The Task. Book I. The Sofa.

["The history of the following production is briefly this:--A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair--a volume.]     I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang     Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe     The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,     Escaped with pain from that advent'rous flight,     Now seek repose upon a humbler theme:     The theme though humble, yet august and proud     The occasion--for the Fair commands the song.     Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,     Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.     As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,     Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:     The hardy chief upon the rugged rock     Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank     Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,     Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.     Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next     The birthday of invention; weak at first,     Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.     Joint-stools were then created; on three legs     Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm     A massy slab, in fashion square or round.     On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,     And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;     And such in ancient halls and mansions drear     May still be seen, but perforated sore     And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,     By worms voracious eating through and through.     At length a generation more refined     Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,     Gave them a twisted form vermicular,     And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed,     Induced a splendid cover green and blue,     Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought     And woven close, or needlework sublime.     There might ye see the peony spread wide,     The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,     Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,     And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.     Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright     With Nature's varnish; severed into stripes     That interlaced each other, these supplied,     Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced     The new machine, and it became a chair.     But restless was the chair; the back erect     Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;     The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part     That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,     Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.     These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed     In modest mediocrity, content     With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides     Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,     With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,     Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:     If cushion might be called, what harder seemed     Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed.     No want of timber then was felt or feared     In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood     Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.     But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,     An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,     And some ascribe the invention to a priest     Burly and big, and studious of his ease.     But rude at first, and not with easy slope     Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,     And bruised the side, and elevated high     Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.     Long time elapsed or e'er our rugged sires     Complained, though incommodiously pent in,     And ill at ease behind. The ladies first     Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.     Ingenious fancy, never better pleased     Than when employed to accommodate the fair,     Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised     The soft settee; one elbow at each end,     And in the midst an elbow, it received,     United yet divided, twain at once.     So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;     And so two citizens who take the air,     Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.     But relaxation of the languid frame     By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,     Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow     The growth of what is excellent, so hard     To attain perfection in this nether world.     Thus first necessity invented stools,     Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,     And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.     The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,     Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he     Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour     To sleep within the carriage more secure,     His legs depending at the open door.     Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,     The tedious rector drawling o'er his head,     And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep     Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,     Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour     To slumber in the carriage more secure,     Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,     Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,     Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.     Oh, may I live exempted (while I live     Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)     From pangs arthritic that infest the toe     Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits     The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,     Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:     For I have loved the rural walk through lanes     Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,     And skirted thick with intertexture firm     Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk     O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink,     E'er since a truant boy I passed my bounds     To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.     And still remember, nor without regret     Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,     How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,     Still hungering penniless and far from home,     I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,     Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss     The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.     Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite     Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved     By culinary arts unsavoury deems.     No Sofa then awaited my return,     No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs     His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil     Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,     As life declines, speed rapidly away,     And not a year but pilfers as he goes     Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,     A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees     Their length and colour from the locks they spare;     The elastic spring of an unwearied foot     That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,     That play of lungs inhaling and again     Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes     Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,     Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired     My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed     Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find     Still soothing and of power to charm me still.     And witness, dear companion of my walks,     Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive     Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,     Confirmed by long experience of thy worth     And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire--     Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.     Thou know'st my praise of Nature most sincere,     And that my raptures are not conjured up     To serve occasions of poetic pomp,     But genuine, and art partner of them all.     How oft upon yon eminence, our pace     Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne     The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,     While admiration feeding at the eye,     And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!     Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned     The distant plough slow-moving, and beside     His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,     The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!     Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain     Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,     Conducts the eye along his sinuous course     Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank     Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms     That screen the herdsman's solitary hut;     While far beyond and overthwart the stream     That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,     The sloping land recedes into the clouds;     Displaying on its varied side the grace     Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,     Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells     Just undulates upon the listening ear;     Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.     Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed     Please daily, and whose novelty survives     Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:     Praise justly due to those that I describe.     Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds     Exhilarate the spirit, and restore     The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,     That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood     Of ancient growth, make music not unlike     The dash of ocean on his winding shore,     And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,     Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,     And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.     Nor less composure waits upon the roar     Of distant floods, or on the softer voice     Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip     Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall     Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length     In matted grass, that with a livelier green     Betrays the secret of their silent course.     Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,     But animated Nature sweeter still     To soothe and satisfy the human ear.     Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one     The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes     Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,     But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime     In still repeated circles, screaming loud,     The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl     That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.     Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,     Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,     And only there, please highly for their sake.     Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought     Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!     Fearless of humid air and gathering rains     Forth steps the man--an emblem of myself!     More delicate his timorous mate retires.     When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,     Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,     Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,     The task of new discoveries falls on me.     At such a season and with such a charge     Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,     A cottage, whither oft we since repair:     'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close     Environed with a ring of branching elms     That overhang the thatch, itself unseen     Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset     With foliage of such dark redundant growth,     I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT'S NEST.     And hidden as it is, and far remote     From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear     In village or in town, the bay of curs     Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,     And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,     Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.     Here, I have said, at least I should possess     The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge     The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.     Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat     Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.     Its elevated site forbids the wretch     To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;     He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,     And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,     Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits     Dependent on the baker's punctual call,     To hear his creaking panniers at the door,     Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.     So farewell envy of the PEASANT'S NEST.     If solitude make scant the means of life,     Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,     Be still a pleasing object in my view,     My visit still, but never mine abode.     Not distant far, a length of colonnade     Invites us; monument of ancient taste,     Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.     Our fathers knew the value of a screen     From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks     And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon     The gloom and coolness of declining day.     We bear our shades about us; self-deprived     Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,     And range an Indian waste without a tree.     Thanks to Benevolus--he spares me yet     These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,     And, though himself so polished, still reprieves     The obsolete prolixity of shade.     Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast)     A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge     We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip     Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.     Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme     We mount again, and feel at every step     Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,     Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.     He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,     Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark     Toils much to earn a monumental pile,     That may record the mischiefs he has done.     The summit gained, behold the proud alcove     That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures     The grand retreat from injuries impressed     By rural carvers, who with knives deface     The panels, leaving an obscure rude name     In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.     So strong the zeal to immortalise himself     Beats in the breast of man, that even a few     Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred     Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,     And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,     And posted on this speculative height     Exults in its command. The sheepfold here     Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe.     At first, progressive as a stream, they seek     The middle field; but scattered by degrees,     Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.     There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps     The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,     The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,     The boorish driver leaning o'er his team,     Vociferous, and impatient of delay.     Nor less attractive is the woodland scene     Diversified with trees of every growth,     Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks     Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,     Within the twilight of their distant shades;     There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood     Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.     No tree in all the grove but has its charms,     Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,     And of a wannish gray; the willow such,     And poplar that with silver lines his leaf,     And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;     Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,     Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.     Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,     The maple, and the beech of oily nuts     Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve     Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass     The sycamore, capricious in attire,     Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet     Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.     O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map     Of hill and valley interposed between),     The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,     Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,     As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.     Hence the declivity is sharp and short,     And such the re-ascent; between them weeps     A little Naiad her impoverished urn,     All summer long, which winter fills again.     The folded gates would bar my progress now,     But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,     Communicative of the good he owns,     Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye     Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.     Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?     By short transition we have lost his glare,     And stepped at once into a cooler clime.     Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn     Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice     That yet a remnant of your race survives.     How airy and how light the graceful arch,     Yet awful as the consecrated roof     Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath,     The chequered earth seems restless as a flood     Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light     Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,     Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,     And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves     Play wanton, every moment, every spot.     And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered,     We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks,     With curvature of slow and easy sweep--     Deception innocent--give ample space     To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;     Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms     We may discern the thresher at his task.     Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,     That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls     Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,     The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist     Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.     Come hither, ye that press your beds of down     And sleep not: see him sweating o'er his bread     Before he eats it.--'Tis the primal curse,     But softened into mercy; made the pledge     Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.     By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.     Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel     That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,     Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads     An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.     Its own revolvency upholds the world.     Winds from all quarters agitate the air,     And fit the limpid element for use,     Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams     All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed     By restless undulation: even the oak     Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:     He seems indeed indignant, and to feel     The impression of the blast with proud disdain,     Frowning as if in his unconscious arm     He held the thunder. But the monarch owes     His firm stability to what he scorns,     More fixed below, the more disturbed above.     The law, by which all creatures else are bound,     Binds man the lord of all. Himself derives     No mean advantage from a kindred cause,     From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.     The sedentary stretch their lazy length     When custom bids, but no refreshment find,     For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek     Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,     And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,     Reproach their owner with that love of rest     To which he forfeits even the rest he loves.     Not such the alert and active. Measure life     By its true worth, the comforts it affords,     And theirs alone seems worthy of the name     Good health, and, its associate in the most,     Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake,     And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;     The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs;     Even age itself seems privileged in them     With clear exemption from its own defects.     A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front     The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard     With youthful smiles, descends towards the grave     Sprightly, and old almost without decay.     Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most,     Farthest retires--an idol, at whose shrine     Who oftenest sacrifice are favoured least.     The love of Nature and the scene she draws     Is Nature's dictate. Strange, there should be found     Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,     Renounce the odours of the open field     For the unscented fictions of the loom;     Who, satisfied with only pencilled scenes,     Prefer to the performance of a God     The inferior wonders of an artist's hand.     Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art,     But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire,     None more admires, the painter's magic skill,     Who shows me that which I shall never see,     Conveys a distant country into mine,     And throws Italian light on English walls.     But imitative strokes can do no more     Than please the eye, sweet Nature every sense.     The air salubrious of her lofty hills,     The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,     And music of her woods--no works of man     May rival these; these all bespeak a power     Peculiar, and exclusively her own.     Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;     'Tis free to all--'tis ev'ry day renewed,     Who scorns it, starves deservedly at home.     He does not scorn it, who, imprisoned long     In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey     To sallow sickness, which the vapours dank     And clammy of his dark abode have bred     Escapes at last to liberty and light;     His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue,     His eye relumines its extinguished fires,     He walks, he leaps, he runs--is winged with joy,     And riots in the sweets of every breeze.     He does not scorn it, who has long endured     A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs.     Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflamed     With acrid salts; his very heart athirst     To gaze at Nature in her green array.     Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possessed     With visions prompted by intense desire;     Fair fields appear below, such as he left     Far distant, such as he would die to find--     He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.     The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns;     The lowering eye, the petulance, the frown,     And sullen sadness that o'ershade, distort,     And mar the face of beauty, when no cause     For such immeasurable woe appears,     These Flora banishes, and gives the fair     Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own.     It is the constant revolution, stale     And tasteless, of the same repeated joys     That palls and satiates, and makes languid life     A pedlar's pack that bows the bearer down.     Health suffers, and the spirits ebb; the heart     Recoils from its own choice--at the full feast     Is famished--finds no music in the song,     No smartness in the jest, and wonders why.     Yet thousands still desire to journey on,     Though halt and weary of the path they tread.     The paralytic, who can hold her cards     But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand     To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort     Her mingled suits and sequences, and sits     Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad     And silent cipher, while her proxy plays.     Others are dragged into the crowded room     Between supporters; and once seated, sit     Through downright inability to rise,     Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again.     These speak a loud memento. Yet even these     Themselves love life, and cling to it as he,     That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.     They love it, and yet loathe it; fear to die,     Yet scorn the purposes for which they live.     Then wherefore not renounce them? No--the dread,     The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds     Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame,     And their inveterate habits, all forbid.     Whom call we gay? That honour has been long     The boast of mere pretenders to the name.     The innocent are gay--the lark is gay,     That dries his feathers saturate with dew     Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams     Of day-spring overshoot his humble nest.     The peasant too, a witness of his song,     Himself a songster, is as gay as he.     But save me from the gaiety of those     Whose headaches nail them to a noonday bed;     And save me, too, from theirs whose haggard eyes     Flash desperation, and betray their pangs     For property stripped off by cruel chance;     From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,     The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.     The earth was made so various, that the mind     Of desultory man, studious of change,     And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.     Prospects however lovely may be seen     Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,     Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off     Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.     Then snug enclosures in the sheltered vale,     Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,     Delight us, happy to renounce a while,     Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,     That such short absence may endear it more.     Then forests, or the savage rock may please,     That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts     Above the reach of man: his hoary head     Conspicuous many a league, the mariner,     Bound homeward, and in hope already there,     Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist     A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shows,     And at his feet the baffled billows die.     The common overgrown with fern, and rough     With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deformed     And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom,     And decks itself with ornaments of gold,     Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf     Smells fresh, and, rich in odoriferous herbs     And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense     With luxury of unexpected sweets.     There often wanders one, whom better days     Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed     With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.     A serving-maid was she, and fell in love     With one who left her, went to sea and died.     Her fancy followed him through foaming waves     To distant shores, and she would sit and weep     At what a sailor suffers; fancy too,     Delusive most where warmest wishes are,     Would oft anticipate his glad return,     And dream of transports she was not to know.     She heard the doleful tidings of his death,     And never smiled again. And now she roams     The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day,     And there, unless when charity forbids,     The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,     Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown     More tattered still; and both but ill conceal     A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.     She begs an idle pin of all she meets,     And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food,     Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,     Though pinched with cold, asks never.--Kate is crazed!     I see a column of slow-rising smoke     O'ertop the lofty wood that skirts the wild.     A vagabond and useless tribe there eat     Their miserable meal. A kettle slung     Between two poles upon a stick transverse,     Receives the morsel; flesh obscene of dog,     Or vermin, or, at best, of cock purloined     From his accustomed perch. Hard-faring race!     They pick their fuel out of every hedge,     Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquenched     The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide     Their fluttering rags, and shows a tawny skin,     The vellum of the pedigree they claim.     Great skill have they in palmistry, and more     To conjure clean away the gold they touch,     Conveying worthless dross into its place;     Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal.     Strange! that a creature rational, and cast     In human mould, should brutalise by choice     His nature, and, though capable of arts     By which the world might profit and himself,     Self-banished from society, prefer     Such squalid sloth to honourable toil.     Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft     They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb,     And vex their flesh with artificial sores,     Can change their whine into a mirthful note     When safe occasion offers, and with dance,     And music of the bladder and the bag,     Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound.     Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy     The houseless rovers of the sylvan world;     And breathing wholesome air, and wandering much,     Need other physic none to heal the effects     Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.     Blest he, though undistinguished from the crowd     By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure     Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside     His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn     The manners and the arts of civil life.     His wants, indeed, are many; but supply     Is obvious; placed within the easy reach     Of temperate wishes and industrious hands.     Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil;     Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,     And terrible to sight, as when she springs     (If e'er she spring spontaneous) in remote     And barbarous climes, where violence prevails,     And strength is lord of all; but gentle, kind,     By culture tamed, by liberty refreshed,     And all her fruits by radiant truth matured.     War and the chase engross the savage whole;     War followed for revenge, or to supplant     The envied tenants of some happier spot;     The chase for sustenance, precarious trust!     His hard condition with severe constraint     Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth     Of wisdom, proves a school in which he learns     Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate,     Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside.     Thus fare the shivering natives of the north,     And thus the rangers of the western world,     Where it advances far into the deep,     Towards the Antarctic. Even the favoured isles     So lately found, although the constant sun     Cheer all their seasons with a grateful smile,     Can boast but little virtue; and inert     Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain     In manners, victims of luxurious ease.     These therefore I can pity, placed remote     From all that science traces, art invents,     Or inspiration teaches; and enclosed     In boundless oceans, never to be passed     By navigators uninformed as they,     Or ploughed perhaps by British bark again.     But far beyond the rest, and with most cause,     Thee, gentle savage! whom no love of thee     Or thine, but curiosity perhaps,     Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw     Forth from thy native bowers, to show thee here     With what superior skill we can abuse     The gifts of Providence, and squander life.     The dream is past. And thou hast found again     Thy cocoas and bananas, palms, and yams,     And homestall thatched with leaves. But hast thou found     Their former charms? And, having seen our state,     Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp     Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,     And heard our music; are thy simple friends,     Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights     As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys     Lost nothing by comparison with ours?     Rude as thou art (for we returned thee rude     And ignorant, except of outward show),     I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart     And spiritless, as never to regret     Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known.     Methinks I see thee straying on the beach,     And asking of the surge that bathes the foot     If ever it has washed our distant shore.     I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears,     A patriot's for his country. Thou art sad     At thought of her forlorn and abject state,     From which no power of thine can raise her up.     Thus fancy paints thee, and, though apt to err,     Perhaps errs little when she paints thee thus.     She tells me too that duly every morn     Thou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eye     Exploring far and wide the watery waste,     For sight of ship from England. Every speck     Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale     With conflict of contending hopes and fears.     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 compass 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 lust,     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 God;     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 hassocks are wellnigh divorced.     God 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.