Of Tityrus, assembling, as he sang,

The rustic throng beneath his favourite beech.
Then Milton had indeed a poet's charms:
New to my taste his Paradise surpassed
The struggling efforts of my boyish tongue
To speak its excellence. I danced for joy.
I marvelled much that, at so ripe an age
As twice seven years, his beauties had then first
Engaged my wonder; and admiring still,
And still admiring, with regret supposed
The joy half lost because not sooner found.
There too enamoured of the life I loved,
Pathetic in its praise, in its pursuit
Determined, and possessing it at last

With transports, such as favoured lovers feel,
I studied, prized, and wished that I had known,
Ingenious Cowley! and, though now reclaimed
By modern lights from an erroneous taste,
I cannot but lament thy splendid wit
Entangled in the cobwebs of the schools.

I still revere thee, courtly though retired;
Though stretched at ease in Chertsey's silent bowers,
Not unemployed; and finding rich amends

For a lost world in solitude and verse.

'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works

Is an ingredient in the compound man,

Infused at the creation of the kind.

And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout
Discriminated each from each, by strokes

And touches of his hand, with so much art
Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,

And all can taste them: minds, that have been formed And tutored with a relish more exact,

But none without some relish, none unmoved.

It is a flame, that dies not even there,

Where nothing feeds it; neither business, crowds,
Nor habits of luxurious city-life,

Whatever else they smother of true worth
In human bosoms; quench it or abate.

The villas, with which London stands begirt,
Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads,
Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air,
The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer
The citizen, and brace his languid frame!
Even in the stifling bosom of the town

A garden, in which nothing thrives, has charms,
That sooth the rich possessor; much consoled,
That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint,
Of nightshade, or valerian, grace the well
He cultivates. These serve him with a hint
That nature lives; that sight-refreshing green
Is still the livery she delights to wear,

Though sickly samples of the exuberant whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range

Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,

The Frenchman's * darling? are they not all proofs
That man, immured in cities, still retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss
By supplemental shifts, the best he may?
The most unfurnished with the means of life,
And they, that never pass their brick-wall bounds
To range the fields and treat their lungs with air,
Yet feel the burning instinct: over head
Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick,
And watered duly. There the pitcher stands
A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
A peep at nature, when he can no more.

Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease,
And contemplation, heart consoling joys
And harmless pleasures, in the thronged abode
Of multitudes unknown; hail, rural life!
Address himself who will to the pursuit
Of honours, or emolument, or fame;
I shall not add myself to such a chase,

Thwart his attempts, or envy his success.
Some must be great. Great offices will have
Great talents. And God gives to every man
The virtue, temper, understanding, taste,
That lifts him into life, and lets him fall
Just in the niche, he was ordained to fill.
To the deliverer of an injured land

He gives a tongue to enlarge upon, an heart
To feel, and courage to redress her wrongs;
To monarchs dignity; to judges sense;
To artists ingenuity and skill;

To me an unambitious mind, content
In the low vale of life, that early felt

A wish for ease and leisure, and ere long
Found here that leisure and that ease I wished.

THE TASK.

BOOK V.

THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

The Argument.

A frosty morning.-The foddering of cattle.-The woodman and his dog.-The poultry.-Whimsical effects of a frost at a waterfall.-The empress of Russia's palace of ice.—Amusements of monarchs. -War, one of them.-Wars, whence-And whence monarchy. The evils of it.-English and French loyalty contrasted.-The Bastile, and a prisoner there. Liberty the chief recommendation of this country. Modern patriotism questionable, and why. The perishable nature of the best human institutions. Spiritual liberty not perishable.-The slavish state of man by nature.-Deliver him, Deist, if you can.-Grace must do it. The respective merits of patriots and martyrs stated.-Their different treatment.-Happy freedom of the man whom grace makes free. His relish of the works God. Address to the Creator.

'Tis morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb
Ascending, fires the horizon; while the clouds,
That crowd away before the driving wind,
More ardent as the disk emerges more,