The Task, and Other Poems Part 2

But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, And sends thee to thy cabin, well prepared To dream all night of what the day denied.

Alas, expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Disinterested good, is not our trade.

We travel far, 'tis true, but not for naught; And must be bribed to compa.s.s earth again By other hopes, and richer fruits than yours.

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 sewer, The dregs and feculence of every land.

In cities, foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds In gross and pampered cities sloth and l.u.s.t, 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 the achievement of successful flight.

I do confess them nurseries 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 proclaimed The fairest capital in all the world, By riot and incontinence the worst.

There, touched 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 chisel occupy alone The powers 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 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 supplied, 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.

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 To avenge than to prevent the breach of law: That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life And liberty, and ofttimes honour too, To peculators of the public gold: That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts Into his overgorged 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 presumed to annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of G.o.d; Advancing fashion to the post of truth, And centring all authority in modes And customs of her own, till Sabbath rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and ha.s.socks are wellnigh divorced.

G.o.d 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, Has made, which enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you, A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

BOOK II.

THE TIMEPIECE.

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 That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not coloured like his own, and having power To 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 interposed 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 deplored, 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 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 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, are emanc.i.p.ate and loosed.

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 n.o.ble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.

Sure there is need of social intercourse, Benevolence and peace and mutual aid, Between the nations, in a world that seems To toll the death-bell to its own decease; And by the voice of all its elements To preach the general 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, unexplained, Have kindled beacons in the skies, and the old And crazy earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and foregone 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, unaccomplished 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 exposed 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 scattered 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 G.o.d 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 flowers, 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 touched them. From the extremest point Of elevation down into the abyss, His wrath is busy and His frown is felt.

The rocks fall headlong and the valleys rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air.

What solid was, by transformation strange Grows fluid, and the fixed 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 Mult.i.tudes, fugitive on every 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 enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the sh.o.r.e Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng That pressed the beach and hasty to depart Looked to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people. Ancient towers, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death, Fall p.r.o.ne: 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 even 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 heaven, that it burns down to earth, And, in the furious inquest that it makes On G.o.d's behalf, lays waste His fairest works.

The very elements, though each be meant 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 to o'erwhelm him: or, if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And, needing none a.s.sistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ash.o.r.e, 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 gulfs.

What then--were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anch.o.r.ed isle Moved not, while theirs was rocked like a light skiff, The sport of every 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, G.o.d may choose His mark, May punish, if He please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If He spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest He spare not thee!

Happy the man who sees a G.o.d employed 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, Then G.o.d might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm Him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of His affairs.

This truth, philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found His instrument, forgets Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. G.o.d proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men That live an Atheist life: involves the heaven 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 shrivelled 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 h.o.m.ogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes how they work By necessary laws their sure effects; Of action and reaction. 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 the effect, or heal it? Has not G.o.d 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 Formed for His use, and ready at His will?

Go, dress thine eyes 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 constrained to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers.

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 fortune, and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love.

How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenced 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 every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill the 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 fallen 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, Secured it by an unforgiving frown If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet's force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved.

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 n.o.bility. Breathe soft, Ye clarionets, and softer still, ye flutes, That winds and waters lulled by magic sounds May bear us smoothly to the Gallic sh.o.r.e.

True, we have lost an empire--let it pa.s.s.

True, we may thank the perfidy of France That picked the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew.

And let that pa.s.s--'twas but a trick of state.

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 shamed as we have been, to the very beard Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved Too weak for those decisive blows that once Insured us mastery 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 n.o.bler fathers won a crown!-- 'Tis generous to communicate your skill To those that need it. Folly is soon learned, And, under such preceptors, who can fail?

There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win-- To arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit, till he has pencilled 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 the anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire.

Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Or seldom 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 amus.e.m.e.nt where he found the most.

But is amus.e.m.e.nt all? studious of song And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, 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?