law shall speak Seldom, and nevr 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 ancient covenant, ere nature's birth; And thou hast made it thine by puchase 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 desir'd, Would creep into the bowels of the hills, And flee for safety to the falling rocks. The very spirit of the world is tir'd Of its 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 gleams the blunted shafts that have recoil'd, 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 propos'd, Insulted and traduc'd, are cast aside, As useless, to the moles and to the bats. They now are deem'd the faithful, and are prais'd, Who, constant only in rejecting thee, Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal, And quit their office for their error's sake. Blind, and in love with darkness! yet ev'n these Worthy, compar'd with sycophants, who knee Thy name adoring, and then preach thee men! So fares thy church. But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought. Who will may preach, To wand'ring sheep, resolv'd 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 fulfill'd, the conquest of a world! He is the happy man, whose life ev'n now Who, doom'd to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleas'd with it, and, were he free to choose, 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 her's, for he has prov'd them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies; and such he deems Her honours, 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 reveal'd. Not slothful he, though seeming unemploy'd, And censur'd 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 rais'd, Or what achievements of immortal fame His warfare is within. There unfatigu'd His fervent spirit labours. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself And never with'ring wreaths, compar'd 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 Walk 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, an 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 nore 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. 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 deceiv'd; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice. Though well perfum'd 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 strain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd, 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 call'd 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 rov'd for fruit; Rov'd far, and gather'd much: some harsh,'tis true, Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be despis'd. 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. 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.

Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue To nature's scenes than nature ever knew. At her command winds rise and waters roar, Again she lays them slumb'ring on the shore; With flow'r fruit the wilderness supplies, Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. For her the judgement, umpire in the strife That grace and nature have to wage through life, Quick sighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed sage preceptor to the will, Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair sun and his attendant earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, What takes the gentler moon her turn to rise, Whom ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her pow'r on ev'ry shore he laves? Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young, as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms in the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.= 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Pow'r misemploy'd, munificence misplac'd, Had not its author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus plac'd, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God, has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Makers laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause, To press th' improtant question on his heart, "Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?" If man be what he seems=this hour a slave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endu'd with reason only to descry His crimes and follies with an aching eye; With passions, just that he may, prove with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With ev'ry lust with which frail nature burnt, His being end where death dissolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond= Then he, of all that nature has brought forth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth,

And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and mis'ry not to learn, Shine by the side of ev'ry path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sun-set of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that heav'n requir'd of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could rev'rence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. But reason heard, and nature well persu'd, At once the dreaming mind is disabus'd. If all we find possessing, earth, sea, and air, Reflect his attributes who plac'd them there, Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd Proofs of the wisdom of th' all-seeing mind; 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose t'invest With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, Receiv'd his nobler nature, and was made Fit for the pow'r in which he stands array'd, That first or last, hereafter if not here, He too might make his author's wisdom clear, Praise him on earth or, obstinately dumb, Suffer his justice in a world to come. This once believ'd, 'twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heav'nly truth, That taught of God they may indeed be wise, Nor, ignorantly wand'ring, miss the skies. In early days the conscience has in most A quickness, which in later life is lost: Preserv'd from guilt by salutary fears, Or, guilty, soon relenting into tears. Too carless often, as our years proceed. What friends we sort with, or what books we read, Our parents yet exert a prudent care To feed our infant minds with proper fare; And wisely store the nurs'ry by degrees With wholesome learning, yet acquir'd with ease.

Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, A book,(to please us at a tender age 'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) Presents the pray'r the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children use, and parsons=when they preach. Lisping our syllables, we scramble text; And learn with wonder how this world began, Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man: Points which, unless the scripture made them plain, The wisest heads might agitate in vain. Oh thou, whom, born on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleas'd remember, and while mem'ry yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose hum'rous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despis'd a name Should move a sneer at thy deserv'd fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober gray, Revere the man whose Pilgrim marks the road, And guides the Progress of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleas'd them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace and joy; And not with curses on his art who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, The youth now bearded, and yet pert and raw, Regards with scorn, though once receiv'd with awe; And, wrap'd into the labyrinth of lies, That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but his nature in its ailing parts, Assert the native evil of his heart, Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough:

Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, And hates it with the malice of a Jew, How week the barrier of mere nature proves, Oppos'd against the pleasures nature loves! While, self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner woo'd than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was he clos'd, as he began, the day With decent duty, not asham'd to pray; The practice was a bind upon his heart, A pledge he gave for a consistent part; Nor could he dare presumtuously displease A pow'r, confess'd so lately on his knees. But now farewll all legendary tales= The shadows fly, philosophy prevails! Pray'r to the winds, and caution to the waves; Religion makes the free by nature slaves! Priests have invented, and the world admir'd What knavish priests promulgate as inspir'd; Till reason, now no longer overaw'd, Resumes her pow'rs, and spurns the clumsy fraud; And, common-sense diffusing real day, The meteor of the gospel dies away! Such rapsodies our shrewd discerning youth Learn from expert inquires after truth; Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, Is not to find what they profess to seek. And thus, well-tutor'd only while we share A mother's lectures and a nurse's care; And taught at schools much mythological stuff, But sound religion sparingly enough; Our early notices of truth, disgrac'd, Soon lose their credit, and are all effac'd. Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, Lascivious, headstrong; or all these at once; That, in good time, the stripling's finish'd taste For loose expense and fasionable waste Should prove your ruin and his own at last;

Train him in public with a mob of boys, Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten In infidelity and lewdness men. There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold; That pedantry is all that schools impart, But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; There waiter Dick, with Bacchanalian lays, Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise, His counsellor and bosom-friend shall prove, And some street-pacing harlot his first love. Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, Detain their adolescent charge too long; The management of tiros of eighteen Is difficult, their punishment obscene. The stout tall captain, whose superior size The minor heroes view with envious eyes, Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. His pride, that scorns t' obey or to submit, With them is courage; his effront'ry wit. His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, Robb'ry of gardens, quarrels in the streets, His hair-breadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, Transport them, and are made their fav'rite themes. In little bosoms such achievements strike A kindred spark; they burn to do the like. Thus, half-accomplish'd ere he yet begin To show the peeping down upon his chin; And, as maturity of years comes on, Made just th' adept that you design'd your son; T' ensure the perseverance of his course And give your monstrous project all its force, Send him to college. If he there be tam'd, Or one article of vice, reclaim'd, Where no regard of ord'nances is shown Or look'd for now, the fault lurks in him, no doubt, Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking-bout, Nor gambling practices, can find it out. Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, Ye nurs'ries of our boys, we owe to you! Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, For public schools 'tis public folly feeds.

With pack-horse constancy we keep the road, Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells. To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think: And such an age as our's balks no expense, Except of caution and of common-sense; Else, sure, notorious fact and proof so plain Would turn our steps into a wiser train. I blame not those who with what care they had O'erwatch the num'rous and unruly clan; Or, if I blame, 'tis, only that they dare Promise a work of which they must despair. Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, An ubiquarian presence and control= Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd? Yes=ye are conscious; and on all the shelves Your pupils strike upon, have struck yourselves. Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, Boys as ye were, the gravity of men; Ye knew af least, by constant proofs address'd To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. But ye conive at what ye cannot cure, And evils not to be endur'd, endure, Lest pow'r exerted, but without success, Should make he little ye retain still less. Ye once were justly fam'd for bringing forth Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth; And in the firmament of fame still shines A glory, bright as that of all the signs, Of poets rais'd by you, and statesmen, and divines. Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled, And no such lights are kindling in their stead. Our striplings shine, indeed, but with such rays As set the midnight riot in a blaze; And seem, if judg'd by their expressive looks, Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. Say muse, (for, education made the song, No muse can hesitate or linger long) What causes move us, knowing, as we must, That those menageries all fail their trust, While colts and puppies cost us so much care? Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise; We love the play-place of our early days=

The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carv'd, subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Tho'mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd: The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dext'rous pat= The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known pace, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it ev'n in age, and at our latest day. Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future share Of classic food begins to be his care, With his own likeness plac'd on either knee, Indulges all a father's heart-felt glee; And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; Then, turning, he regales his list'ning wife With all th' adventures of his early life; His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, In bilking tavern bills, and spouting plays; What shifts he us'd, detected in a scrape, How he was flogg'd, or had the luck t' escape; What sums he lost at play, and how he sold Watch, seals, and all=till all his pranks are told. Retracing thus his frolics,('tis a name That palliates deeds of folly and of shame) He gives the local bias all its sway; Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, Just in the scene where he dispay'd his own. The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught To be as bold and forward as he ought; The rude will scuffle through with ease enough, Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, Th' event is sure; expect it, and rejoice! Soon see your wish fulfill'd in either child- The pert made perter, and the tame made wild.

The great, indeed, by titles, riches, birth, Excus'd th' incumbrance of more solid worth, Are best dispos'd of where with most success They may acquire that confident address, Those habits of profuse and lewd expense, That scorn of all delights but those of sense, Which, though in pain plebians we condemn, With so much reason all expect from them. But families of less illustrious fame, Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, Whose heirs, their, honours none, their income Must shine by true desert; or not at all= [small, What dream they of, that with so little care They risk their hopes their dearest treasure, there? They dream of little Charles or William grac'd 360 With wig prolix, down-flowing to his waist; They see th' attentive crowds his talents draw, They hear him speak=the oracle of law! The father, who designs his babe a priest, Dreams him episcopally such at least; And, while the playful jockey scours the room Briskly astride upon the parlour broom, In fancy sees him more superbly ride In coach with purple lin'd, and mitres on its side. Events improbale and strange as these, Which only a parental eye forsees, A public school shall bring to pass with ease. But how! resides such virtue in that air As must create an appetite for pray'r? And will it breath into him all that zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel, To take the lead and be the foremost still In all rue worth and literary skill? The knowledge of the world, and dull of thought! Church-ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. Th' exalted prize demands an upward look, Not to be found by poring on a book. Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, Is more than adequate to all I seek. Let erudition grace him or not grace, I give the bauble but the second place; His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend, Subsist and centre in one point=a friend! A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, Shall give him consequence, heal all defects.

His intercourse with peers, and sons of peers= There dawns the splendour of his future years; Inthat bright quarter his propitious skies Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teach A rhet'ric equal to those parts of speech? What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections! if he learn but those? Let rev'rend churls his ignorance rebuke, Who starve upon a dog's-ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke."= Egregious purpose! worthily begun In barb'rous prostitution of your son; Press'd on his part by means that would disgrace A scriv'ner's clerk or footman out of place, And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, In sacrilege, in God's own house profan'd! It may succeed, and, if his sins should call For more than common punishment, it shall; The wretch shall rise,and be the thing on earth Least qualified in honour, learning,worth, To occupy a sacred, awful post, In which the best and worthiest tremble most. The royal letters are a thing of course= A king, that would, might recommend his horse; And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop! well he plays his part= Christian in name,and infidel in heart, A slave at court,elsewhere a lady's man! Dumb as a senator,and,as a priest, A piece of mere church-furniture at best; To live estrang'd from God his total scope, And his end sure without one glimpse of hope! But fair although and feasible it seem, Depend not much upon your golden dream; For providence,that seems concern'd t' exempt The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, Inspite of all the wrigglers into place, Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace; And therefore 'tis,that, though the sight be rare, We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. Besides, school-friendships are not always found, Though fair in promise,permanent and sound; The most disint'rested and virtuous minds, In early years connected, time unbinds;

Now situations give a diff'rent cast Of habit inclination temper, taste; And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, Soon shows the strong similitude revers'd. Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, And make mistakes for manhood to reform. Boys are at best but pretty buds unblown, Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than known; known; Each dreams that each is just what he appears, But learns his error in maturer years, When disposition,like a sail unfurl'd, Shows all its rents and patches to the world. If, therefore, ev'n when honest in design, A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 'Twere wiser sure t' inspire a little heart With just abhorrence of so mean a part, Then set your son to work at a vile trade For wages so unlikely to be paid. Our public hives of puerile resort. That are chief and most approv'd report, To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul. Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. A principle, whose proud pretensions pass Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass= That with a world, not often over-nice, Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice; Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride= Contributes most perhaps t' enhance their fame; And emulation is its specious name. Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; The prize of beauty in a women's eyes Not brighter than in their's the scholar's prize. The spirit of that competition burns With all varieties of ill by turns; Each vainly magnifies his own success, Resents his fellow's,wishes it were less, Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, Deems his reward too great if he prevail, And labours to surpass him day and night, Less for improvement than to tickle spite. The spur is powerful, and I grant its force; It pricks the genius forward in its course, Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; And, felt alike by each, advances both:

But judge, where so much evil intervenes, The end, though plausible, not worth the means. Weigh, for a moment, classical desert Against an heart deprav'd and temper hurt Hurt, too, perhaps for life; for early wrong, Done to the nobler part, affects it long; And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause, If you can crown a discipline, that draws Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. Connexion form'd for int'rest, and endear'd By selfish views, thus censur'd and cashier'd; And emulation, as engend'ring hate, Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate; The props of such proud seminaries fall; The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. Beyond a size that can be manag'd well, Shall royal institutions miss the bays, And small academies win all the praise? Force not my drift beyond its just intent, I praise a school as Pope a government; So take my judgement in his language dress'd= "Whate'er is best administer'd is best." Few boys are born with talents that excel, But all are capable of living well; But, Watch they strictly or neglect their charge? If anxious only that their boys may learn, While morals languish, a despis'd concern, The great and small deserve one common blame, Diff'rent in size, but in effect the same. Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, For there the game they seek is easiest found; Though there, in spite of all that care can do, Traps to catch youth are most abundant to If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain, Keen in pursuit, and vig'rous to retain, Your son come forth a prodigy of skill; As, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, claims more than half the praise as his due share. But,if, with all his genius, he betray, Not more intelligent than loose and gay, Such vicious habits as disgrace his name, Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame;

Though want of due restraint alone have bred The symptoms that you see with so much dread; Unenvy'd there, he may sustain alone The whole reproach=the fault was all his own! Oh 'tis a sight to be with joy perus'd, By all whom sentiment has not abus'd; New-fangled sentiment the boasted grace Of those who never feel in the right place; A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, Though Vestris on one leg still shine below; A father blest with an ingenuous son= Father, and friend, and tutor all in one. How!=turn again to tales long since forgot, Aesop, and Phaedrus, and the rest?=Why not? He will not blush that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part; But bends his sturdy back to any toy That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy: Then why resign into a stranger's hand A task as much within your own command, That God and nature,and your int'rest too, Why hire a lodging in a house unknown For one whose tend'rest thoughts all hover round This second weaning, needless as it is, [your own? How does it lac'rate both your heart and his! Th' indented stick, that loses day by day Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, Bears, witness, long ere his dismission come With what intense desire he wants his home. But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof Bid fair enough to answer in the proof, Harmless, and safe, and nat'ral, as they are, A disappointment waits him even there: Arriv'd, he feels an inexpected change; He blushes,hangs his head is shy and strange, No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease, His fav'rite stand between his father's knees, But seeks the corner of some distant seat, And eyes the door, and watches a retreat, Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, Feels all his happiest privileges lost. Alas, poor boy!=the natural effect Of love by absence chill'd into respect. Say, what accomplishments, at school acquir'd, Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undesir'd? Thou well deserv'st an alienated son,