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 740 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,

750

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 soothe 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
Το
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 teapot there;
Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets
The country, with what ardour he contrives
peep at nature, when he can no more.
Hail, therefore, patroness of health and ease
* Mignonette.

A

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, a 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.

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800

BOOK V

THE WINTER MORNING WALK

ARGUMENT.-A frosty morning-The foddering of cattle-The woodman and his dog-The poultry-Whimsical effects of 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 Bastille, 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 of God-Address to the Creator.

IS morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb

'TIS

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 every herb and every 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 plastered wall,
Preposterous 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 hungering man,
Fretful if unsupplied, but silent, meek,
And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay.
He from the stack carves out the 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 cheerful 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 shrewd, with pointed ears
And tail cropped 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 ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;
Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy.
Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl

Y

JO

20

30

40

50

Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught
But now and then with pressure of his thumb
To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube
That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloud
Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.
Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale,
Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam
Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side,
Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,
Conscious, and fearful of too deep a plunge.
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves
To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye
The scattered grain, and, thievishly resolved
To escape the impending famine, often scared
As oft return, a pert voracious kind.
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook,
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned
To sad necessity, the cock forgoes
His wonted strut, and, wading at their head
With well-considered steps, seems to resent
His altered gait and stateliness retrenched.
How find the myriads that in summer cheer
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs
Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?

60

70

Earth yields them nought: the imprisoned worm is safe 80 Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs

Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns

That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose)

Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.

The long-protracted rigour of the year

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes

Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,

As instinct prompts, self-buried ere they die.
The very rooks and daws forsake the fields,
Where neither grub nor root nor earth-nut now
Repays their labour more; and, perched aloft
By the wayside, or stalking in the path,
Lean pensioners upon the traveller's track,
Pick up their nauseous dole, though sweet to them,
Of voided pulse or half-digested grain.

The streams are lost amid the splendid blank
O'erwhelming all distinction. On the flood
Indurated and fixed the snowy weight
Lies undissolved, while silently beneath,

90

And unperceived, the current steals away.
Not so, where scornful of a check it leaps
The mill-dam, dashes on the restless wheel,
And wantons in the pebbly gulf below :
No frost can bind it there; its utmost force
Can but arrest the light and smoky mist
That in its fall the liquid sheet throws wide.
And see where it has hung the embroidered banks
With forms so various, that no powers of art,
The pencil or the pen, may trace the scene!
Here glittering turrets rise, upbearing high
(Fantastic misarrangement!) on the roof

Large growth of what may seem the sparkling trees
And shrubs of fairy land. The crystal drops
That trickle down the branches, fast congealed,
Shoot into pillars of pellucid length,

And prop the pile they but adorned before.
Here grotto within grotto safe defies

The sunbeam; there embossed 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 powers;
By these fortuitous and random strokes
Performing such inimitable feats,

As she with all her rules can never reach.

Less worthy of applause, though more admired
Because a novelty the work of man,

Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ!
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
The wonder of the North. No forest fell

When thou wouldst build; no quarry sent its stores

To enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods,
And make thy marble of the glassy wave.

In such a palace Aristaus found

Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear:

In such a palace poetry might place

The armoury of Winter; where his troops,

The gloomy clouds, find weapons, arrowy sleet,
Skin-piercing volley, blossom-bruising hail,

And snow that often blinds the traveller's course,
And wraps him in an unexpected tomb.
Silently as a dream the fabric rose;

No sound of hammer or of saw was there..

Ice upon ice, the well-adjusted parts

140