from Book 1 For I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth close cropt by nibbling sheep, And skirted thick with intertexture firm Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk O’er hills, through valleys, and by rivers brink, E’er since a truant boy I pass’d my bounds T’enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames. And still remember, nor without regret Of hours that sorrow since has much endear’d, How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed, Still hung’ring pennyless and far from home, I fed on scarlet hips and stoney haws, Or blushing crabs, or berries that imboss The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere. Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved By culinary arts, unsav’ry deems. No sofa then awaited my return, Nor 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 color from the locks they spare; Th’ 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 pilfer’d yet; nor yet impair’d My relish of fair prospect; scenes that sooth’d Or charm’d 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 lock’d in mine, with pleasure such as love Confirm’d 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 slacken’d 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 discern’d The distant plough slow-moving, and beside His lab’ring team that swerv’d not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish’d 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 overlook’d, our fav’rite 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 hedge-row beauties numberless, square tow’r, Tall spire, from which the sound of chearful bells Just undulates upon the list’ning ear; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which daily view’d 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, Unnumber’d branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast flutt’ring, all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighb’ring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated Nature sweeter still To sooth and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers chear the day, and one The live-long night: nor these alone whose notes Nice-finger’d art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and ev’n the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. from Book 5 ’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, Resemble most some city in a blaze, Seen through the leafless wood. His slanting ray Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale, And tinging all with his own rosy hue, From ev’ry herb and ev’ry spiry blade Stretches a length of shadow o’er the field. Mine, spindling into longitude immense, In spite of gravity and sage remark That I myself am but a fleeting shade, Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance I view the muscular proportioned limb Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair As they designed to mock me, at my side Take step for step, and as I near approach The cottage, walk along the plaister’d wall Prepost’rous sight! the legs without the man. The verdure of the plain lies buried deep Beneath the dazzling deluge, and the bents And coarser grass upspearing o’er the rest, Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad And fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. The cattle mourn in corners where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder, not like hungr’ing man Fretfull if unsupplied, but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-paced swain’s delay. He from the stack carves out th’ accustomed load, Deep-plunging and again deep plunging oft His broad keen knife into the solid mass. Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away. No needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman leaving unconcerned The cheerfull haunts of man, to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy and lean and shrew’d, with pointed ears And tail cropp’d short, half lurcher and half cur His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow, and now with many a frisk Wide-scampering snatches up the drifted snow With iv’ry teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powder’d coat and barks for joy. Heedless of all his pranks the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark. Nor stops for aught. But now and then with pressure of his thumb T’ adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube That fumes beneath his nose. The trailing cloud Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. … The streams are lost amid the splendid blank O’erwhelming all distinction. On the flood Indurated and fixt the snowy weight Lies undissolved, while silently beneath And unperceived the current steals away. Not so, where scornful of a check it leaps The mill-dam, dashes on the wrestless wheel, And wantons in the pebbly gulph below. No frost can bind it there. Its utmost force Can but arrest the light and smokey mist That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide. And see where it has hung th’ embroidered banks With forms so various, that no pow’rs of art, The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene! Here glitt’ring turrets rise, upbearing high (Fantastic misarrangement) on the roof Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees And shrubs of fairy land. The chrystal drops That trickle down the branches, fast congeal’d Shoot into pillars of pellucid length, And prop the pile they but adorned before. Here grotto within grotto safe defies The sun-beam. There imboss’d and fretted wild The growing wonder takes a thousand shapes Capricious, in which fancy seeks in vain The likeness of some object seen before. Thus nature works as if to mock at art, And in defiance of her rival pow’rs; By these fortuitous and random strokes Performing such inimitable feats As she with all her rules can never reach.
William Cowper, 1731-1800 – “The Task” from Selected Poetry of Thomas Gray, Charles Churchill and William Cowper
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