Where nothing feeds it. Neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city life,

Whatever else they smother of true worth

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 unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Even in the stifling bosom of the town,

A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms
That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled
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 livery she delights to wear,
Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole.
What are the casements lined with creeping herbs,
The prouder sashes fronted with a range
Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed

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The Frenchman's darling 29? are they not all proofs

That man, immured in cities, still retains

His inborn inextinguishable thirst

Of rural scenes, compensating his loss

By supplemental shifts, the best he may?

The most unfurnished 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

29 Mignonette.

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And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands
A 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 emolument or fame,

I shall not add myself to such a chace,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.

Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man

The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,

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That lifts him into life, and lets him fall

Just in the niche he was ordain'd to fill.

To the deliverer of an injured land

He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, an heart

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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

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Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.

S. C.-9.

THE TASK.

BOOK V.

ARGUMENT 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 Grace must do it. The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated. Their different treatment. Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free. His relish of the works of God. Address to the Creator.

can.

THE TASK.

BOOK V.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

'Tis morning; and the sun with ruddy orb
Ascending fires the 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 vale1,
And tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From every herb and every 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,
Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance
I view the muscular proportioned limb

Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair
As they designed to mock me, at my
side
Take step for step, and as I near approach
The cottage, walk along the plaster'd wall,
Preposterous sight! the legs without the man.

The glow-worm shews the matin to be near,
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire. Hamlet, i. 5.

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