Thee we reject, unable to abide

Thy purity, till pure as thou art pure,

880

Made such by thee, we love thee for that cause,

For which we shunn'd and hated thee before.

Then we are free. Then liberty, like day,

Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from heav'n
Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

A voice is heard that mortal ears hear not,

885

Till thou hast touch'd them; 'tis the voice of song, A loud Hosanna sent from all thy works;

Which he that hears it, with a shout repeats,

And adds his rapture to the general praise!

890

In that blest moment, Nature, throwing wide

Her veil opaque, discloses with a smile

895

The author of her beauties, who, retir'd
Behind his own creation, works unseen
By the impure, and hears his pow'r denied:
Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, eternal Word!
From thee departing, they are lost, and rove
At random, without honour, hope, or peace.
From thee is all that sooths the life of man,
His high endeavour, and his glad success,
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve.
But O thou bounteous Giver of all good,
Thou art of all thy gifts thyself the crown!
Give what thou canst, without thee we are poor; 905
And with thee rich, take what thou wilt away.

900

THE TASK.

BOOK VI.

THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.

ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH BOOK

Bells at a distance-Their effect-A fine noon in winter-A sheltered walk-Meditation better than books-Our familiarity with the course of Nature makes it appear less wonderful than it isThe transformation that Spring effects in a shrubbery, described -A mistake concerning the course of Nature corrected-God maintains it by an unremitted act-The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day reproved-Animals happy, a delightful sight-Origin of cruelty to animals-That it is a great crime proved from Scripture-That proof illustrated by a taleA line drawn between the lawful and unlawful destruction of them-Their good and useful properties insisted on-Apology for the encomiums bestowed by the author on animals-Instances of man's extravagant praise of man-The groans of the creation shall have an end-A view taken of the restoration of all things-An invocation and an invitation of Him who shall bring it to pass-The retired man vindicated from the charge of uselessness-Conclusion.

THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd
With melting airs or martial, brisk, or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies,
How soft the musick of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

5

Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!

10

With easy force it opens all the cells

Where Mem'ry slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.

Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,

15

20

It seem'd not always short; the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Mov'd many a sigh at its disheart'ning length.
Yet feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revok'd,

That we might try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience as we now perceive)
We miss'd that happiness we might have found!
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend!
A father, whose authority, in show

25

30

When most severe, and must'ring all its force,

Was but the graver countenance of love;

Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might low'r,
And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant.
We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd
By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd
His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent

35

40

That converse which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy's neglected sire! a mother too,
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdu'd and tam'd
The playful humour: he could now endure,
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears,)

45

And feel a parent's presence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure's worth,
Till time has stol'n away the slighted good,
Is cause of half the povery we feel,

And makes the World the wilderness it is.
The few that pray at all, pray oft amiss,

50

And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, 55 Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.

The night was winter in its roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 60
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;

And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r,
Whence all the musick. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread

65

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof, though moveable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well suffic'd,
And, intercepting in their silent fall

70

20

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.

75

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought
The red-breast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleas'd with his solitude, and flitting light

From spray to spray, where'en he rests he shakes

80

From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence. Meditation here

May think down hours to moments. Here the heart 85
May give a useful lesson to the head,

And Learning wiser grow without his books.
Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,

The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,
Till smooth'd, and squar'd, and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Books are not seldom talismans and spells,
By which the magick art of shrewder wits
Hold an unthinking multitude enthrall'd.
Some to the fascination of a name,

Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the style
Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds
Of errour leads them, by a tune entranc'd.
While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear
The insupportable fatigue of thought,

110

And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice
The total grist unsifted, husks and all.
But tree and rivulets, whose rapid course
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,
And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,
And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time
Peeps through the moss, that clothes the hawthorn

root,

Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,

Not shy, as in the world, and to be won

By slow solicitation, seize at once

115

The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
What prodigies can pow'r divine perform
More grand than it produces year by year,
And all in sight of inattentive man?
Familiar with th' effect, we slight the cause,
And in the constancy of Nature's course,
The regular return of genial months,

120