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There only minds like yours can do no harmı.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The penfive wanderer in their shades. At eve
The moon-beam, Niding 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 your's,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made, what enemies could never have done,
Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.

THE TASK.

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.

Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former

book.Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow.Prodigies enumerated. -Sicilian earthquakes.- Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities ly sin.-God the agent in them.-- The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved.-pur own late miscar. riages accounted for.--Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau.But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation.The Reverend Advertiser of engraved sermons.

- Petit-maitre parson.The good preacher.- Pictures of a theatrical clerical cox comb -Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved.--Apostrophe to popular applause. -Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with. Sum of the whole matter.-Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity: -Their folly and extravagance. The mischiefs of profusion.-- Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities.

THE TASK.

BOOK II.

THE TIME-PIECE,

Oh for a lodge in some vaft wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumour of oppreffion and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war,
Might never reach me more. My ear is pained,
My soul is sick, with every day's report
Of wrong and outrage, with which earth is filled.
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man; the natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax,
That falls afunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own; and having power

To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored As human nature's broadeft, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that mercy with a bleeding heart Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beaft. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a Nave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth, That finews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than faften them on him. We have no llaves at home-Then why abroad? And they themselves once ferried over the wave, That parts us, are emancipate and loosed.

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