the way

With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew ;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to
trace

The day's disasters in his morning face; 200 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd;

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew, 'T was certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

209

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge:

In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew

That one small head could carry all he knew. But pass'd is all his fame. The very spot, Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the signpost caught the passing

220

eye, Low lies that house where nutbrown draughts inspired,

Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place; The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door, 228

The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,

With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fen

nel gay;

While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.

Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart;

240

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall pre-

vail;

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I

stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore,and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there;
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade,
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest
fame;

410

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st

me so;

Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well; Farewell! and O! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive train; Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd,

Though very poor, may still be very bless'd; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430

STANZAS ON WOMAN

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom-is, to die.

VERSES

How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

THE TASK

[Publ. 1785]

BOOK V

THE WINTER MORNING WALK

ARGUMENT

40

50

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 monarchyThe evils of it - English and French loyalty contrasted -The Bastille, 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 of the man whom grace makes free - His relish of the works of GodAddress to the Creator.

'Tis morning; and the sun with ruddy orb Ascending, fires the horizon: while the clouds