Enchanting music and immortal wreaths,
Is but a school where thoughtlessness is taught
On principle, where foppery atones
For folly, gallantry for every vice.

But slighted as it is, and by the great
Abandon'd, and, which still I more regret,
Infected with the manners and the modes,
It knew not once, the country wins me still.
I never framed a wish, nor formed a plan
That flatter'd me with hopes of earthly bliss,
But there I laid the scene. There early stray'd
My fancy, ere yet liberty of choice

Had found me, or the hope of being free.
My very dreams were rural; rural too
The first-born efforts of my youthful Muse,
Sportive and jingling her poetic bells,

Ere yet her ear was mistress of their powers.
No bard could please me, but whose lyre was tuned
To Nature's praises. Heroes and their feats
Fatigued me, never weary of the pipe

Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,

The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste his Paradise surpass'd
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy.
I marvel'd much that, at so ripe an age

As twice seven years, his beauties had then first
Engaged my wonder; and admiring still,
And still admiring, with regret supposed
The joy half lost because not sooner found.
There too enamour'd of the life I loved,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit
Determined, and possessing it at last

With transports, such as favour'd lovers feel,
I studied, prized, and wish'd that I had known
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaim'd
By modern lights from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.
I still revere thee, courtly though retired;
Though stretch'd at ease in Chertsey's silent
bowers,

Not unemploy'd; and finding rich amends
For a lost world in solitude and verse.

'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound man, Infused at the creation of the kind.

And, though the' Almighty Maker has throughout
Discriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of his hand, with so much art
Diversified that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,

And all can taste them: minds that have been
And tutor'd, with a relish more exact,

[form'd

But none without some relish, none unmoved. It is a flame that dies not even there,

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!
E'en in the stifling bosom of the town

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms,
That sooth 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,
The Frenchman's darling'? 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 unfurnish'd 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; overhead
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
And water'd duly. There the pitcher stands
A fragment, and the spoutless teapot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
peep at Nature, when he can no more.

A

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;

1 Mignionette.

I shall not add myself to such a chase,
Thwart his attempts, or envy his succe s.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
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, a heart
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 Found here that leisure and that ease I wish'd.

THE TASK.

BOOK V.

The Winter Morning Walk.

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 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 God. -Address to the Creator.

"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 vale,
And tinging all with his own rosy hue,
From every herb and every spiry blade
Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field.