The Task and Other Poems | Page 5

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