THE TASK.

BOOK III.

THE GARDEN.

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes
Entangled, winds now this way and now that
His devious course uncertain, seeking home;
Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd
And sore discomfited, from slough to slough
Plunging, and half despairing of escape;

If chance at length he find a greensward smooth
And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,

He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,

And winds his way with pleasure and with ease; So I, designing other themes, and call'd

T' adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,

To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams,

Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat

Of academic fame (howe'er deserv'd),

Long held, and scarcely disengag'd at last.
But now, with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road
I mean to tread. I feel myself at large,
Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil,
If toil await me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect Most part an empty ineffectual sound,

What chance that I, to fame so little known,
Nor conversant with men or manners much,
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope
Crack the satiric thong? "Twere wiser far
For me, enamour'd of sequester'd scenes,
And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose,
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine,
My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains;
Or, when rough winter rages, on the soft

And shelter'd Sofa, while the nitrous air

Feeds a blue flame, and makes a cheerful hearth;

There, undisturb'd by folly, and appriz'd
How great the danger of disturbing her,

To muse in silence, or at least confine

Remarks that gall so many to the few
My partners in retreat. Disgust conceal'd
Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.

Domestic happiness, thou only bliss

Of Paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.

Thou art the nurse of virtue-in thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n-born, and destin'd to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd,

That reeling goddess with a zoneless waist

And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm Of novelty, her fickle frail support;

For thou art meek and constant, hating change,

And finding, in the calm of truth-tried love, Joys that her stormy raptures never yield. Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!

Till prostitution elbows us aside

In all our crowded streets; and senates seem
Conven'd for purposes of empire less

Than to release th' adultress from her bond.
Th' adultress! what a theme for angry verse!
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain
The nauseous task to paint her as she is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame!
No:-let her pass, and, chariotted along
In guilty splendour, shake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white!

And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd,
And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounc'd
Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself

By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's sake,
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong.

'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif, Desirous to return, and not receiv'd;

But was an wholesome rigour in the main,

And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose loss was loss of all.

Men, too, were nice in honour in those days,

And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd, And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd,

Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold

His country, or was slack when she requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,

Paid, with the blood that he had basely spar'd,