[THE TASK, A POEM, IN SIX BOOKS.] BOOK VI.

[ THE TASK , A POEM , IN SIX BOOKS . ] ARGUMENT of the SIXTH BOOK .

Bells at a distance . — Their effect . — A fine noon in winter . — A sheltered walk . — Meditation better than books . — Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear less wonderful than it is . — The transformation that spring effects in a shrubbery described . — A mistake concerning the course of nature corrected . — God maintains it by an unremitted act . — The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved . — Animals happy , a delightful sight . — Origin of cruelty to animals . — That it is a great crime proved from scripture . — That proof illustrated by a tale . — A line drawn between the lawful and the unlawful destruction of them . — Their good and useful properties insisted on . — Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals . — Instances of man's extravagant praise of man . — The groans of the creation shall have an end . — A view taken of the restoration of all things . — An Invocation and an Invitation of him who shall bring it to pass . The retired man vindicated from the charge of uselessness . — Conclusion .

BOOK VI . THE WINTER WALK AT NOON . THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds , And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd With melting airs or martial , brisk or grave . Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touched within us , and the heart replies . How soft the music of those village bells Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet ! now dying all away , Now pealing loud again and louder still , Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on . With easy force it opens all the cells Where mem'ry slept . Wherever I have heard A kindred melody , the scene recurs , And with it all its pleasures and its pains . Such comprehensive views the spirit takes , That in a few short moments I retrace ( As in a map the voyager his course ) The windings of my way through many years . Short as in retrospect the journey seems , It seem'd not always short ; the rugged path And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn Moved many a sigh at its disheart'ning length . Yet feeling present evils , while the past Faintly impress the mind , or not at all , How readily we wish time spent revoked , That we might try the ground again , where once ( Through inexperience as we now perceive ) We miss'd that happiness we might have found . Some friend is gone , perhaps his son's best friend A father , whose authority , in show When most severe , and must'ring all its force , Was but the graver countenance of love . Whose favour like the clouds of spring , might low'r And utter now and then an awful voice , But had a blessing in its darkest frown , Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant . We loved , but not enough the gentle hand That reared us . At a thoughtless age allured By ev'ry gilded folly , we renounced His shelt'ring side , and wilfully forewent That converse which we now in vain regret . How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire ! a mother too , That softer friend , perhaps more gladly still Might he demand them at the gates of death . Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed The playful humour , he could now endure , ( Himself grown sober in the vale of tears ) And feel a parent's presence no restraint . But not to understand a treasure's worth 'Till time has stol'n away the slighted good , Is cause of half the poverty we feel , And makes the world the wilderness it is , The few that pray at all pray oft amiss , And seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold Would urge a wiser suit , than asking more . The night was winter in his roughest mood , The morning sharp and clear . But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills , And where the woods fence off the northern blast , The season smiles resigning all its rage And has the warmth of May . The vault is blue Without a cloud , and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below . Again the harmony comes o'er the vale , And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r Whence all the music . I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains , And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk still verdant under oaks and elms , Whose outspread branches overarch the glade . The roof though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it , has yet well sufficed , And intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes , has kept a path for me . No noise is here , or none that hinders thought . The red-breast warbles still , but is content With slender notes and more than half suppress'd . Pleased with his solitude , and flitting light From spray to spray , where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice , That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below . Stillness accompanied with sounds so soft Charms more than silence . Meditation here May think down hours to moments . Here the heart May give an useful lesson to the head , And learning wiser grow without his books . Knowledge and wisdom , far from being one , Have oft times no connexion . Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men , Wisdom in minds attentive to their own . Knowledge , a rude unprofitable mass , The mere materials with which wisdom builds , 'Till smooth'd and squared and fitted to its place Does but incumber whom it seems t' enrich . Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much , Wisdom is humble that he knows no more . Books are not seldom talismans and spells By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd . Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hood-wink'd . Some the stile Infatuates , and through labyrinths and wilds Of error , leads them by a tune entranced . While sloth seduces more , too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought , And swallowing therefore without pause or choice The total grist unsifted , husks and all . But trees , and rivulets whose rapid course Defies the check of winter , haunts of deer , And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs , And lanes in which the primrose 'ere her time Peeps through the moss that cloaths the hawthorn root , Deceive no student . Wisdom there , and truth , Not shy as in the world , and to be won By slow solicitation , seize at once The roving thought , and fix it on themselves . What prodigies can pow'r divine perform More grand , than it produces year by year , And all in sight of inattentive man ? Familiar with th' effect we slight the cause , And in the constancy of nature's course , The regular return of genial months , And renovation of a faded world , See nought to wonder at . Should God again As once in Gibeon , interrupt the race Of the undeviating and punctual sun , How would the world admire ! but speaks it less An agency divine , to make him know His moment when to sink and when to rise Age after age , than to arrest his course ? All we behold is miracle , but seen So duly , all is miracle in vain . Where now the vital energy that moved While summer was , the pure and subtle lymph Through th' imperceptible maeandring veins Of leaf and flow'r ? It sleeps ; and the icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide . But let the months go round , a few short months , And all shall be restored . These naked shoots Barren as lances , among which the wind Makes wintry music , sighing as it goes , Shall put their graceful foliage on again , And more aspiring and with ampler spread Shall boast new charms , and more than they have lost . Then , each in its peculiar honors clad , Shall publish even to the distant eye Its family and tribe . Laburnum rich In streaming gold ; syringa iv'ry-pure ; The scented and the scentless rose ; this red And of an humbler growth , the The Guelder-rose . other tall , And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighb'ring cypress or more sable yew Her silver globes , light as the foamy surf That the wind severs from the broken wave . The lilac various in array , now white , Now sanguine , and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal , as if Studious of ornament , yet unresolved Which hue she most approved , she chose them all . Copious of flow'rs the woodbine , pale and wan , But well compensating their sickly looks With never-cloying odours , early and late . Hypericum all bloom , so thick a swarm Of flow'rs like flies cloathing her slender rods That scarce a leaf appears . Mezerion too Though leafless well attired , and thick beset With blushing wreaths investing ev'ry spray . Althaea with the purple eye , the broom , Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy'd Her blossoms , and luxuriant above all The jasmine , throwing wide her elegant sweets , The deep dark green of whose unvarnish'd leaf Makes more conspicuous , and illumines more The bright profusion of her scatter'd stars . — These have been , and these shall be in their day . And all this uniform uncoloured scene Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load , And flush into variety again . From dearth to plenty , and from death to life , Is Nature's progress when she lectures man In heav'nly truth ; evincing as she makes The grand transition , that there lives and works A soul in all things , and that soul is God . The beauties of the wilderness are his , That make so gay the solitary place Where no eye sees them . And the fairer forms That cultivation glories in , are his . He sets the bright procession on its way , And marshals all the order of the year . He marks the bounds which winter may not pass , And blunts his pointed fury . In its case Russet and rude , folds up the tender germ Uninjured , with inimitable art , And 'ere one flow'ry season fades and dies Designs the blooming wonders of the next . Some say that in the origin of things When all creation started into birth , The infant elements received a law From which they swerve not since . That under force Of that controuling ordinance they move , And need not his immediate hand , who first Prescribed their course , to regulate it now . Thus dream they , and contrive to save a God The incumbrance of his own concerns , and spare The great Artificer of all that moves The stress of a continual act , the pain Of unremitted vigilance and care , As too laborious and severe a task . So man , the moth , is not afraid it seems To span Omnipotence , and measure might That knows no measure , by the scanty rule And standard of his own , that is to day , And is not , 'ere to-morrow's sun go down . But how should matter occupy a charge Dull as it is , and satisfy a law So vast in its demands , unless impell'd To ceaseless service by a ceaseless force , And under pressure of some conscious cause ? The Lord of all , himself through all diffused , Sustains and is the life of all that lives . Nature is but a name for an effect Whose cause is God . He feeds the secret fire By which the mighty process is maintain'd , Who sleeps not , is not weary ; in whose sight Slow-circling ages are as transient days ; Whose work is without labor , whose design No flaw deforms , no difficulty thwarts , And whose beneficence no charge exhausts Him blind antiquity profaned , not serv'd , With self-taught rites and under various names Female and male , Pomona , Pales , Pan , And Flora and Vertumnus ; peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods That were not , and commending as they would To each some province , garden , field , or grove . But all are under one . One spirit — His Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows , Rules universal nature . Not a flow'r But shows some touch in freckle , streak or stain , Of his unrivall'd pencil . He inspires Their balmy odors and imparts their hues , And bathes their eyes with nectar , and includes In grains as countless as the sea-side sands , The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth . Happy who walks with him ! whom what he finds Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flow'r , Or what he views of beautiful or grand In Nature , from the broad majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the fun , Prompts with remembrance of a present God . His presence who made all so fair , perceived , Makes all still fairer . As with him no scene Is dreary , so with him all seasons please . Though winter had been none , had man been true , And earth be punished for its tenant's sake , Yet not in vengeance ; as this smiling sky So soon succeeding such an angry night , And these dissolving snows , and this clear stream Recov'ring fast its liquid music , prove . Who then that has a mind well strung and tuned To contemplation , and within his reach A scene so friendly to his fav'rite task , Would waste attention at the chequer'd board , His host of wooden warriors to and fro Marching and counter-marching , with an eye As fixt as marble , with a forehead ridged And furrow'd into storms , and with a hand Trembling , as if eternity were hung In balance on his conduct of a pin ? Nor envies he aught more their idle sport Who pant with application misapplied To trivial toys , and pushing iv'ry balls Across the velvet level , feel a joy Akin to rapture , when the bawble finds Its destin'd goal of difficult access . Nor deems he wiser him , who gives his noon To Miss , the Mercer's plague , from shop to shop Wand'ring , and litt'ring with unfolded silks The polished counter , and approving none , Or promising with smiles to call again . Nor him , who by his vanity seduced And sooth'd into a dream that he discerns The difference of a Guido from a daub , Frequents the crowded auction . Station'd there As duely as the Langford of the show , With glass at eye , and catalogue in hand , And tongue accomplish'd in the fulsome cant And pedantry that coxcombs learn with ease , Oft as the price-deciding hammer falls He notes it in his book , then raps his box Swears 'tis a bargain , rails at his hard fate That he has let it pass — but never bids . Here unmolefted , through whatever sign The sun proceeds , I wander . Neither mist , Nor freezing sky , nor sultry , checking me , Nor stranger intermeddling with my joy . Ev'n in the spring and play-time of the year That calls the unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones , a sportive train , To gather king-cups in the yellow mead , And prink their hair with daisies , or to pick A cheap but wholesome sallad from the brook , These shades are all my own . The tim'rous hare Grown so familiar with her frequent guest Scarce shuns me ; and the stock dove unalarm'd Sits cooing in the pine-tree , nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach . Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm That age or injury has hollow'd deep , Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves He has outslept the winter , ventures forth To frisk awhile , and bask in the warm sun , The squirrel , flippant , pert , and full of play . He sees me , and at once , swift as a bird Ascends the neighb'ring beech ; there whisks his brush And perks his ears , and stamps and scolds aloud , With all the prettiness of feign'd alarm , And anger insignificantly fierce . The heart is hard in nature , and unfit For human fellowship , as being void Of sympathy , and therefore dead alike To love and friendship both , that is not pleased With sight of animals enjoying life , Nor feels their happiness augment his own . The bounding fawn that darts across the glade When none pursues , through mere delight of heart , And spirits buoyant with excess of glee ; The horse , as wanton and almost as fleet , That skims the spacious meadow at full speed , Then stops and snorts , and throwing high his heels Starts to the voluntary race again ; The very kine that gambol at high noon , The total herd receiving first from one That leads the dance , a summons to be gay , Though wild their strange vagaries , and uncouth Their efforts , yet resolved with one consent To give such act and utt'rance as they may To extasy too big to be suppress'd — These , and a thousand images of bliss , With which kind nature graces ev'ry scene Where cruel man defeats not her design , Impart to the benevolent , who wish All that are capable of pleasure , pleased , A far superior happiness to theirs , The comfort of a reasonable joy . Man scarce had ris'n , obedient to his call Who form'd him , from the dust his future grave , When he was crown'd as never king was since . God set the diadem upon his head , And angel choirs attended . Wond'ring stood The new-made monarch , while before him pass'd , All happy and all perfect in their kind The creatures , summon'd from their various haunts To see their sov'reign , and confess his sway . Vast was his empire , absolute his pow'r , Or bounded only by a law whose force 'Twas his sublimest privilege to feel And own , the law of universal love . He ruled with meekness , they obeyed with joy . No cruel purpose lurk'd within his heart , And no distrust of his intent in theirs . So Eden was a scene of harmless sport , Where kindness on his part who ruled the whole Begat a tranquil confidence in all , And fear as yet was not , nor cause for fear . But sin marr'd all . And the revolt of man , That source of evils not exhausted yet , Was punish'd with revolt of his from him . Garden of God , how terrible the change Thy groves and lawns then witness'd ! ev'ry heart , Each animal of ev'ry name , conceived A jealousy and an instinctive fear , And conscious of some danger , either fled Precipitate the loath'd abode of man , Or growl'd defiance in such angry sort , As taught him too to tremble in his turn . Thus harmony and family accord Were driv'n from Paradise ; and in that hour The seeds of cruelty that since have swell'd To such gigantic and enormous growth , Were sown in human nature's fruitful soil . Hence date the persecution and the pain That man inflicts on all inferior kinds Regardless of their plaints . To make him sport , To gratify the frenzy of his wrath , Or his base gluttony , are causes good And just in his account , why bird and beast Should suffer torture , and the streams be dyed With blood of their inhabitants impaled . Earth groans beneath the burthen of a war Waged with defenceless innocence , while he , Not satisfied to prey on all around , Adds tenfold bitterness to death , by pangs Needless , and first torments 'ere he devours . Now happiest they that occupy the scenes The most remote from his abhorr'd resort , Whom once as delegate of God on earth They fear'd , and as his perfect image loved . The wilderness is theirs with all its caves , Its hollow glenns , its thickets , and its plains Unvisited by man . There they are free , And howl and roar as likes them , uncontroul'd , Nor ask his leave to slumber or to play . Woe to the tyrant if he dare intrude Within the confines of their wild domain ; The lion tells him — I am monarch here — And if he spare him , spares him on the terms Of royal mercy , and through gen'rous scorn To rend a victim trembling at his foot . In measure as by force of instinct drawn , Or by necessity constrain'd , they live Dependent upon man , those in his fields , These at his crib , and some beneath his roof , They prove too often at how dear a rate He sells protection . Witness , at his foot The spaniel dying for some venial fault , Under dissection of the knotted scourge . Witness , the patient ox , with stripes and yells Driv'n to the slaughter , goaded as he runs To madness , while the savage at his heels Laughs at the frantic suff'rers fury spent Upon the guiltless passenger o'erthrown . He too is witness , noblest of the train That wait on man , the flight-performing horse . With unsuspecting readiness he takes His murth'rer on his back , and push'd all day With bleeding sides and flanks that heave for life To the far-distant goal , arrives and dies . So little mercy shows who needs so much ! Does law , so jealous in the cause of man , Denounce no doom on the delinquent ? None . He lives , and o'er his brimming beaker boasts ( As if barbarity were high desert ) Th' inglorious feat , and clamorous in praise Of the poor brute , seems wisely to suppose The honors of his matchless horse his own . But many a crime , deem'd innocent on earth , Is register'd in heav'n , and these no doubt , Have each their record , with a curse annext . Man may dismiss compassion from his heart , But God will never . When he charged the Jew T' assist his foe's down-fallen beast to rise , And when the bush-exploring boy that seized The young , to let the parent bird go free , Proved he not plainly that his meaner works Are yet his care , and have an interest all , All , in the universal father's love . On Noah , and in him on all mankind The charter was conferr'd by which we hold The flesh of animals in fee , and claim O'er all we feed on , pow'r of life and death . But read the instrument , and mark it well . Th' oppression of a tyrannous controul Can find no warrant there . Feed then , and yield Thanks for thy food . Carnivorous through sin Feed on the slain , but spare the living brute . The Governor of all , himself to all So bountiful , in whose attentive ear The unfledged raven and the lion's whelp Plead not in vain for pity on the pangs Of hunger unassuaged , has interposed , Not seldom , his avenging arm , to smite Th' injurious trampler upon nature's law That claims forbearance even for a brute . He hates the hardness of a Balaam's heart ; And prophet as he was , he might not strike The blameless animal , without rebuke , On which he rode . Her opportune offence Saved him , or th' unrelenting seer had died . He sees that human equity is slack To interfere , though in so just a cause , And makes the task his own . Inspiring dumb And helpless victims with a sense so keen Of injury , with such knowledge of their strength , And such sagacity to take revenge , That oft the beast has seemed to judge the man . An ancient , not a legendary tale , By one of sound intelligence rehears'd ( If such , who plead for Providence , may seem In modern eyes ) shall make the doctrine clear . Where England stretch'd towards the setting sun Narrow and long , o'erlooks the western wave , Dwelt young Misagathus . A scorner he Of God and goodness , atheist in ostent , Vicious in act , in temper savage-fierce . He journey'd , and his chance was as he went , To join a trav'ller of far diff'rent note Evander , famed for piety , for years Deserving honor , but for wisdom more . Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth , Whose face too was familiar to his view . Their way was on the margin of the land , O'er the green summit of the rocks whose base Beats back the roaring surge , scarce heard so high . The charity that warm'd his heart was moved At sight of the man-monster . With a smile Gentle , and affable , and full of grace , As fearful of offending whom he wish'd Much to persuade , he plied his ear with truths Not harshly thunder'd forth or rudely press'd , But like his purpose , gracious , kind , and sweet . And dost thou dream , th' impenetrable man Exclaim'd , that me , the lullabies of age And fantasies of dotards such as thou Can cheat , or move a moment's fear in me ? Mark now the proof I give thee , that the brave Need no such aids as superstition lends To steel their hearts against the dread of death . He spoke , and to the precipice at hand Push'd with a madman's fury . Fancy shrinks , And the blood thrills and curdles at the thought Of such a gulph as he design'd his grave . But though the felon on his back could dare The dreadful leap , more rational his steed Declined the death , and wheeling swiftly round Or 'ere his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge , Baffled his rider , saved against his will . The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By med'cine well applied , but without grace The heart's insanity admits no cure . Enraged the more by what might have reform'd His horrible intent , again he sought Destruction with a zeal to be destroyed , With sounding whip and rowels dyed in blood . But still in vain . The providence that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast , Spared yet again th' ignobler for his sake . And now , his prowess proved , and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinced , His rage grew cool ; and pleased perhaps t' have earn'd So cheaply the renown of that attempt , With looks of some complacence he resumed His road , deriding much the blank amaze Of good Evander , still where he was left Fixt motionless , and petrified with dread . So on they fared ; discourse on other themes Ensuing , seem'd to obliterate the past , And tamer far for so much fury shown , ( As is the course of rash and fiery men ) The rude companion smiled as if transform'd . But 'twas a transient calm . A storm was near , An unsuspected storm . His hour was come . The impious challenger of pow'r divine Was now to learn , that heav'n though slow to wrath , Is never with impunity defied . His horse , as he had caught his master's mood , Snorting , and starting into sudden rage , Unbidden , and not now to be controul'd , Rush'd to the cliff , and having reach'd it , stood . At once the shock unseated him . He flew Sheer o'er the craggy barrier , and immersed Deep in the flood , found , when he sought it not , The death he had deserved , and died alone . So God wrought double justice ; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice And taught a brute the way to safe revenge . I would not enter on my list of friends ( Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense Yet wanting sensibility ) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm . An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path , But he that has humanity , forewarned , Will tread aside , and let the reptile live . The creeping vermin , loathsome to the sight , And charged perhaps with venom , that intrudes A visitor unwelcome into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose , th' alcove , The chamber , or refectory , may die . A necessary act incurs no blame . Not so when held within their proper bounds And guiltless of offence , they range the air , Or take their pastime in the spacious field . There they are privileged . And he that hunts Or harms them there , is guilty of a wrong , Disturbs th' oeconomy of nature's realm , Who when she form'd , designed them an abode . The sum is this : if man's convenience , health , Or safety interfere , his rights and claims Are paramount , and must extinguish theirs . Else they are all — the meanest things that are , As free to live and to enjoy that life , As God was free to form them at the first , Who in his sov'reign wisdom made them all . Ye therefore who love mercy , teach your sons To love it too . The spring-time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and defiled in most By budding ills , that ask a prudent hand To check them . But alas ! none sooner shoots , If unrestrain'd , into luxuriant growth , Than cruelty , most dev'lish of them all . Mercy to him that shows it , is the rule And righteous limitation of its act By which heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man ; And he that shows none , being ripe in years , And conscious of the out'rage he commits Shall seek it , and not find it in his turn . Distinguish'd much by reason , and still more By our capacity of grace divine , From creatures that exist but for our sake , Which having served us , perish , we are held Accountable , and God , some future day , Will reckon with us roundly for th' abuse Of what he deems no mean or trivial trust . Superior as we are , they yet depend Not more on human help , than we on theirs . Their strength , or speed , or vigilance , were giv'n In aid of our defects . In some are found Such teachable and apprehensive parts , That man's attainments in his own concerns Match'd with th' expertness of the brutes in theirs , Are oft-times vanquish'd and thrown far behind . Some show that nice sagacity of smell , And read with such discernment , in the ports And figure of the man , his secret aim , That oft we owe our safety to a skill We could not teach , and must despair to learn . But learn we might , if not too proud to stoop To quadrupede instructors , many a good And useful quality , and virtue too , Rarely exemplified among ourselves . Attachment never to be wean'd , or changed By any change of fortune , proof alike Against unkindness , absence , and neglect ; Fidelity , that neither bribe nor threat Can move or warp , and gratitude for small And trivial favors , lasting as the life , And glist'ning even in the dying eye . Man praises man . Desert in arts or arms Wins public honor ; and ten thousand sit Patiently present at a sacred song , Commemoration-mad ; content to hear ( Oh wonderful effect of music's pow'r ! ) Messiah's eulogy , for Handel's sake . But less , methinks , than sacrilege might serve — ( For was it less ? What heathen would have dared To strip Jove's statue of his oaken wreath And hang it up in honor of a man ! ) Much less might serve , when all that we design Is but to gratify an itching ear , And give the day to a musician's praise . Remember Handel ? who that was not born Deaf as the dead to harmony , forgets , Or can , the more than Homer of his age ? Yes — we remember him . And while we praise A talent so divine , remember too That His most holy book from whom it came Was never meant , was never used before To buckram out the mem'ry of a man . But hush ! — the muse perhaps is too severe , And with a gravity beyond the size And measure of th' offence , rebukes a deed Less impious than absurd , and owing more To want of judgment than to wrong design . So in the chapel of old Ely House , When wand'ring Charles , who meant to be the third , Had fled from William , and the news was fresh , The simple clerk but loyal , did announce , And eke did rear right merrily , two staves , Sung to the praise and glory of King George . — Man praises man , and Garrick's mem'ry next , When time hath somewhat mellow'd it , and made The idol of our worship while he lived , The God of our idolatry once more , Shall have its altar ; and the world shall go In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine . The theatre too small , shall suffocate Its squeezed contents , and more than it admits Shall sigh at their exclusion , and return Ungratified . For there some noble lord Shall stuff his shoulders with king Richard's bunch , Or wrap himself in Hamlet's inky cloak , And strut , and storm and straddle , stamp and stare , The show the world how Garrick did not act . For Garrick was a worshipper himself ; He drew the Liturgy , and framed the rites And solemn ceremonial of the day , And call'd the world to worship on the banks Of Avon famed in song . Ah pleasant proof ! That piety has still in human hearts Some place , a spark or two not yet extinct . The mulb'ry tree was hung with blooming wreaths , The mulb'ry tree stood center of the dance , The mulb'ry tree was hymn'd with dulcet airs , And from his touchwood trunk , the mulb'ry tree Supplied such relics , as devotion holds Still sacred , and preserves with pious care . So 'twas an hallow'd time . Decorum reign'd , And mirth without offence . No few return'd Doubtless much edified , and all refreshed . — Man praises man . The rabble all alive , From tipling-benches , cellars , stalls , and styes , Swarm in the streets . The statesman of the day , A pompous and slow-moving pageant comes . Some shout him , and some hang upon his car To gaze in's eyes and bless him . Maidens wave Their 'kerchiefs , and old women weep for joy . While others not so satisfied unhorse The gilded equipage , and turning loose His streeds , usurp a place they well deserve . Why ? what has charm'd them ? Hath he saved the state No . Doth he purpose its salvation ? No . Inchanting novelty , that moon at full , That finds out ev'ry crevice of the head That is not sound and perfect , hath in theirs Wrought this disturbance . But the wane is near , And his own cattle must suffice him soon . Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise , And dedicate a tribute , in its use And just direction , sacred , to a thing Doomed to the dust , or lodged already there . Encomium in old time was poet's work . But poets having lavishly long since Exhausted all materials of the art , The task now falls into the public hand . And I , contented with an humble theme , Have poured my stream of panegyric down The vale of nature , where it creeps and winds Among her lovely works , with a secure And unambitious course , reflecting clear If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes , And I am recompensed , and deem the toils Of poetry not lost , if verse of mine May stand between an animal and woe , And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge . The groans of nature in this nether world Which heav'n has heard for ages , have an end . Foretold by prophets , and by poets sung Whose fire was kindled at the prophets lamp , The time of rest , the promised sabbath comes . Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world . And what remains Of this tempestuous state of human things , Is merely as the working of a sea Before a calm , that rocks itself to rest . For he whose car the winds are , and the clouds The dust that waits upon his sultry march When sin hath moved him , and his wrath is hot , Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend Propitious , in his chariot paved with love , And what his storms have blasted and defaced For man's revolt , shall with a smile repair . Sweet is the harp of prophesy . Too sweet Not to be wrong'd by a mere mortal touch ; Nor can the wonders it records , be sung To meaner music , and not suffer loss . But when a poet , or when one like me , Happy to rove among poetic flow'rs Though poor in skill to rear them , lights at last On some fair theme , some theme divinely fair , Such is the impulse and the spur he feels To give it praise proportioned to its worth , That not t' attempt it , arduous as he deems The labor , were a task more arduous still . Oh scenes surpassing fable , and yet true , Scenes of accomplish'd bliss ! which who can see Though but in distant prospect , and not feel His soul refresh'd with foretaste of the joy ? Rivers of gladness water all the earth , And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach Of barreness is past . The fruitful field Laughs with abundance , and the land once lean , Or fertile only in its own disgrace , Exults to see its thistly curse repealed . The various seasons woven into one , And that one season an eternal spring , The garden fears no blight , and needs no fence For there is none to covet , all are full . The lion and the libbard and the bear Graze with the fearless siocks . All bask at noon Together , or all gambol in the shade Of the same grove , and drink one common stream . Antipathies are none . No foe to man Lurks in the serpent now . The mother sees And smiles to see her infant's playful hand Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm , To stroak his azure neck , or to receive The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue . All creatures worship man , and all mankind One Lord , one Father . Error has no place ; That creeping pestilence is driv'n away , The breath of heav'n has chased it . In the heart No passion touches a discordant string , But all is harmony and love . Disease Is not . The pure and uncontaminate blood Holds its due course , nor fears the frost of age . One song employs all nations , and all cry " Worthy the Lamb , for he was slain for us " The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks Shout to each other , and the mountain tops From distant mountains catch the flying joy , 'Till nation after nation taught the strain , Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round . Behold the measure of the promise filled , See Salem built , the labour of a God ! Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; All kingdoms and all princes of the earth Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands Flows into her , unbounded is her joy And endless her encrease . Thy rams are there Nebaioth and Kedar the sons of Ishamael and progenitors of the Arabs , in the prophetic scripture here alluded to , may be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large . Nebaioth , and the flocks of Kedar there ; The looms of Ormus , and the mines of Ind , And Saba's spicey groves pay tribute there . Praise is in all her gates . Upon her walls , And in her streets , and in her spacious courts Is heard salvation . Eastern Java there Kneels with the native of the farthest West , And Aethiopia spreads abroad the hand And worships . Her report has travell'd forth Into all lands . From every clime they come To see thy beauty and to share thy joy O Sion ! an assembly such as earth Saw never , such as heav'n stoops down to see . Thus heav'n-ward all things tend . For all were once Perfect , and all must be at length restored . So God has greatly purposed ; who would else In his dishonoured works himself endure Dishonor , and be wrong'd without redress . Haste then , and wheel away a shatter'd world Ye slow-revolving seasons ! we would see , ( A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet ) A world that does not dread and hate his laws , And suffer for its crime . Would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good , How pleasant in itself what pleases him . Here ev'ry drop of honey hides a sting , Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flow'rs , And ev'n the joy that haply some poor heart Derives from heav'n , pure as the fountain is Is sullied in the stream ; taking a taint From touch of human lips , at best impure . Oh for a world in principle as chaste As this is gross and selfish ! over which Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway That govern all things here , should'ring aside The meek and modest truth , and forcing her To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife In nooks obscure , far from the ways of men . Where violence shall never lift the sword , Nor cunning justify the proud man's wrong , Leaving the poor no remedy but tears . Where he that fills an office , shall esteem Th' occasion it presents of doing good More than the perquisite . Where law shall speak Seldom , and never but as wisdom prompts And equity ; not jealous more to guard A worthless form , than to decide aright . Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse , Nor smooth good-breeding ( supplemental grace ) With lean performance ape the work of love . Come then , and added to thy many crowns Receive yet one , the crown of all the earth , Thou who alone art worthy ! it was thine By antient covenant 'ere nature's birth , And thou hast made it thine by purchase since , And overpaid its value with thy blood . Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and in their hearts Thy title is engraven with a pen Dipt in the fountain of eternal love . Thy saints proclaim thee king ; and thy delay Gives courage to their foes , who , could they see The dawn of thy last advent long-desired , Would creep into the bowels of the hills , And flee for safety to the falling rocks . The very spirit of the world is tired Of its own taunting question ask'd so long , " Where is the promise of your Lord's approach ? " The infidel has shot his bolts away , 'Till his exhausted quiver yielding none , He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled , And aims them at the shield of truth again . The veil is rent , rent too by priestly hands , That hides divinity from mortal eyes , And all the mysteries to faith proposed Insulted and traduced , are cast aside As useless , to the moles and to the bats . They now are deem'd the faithful and are praised , Who constant only in rejecting thee , Deny thy Godhead with a martyr's zeal , And quit their office for their errors sake . Blind and in love with darkness ! yet ev'n these Worthy , compared with sycophants , who knee Thy name , adoring , and then preach thee man . So fares thy church . But how thy church may fare The world takes little thought ; who will may preach , And what they will . All pastors are alike To wand'ring sheep , resolved to follow none . Two gods divide them all , pleasure and gain . For these they live , they sacrifice to these , And in their service wage perpetual war With conscience and with thee . Lust in their hearts , And mischief in their hands , they roam the earth To prey upon each other ; stubborn , fierce , High-minded , foaming out their own disgrace . Thy prophets speak of such ; and noting down The features of the last degen'rate times , Exhibit ev'ry lineament of these . Come then , and added to thy many crowns Receive yet one , as radiant as the rest , Due to thy last and most effectual work , Thy word fulfilled , the conquest of a world . He is the happy man , whose life ev'n now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come . Who doomed to an obscure but tranquil state Is pleased with it , and were he free to chuse , Would make his fate his choice . Whom peace , the fruit Of virtue , and whom virtue , fruit of faith , Prepare for happiness ; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies , but having there his home . The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects more illustrious in her view ; And occupied as earnestly as she Though more sublimely , he o'erlooks the world . She scorns his pleasures , for she knows them not ; He seeks not hers , for he has proved them vain . He cannot skim the ground like summer birds Pursuing gilded flies , and such he deems Her honors , her emoluments , her joys . Therefore in contemplation is his bliss , Whose pow'r is such , that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heav'n unseen , And shows him glories yet to be revealed . Not slothful he , though seeming unemployed , And censured oft as useless . Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows , and the bird That flutters least , is longest on the wing . Ask him indeed , what trophies he has raised , Or what atchievements of immortal fame He purposes , and he shall answer — none . His warfare is within . There unfatigued His fervent spirit labors . There he fights , And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself , And never-with'ring wreaths , compared with which The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds . Perhaps the self-approving haughty world That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him , or if she see Deems him a cypher in the works of God , Receives advantage from his noiseless hours Of which she little dreams . Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain , her blooming spring And plenteous harvest , to the pray'r he makes , When Isaac like , the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at even-tide , And think on her , who thinks not for herself . Forgive him then , thou bustler in concerns Of little worth , and idler in the best , If author of no mischief and some good , He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance , but cannot hinder thine . Nor though he tread the secret path of life , Engage no notice , and enjoy much ease , Account him an incumbrance on the state , Receiving benefits , and rend'ring none . His sphere though humble , if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example , and though small His influence , if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife , In aiding helpless indigence , in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe , Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country ; recompenses well The state beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure , and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble , though a slighted place . The man whose virtues are more felt than seen , Must drop indeed the hope of public praise , But he may boast what few that win it can , That if his country stand not by his skill , At least his follies have not wrought her fall . Polite refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube , through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity , and likes it well , The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence . Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it . If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense , And be not costly more than of true worth , He puts it on , and for decorum sake Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she . She judges of refinement by the eye , He by the test of conscience , and a heart Not soon deceived ; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling , and that vice Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd , Like an unburied carcase trick'd with flow'rs Is but a garnish'd nuisance , fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire . So life glides smoothly and by stealth away , More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song ; not vex'd with care Or stained with guilt , beneficent , approved Of God and man , and peaceful in its end . So glide my life away ! and so at last My share of duties decently fulfilled , May some disease , not tardy to perform Its destin'd office , yet with gentle stroke , Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat Beneath the turf that I have often trod . It shall not grieve me , then , that once when called To dress a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse , I play'd awhile , obedient to the fair With that light task , but soon to please her more Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please , Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath , and roved for fruit . Roved far and gather'd much . Some harsh , 'tis true , Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof , But wholesome , well-digested . Grateful some To palates that can taste immortal truth , Insipid else , and sure to be despised . But all is in his hand whose praise I seek . In vain the poet sings , and the world hears , If he regard not , though divine the theme . 'Tis not in artful measures , in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre To charm his ear , whose eye is on the heart . Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain , Whose approbation — prosper even mine .