The Task and Other Poems | Page 3

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