She ploughs a brazen field, and clothes a soil So sterile, with what charms soe'er she will, 710 The richest scenery 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 All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so thronged, so drained, and so sup- plied,
As London, opulent, enlarged, and still Increasing London? Babylon of old Not more the glory of the earth than she, A more accomplished world's chief glory now.
1 At this time Sir Joshua Reynolds (1723-1792) was at the height of his fame as a painter.
2 John Bacon (1740-1799), a distinguished sculptor of the day.
The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, And centering all authority in modes And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorced. 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 threatened 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 ye can shine, There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam, 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 notes: the thrush departs Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth,
It plagues your country. Folly such as yours Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan, 771 Has made, what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall. . .
BOOK II. THE TIME-PIECE 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 pained, My soul is sick with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
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 earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave
News from all nations lumbering at his back. True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn, And having dropped the expected bag-pass on He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch. Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh the important budget! ushered in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? have our troops awaked? Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave? Is India free? and does she wear her plumed And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, 30 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 the imprisoned wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. . . Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne125 A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon,
The relation of England to India was one of the important political issues of the time. In 1784 Pitt introduced a bill for the Government of India, and in 1786 (a year after the publication of The Task) the trial of Warren Hastings was begun.
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, 140 And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. . . Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long! Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron step slow moving, while the Night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand em- ployed
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day; Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems; A star or two just twinkling on thy brow Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers, not worn indeed on high 255 With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ample round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm,
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift: And whether I devote thy gentler hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit; Or twining silken threads round ivory reels, When they command whom man was born to please:
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still..
In such a world, so thorny, and where none 333 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 distinguished than ourselves, that thus
We may with patience bear our moderate ills, And sympathize with others, suffering more. 340 Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks In ponderous boots beside his reeking team. The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregated loads adhering close To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow, The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear
From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the withered 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 a useful lesson to the head, And learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
$ Supposed to refer to the church at Emberton, about a mile from Olney.
The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all-the meanest things that are- As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye therefore who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring-time of our years Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act,
To France than all her losses and defeats, Old or of later date, by sea or land,
Her house of bondage, worse than that of old Which God avenged on Pharoah-the Bastille.' Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, 81 Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music such as suits their sovereign ears, The sighs and groans of miserable men! There's not an English heart that would not leap
To hear that ye were fallen at last; to know That even our enemies, so oft employed
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, Immured though unaccused, condemned un-
To count the hour-bell, and expect no change; And ever as the sullen sound is heard, Still to reflect, that though a joyless note To him whose moments all have one dull pace, Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it music; that it summons some To theatre or jocund feast or ball; The wearied hireling finds it a release From labour; and the lover, who has chid Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke Upon his heart-strings, trembling with de- light:-
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 staggering types, his predecessor's tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own:-
The Bastille, the famous state prison in Paris, fell before the fury of the mob at the beginning of the French Revolution, 1789.
Nebuchadnezzar, v. Dan. iv., 13-17.
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 the endearments of domestic life And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps a heedless word To barrenness, and solitude, and tears, Moves indignation, makes the name of king (Of king whom such prerogative can please) 140 As dreadful as the Manichean god,3
Adored through fear, strong only to destroy. 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, And we are weeds without it.
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learnt at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 45 Where once we dwelt our name is heard no
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 65 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow
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