The Task, and Other Poems Part 5

The morning finds the self-sequestered 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 Well chosen, and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft As aught 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 loitering 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 even 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, Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, Impaired 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 the expense of neighbouring 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 measured 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 even Winter fills his withered hand With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own, Fair recompense of labour well bestowed And wise precaution, which a clime so rude Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods Discovering much the temper of her sire.

For oft, as if in her the stream of mild Maternal nature had reversed its course, She brings her infants forth with many smiles, But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.

He therefore, timely warned, 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 day.

To raise the p.r.i.c.kly and green-coated gourd, So grateful to the palate, and when rare So coveted, else base and disesteemed-- Food for the vulgar merely--is an art That toiling ages have but just matured, And at this moment unessayed in song.

Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since, Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard, And these the Grecian in enn.o.bling strains; And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye The solitary Shilling. Pardon then, Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame!

The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers Presuming an attempt not less sublime, Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste Of critic appet.i.te, no sordid fare, A cuc.u.mber, 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 cast their leaf Deciduous, and when now November dark Checks vegetation in the torpid plant Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins.

Warily therefore, and with prudent heed He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds The agglomerated pile, his frame may front The sun's meridian disk, and at the back Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe The ascending damps; then leisurely impose, And lightly, shaking it with agile hand From the full fork, the saturated straw.

What longest binds the closest, forms secure The shapely side, that as it rises takes By just degrees an overhanging breadth, Sheltering the base with its projected eaves.

The uplifted frame compact at every joint, And overlaid with clear translucent gla.s.s, He settles next upon the sloping mount, Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure From the dashed 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 ma.s.s Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold!

A pestilent and most corrosive steam, Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, And fast condensed upon the dewy sash, Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged And drenched conservatory breathes abroad, In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank, And purified, rejoices to have lost Its foul inhabitant. But to a.s.suage The impatient fervour which it first conceives Within its reeking bosom, threatening 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 The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat, Friendly to vital motion, may afford Soft fermentation, and invite the seed.

The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth And glossy, he commits to pots of size Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long, And drunk 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 immersed.

Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first Pale, wan, and livid; but a.s.suming soon, If fanned by balmy and nutritious air Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green.

Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves, Cautious he pinches from the second stalk A pimple, that portends a future sprout, And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed The branches, st.u.r.dy to his utmost wish, Prolific all, and harbingers of more.

The crowded roots demand enlargement now And transplantation in an ampler s.p.a.ce.

Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.

These have their s.e.xes, and when summer shines The bee transports the fertilising meal From flower to flower, and even the breathing air Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use.

Not so when winter scowls. a.s.sistant art Then acts in nature's office, brings to pa.s.s The glad espousals and insures the crop.

Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have His dainties, and the world's more numerous 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 exercised, 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 the 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 learned 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 produced.

Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too.

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 unwithering leaf Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast Of Portugal and Western India there, The ruddier orange and the paler lime, Peep through their polished foliage at the storm, And seem to smile at what they need not fear.

The amomum there with intermingling flowers And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau, Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long, All plants, of every leaf, that can endure The winter's frown if screened from his shrewd bite, Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims, Levantine regions these; the Azores send Their jessamine; her jessamine remote Caffraria: foreigners from many lands, They form one social shade, as if convened By magic summons of the Orphean lyre.

Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pa.s.s But by a master's hand, disposing well The gay diversities of leaf and flower, Must lend its aid to ill.u.s.trate all their charms, And dress the regular yet various scene.

Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.

So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome, A n.o.ble show, while Roscius trod the stage; And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he, The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose Some note of Nature's music from his lips, And covetous of Shakespeare's beauty, seen In every flash of his far-beaming eye.

Nor taste alone and well-contrived display Suffice to give the marshalled 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, injured soon, not soon restored.

The soil must be renewed, which often washed 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 withered leaf Must be detached, 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 pleased, The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf, Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad Its grat.i.tude, and thanks him with its sweets.

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind, All healthful, are the 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 swelled and gaily dressed, appears A flowery island from the dark green lawn Emerging, must be deemed a labour due To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.

Here also grateful mixture of well-matched And sorted hues (each giving each relief, And by contrasted beauty shining more) Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, But elegance, chief grace the garden shows And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.

Without it, all is Gothic as the scene To which the insipid citizen resorts, Near yonder heath; where industry misspent, But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task, Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons Of close-rammed stones has charged the enc.u.mbered soil, And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.

He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed Sightly and in just order, ere he gives The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene Shall break into its preconceived display, Each for itself, and all as with one voice Conspiring, may attest his bright design.

Nor even then, dismissing as performed His pleasant work, may he suppose it done.

Few self-supported flowers endure the wind Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, For interest sake, the living to the dead.

Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair; Like virtue, thriving most where little seen.

Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch, Else unadorned, 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 very greedy to exhaust The impoverished earth; an overbearing race, That, like the mult.i.tude 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; But it has peace, and much secures the mind From all a.s.saults of evil; proving still A faithful barrier, not o'erleaped with ease By vicious custom raging uncontrolled Abroad and desolating public life.

When fierce temptation, seconded within By traitor appet.i.te, and armed with darts Tempered in h.e.l.l, 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 to improve it, friendship, peace, No loose or wanton though a wandering muse, And constant occupation without care.

Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss; 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, Allured by my report; but sure no less That self-condemned 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 Acknowledged, others may admire it too.

I therefore recommend, though at the risk Of popular disgust, yet boldly still, The cause of piety and sacred truth And virtue, and those scenes which G.o.d ordained Should best secure them and promote them most; Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed.

Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles, And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol.

Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called, 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 renewed, Is free to all men--universal prize.

Strange that so fair a creature should yet want Admirers, and be destined to divide With meaner objects even the few she finds.

Stript of her ornaments, her leaves and flowers, She loses all her influence. Cities then Attract us, and neglected Nature pines, Abandoned, as unworthy of our love.

But are not wholesome airs, though unperfumed By roses, and clear suns, though scarcely felt, And groves, if unharmonious yet secure From clamour and whose very silence charms, To be preferred to smoke--to the eclipse That Metropolitan volcanoes make, Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long, And to the stir of commerce, driving slow, And thundering 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 undebauched. 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 hands That had survived the father, served the son.

Now the legitimate and rightful lord Is but a transient guest, newly arrived And soon to be supplanted. He that saw His patrimonial timber cast its leaf, Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again.

Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, Then advertised, and auctioneered away.

The country starves, and they that feed the o'er-charged And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues, By a just judgment strip and starve themselves.

The wings that waft our riches out of sight Grow on the gamester's elbows, and the 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-- The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.

Down falls the venerable pile, the abode Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race, But tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead, But in a distant spot; where more exposed It may enjoy the advantage of the North And aguish East, till time shall have transformed Those naked acres to a sheltering grove.

He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn, Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, And streams, as if created for his use, Pursue the track of his directed wand Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow, Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades, Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles.

'Tis finished. And yet, finished as it seems, Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show, A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.

Drained to the last poor item of his wealth, He sighs, departs, and leaves the accomplished plan That he has touched and retouched, many a day Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams, Just when it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy.

And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, When having no stake left, no pledge to endear Her interests, 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-managed, shall have earned its worthy price.

Oh, innocent compared with arts like these, c.r.a.pe and c.o.c.ked pistol and the whistling ball Sent through the traveller's temples! He that finds One drop of heaven'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 dependent bread From pools and ditches of the commonwealth, Sordid and sickening at his own success.

Ambition, avarice, penury incurred By endless riot, vanity, the l.u.s.t Of pleasure and variety, despatch, As duly as the swallows disappear, The world of wandering knights and squires to town; London engulfs them all. The shark is there, And the shark's prey; the spendthrift, and the leech That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he That with bare-headed and obsequious bows Begs a warm office, doomed to a cold jail And groat per diem if his patron frown.

The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp Were charactered on every statesman's door, 'BATTERED AND BANKRUPT FORTUNES MENDED HERE.'

These are the charms that sully and eclipse The charms of nature. 'Tis the cruel gripe That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts, The hope of better things, the chance to win, The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused, That, at the sound of Winter's h.o.a.ry wing, Unpeople all our counties of such herds Of fluttering, loitering, 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, Chequered 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 pleases and yet shocks me, I can laugh And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee!

Ten righteous would have saved a city once, And thou hast many righteous.--Well for thee-- That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious at this hour Than Sodom in her day had power to be, For whom G.o.d heard his Abram plead in vain.

BOOK IV.

THE WINTER EVENING.

Hark! 'tis the tw.a.n.ging 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 spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, 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--pa.s.s 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?