The Task and Other Poems | Page 2

of John Gilpin?abounded in all forms. He figured on pocket-handkerchiefs. When the publisher asked for a few more pages to his volume of "The Task," Cowper gave him as makeweights an "Epistle to?Joseph Hill," his "Tirocinium," and, a little doubtfully,?"John Gilpin." So the book was published in June, 1785; was sought by many because it was by the author of "John Gilpin," and at once won recognition. The preceding volume had not made Cowper famous. "The Task" at once gave him his place among the poets.
Cowper's "Task" is to this day, except Wordsworth's?"Excursion," the best purely didactic poem in the English?language. The "Sofa" stands only as a point of departure:--it suits a gouty limb; but as the poet is not gouty, he is up and off. He is off for a walk with Mrs. Unwin in the country?about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural sounds, taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy winter weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage, and draws from it comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk to the park at Weston Underwood, the?prospect from the hilltop, touches upon his privilege in?having a key of the gate, describes the avenues of trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher's flail then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is?after toil. He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness of Nature free to all, that brings health to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. Spleen vexes votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the innocent. So thought flows on, and touches in its course the vital questions of a troubled time. "The Task" appeared four years before the outbreak of the French Revolution, and is in many passages not less?significant of rising storms than the "Excursion" is?significant of what came with the breaking of the clouds.
H. M.
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,