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Of flutt'ring, loit'ring, cringing, begging, loose,

And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast
And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, Chequer'd with all complexions of mankind, And spotted with all crimes; in whom I see Much that I love, and more that I admire, And all that I abhor; thou freckl'd fair, That pleasest, and yet shock'st me, I can laugh, And I can weep, can hope, and can despond, Feel wrath, and pity, when I think on thee! Ten righteous would have sav'd a city once, And thou hast many righteous.... Well for thee.... That salt preserves thee; more corrupted else, And therefore more obnoxious, at this hour, Than Sodom, in her day, had pow'r to be, For whom God heard his Ab'ram plead in vain.

THE TASK,

А РОЕМ.

BOOK IV.

1

ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

The post comes in....The news-paper is read.... The world contemplated at a distanee....Address to winter....The rural amusements of a winter evening compared with the fashionable ones....Address to evening....A brown study....Fall of snow in the evening.... The waggoner....A poor family piece....The rural thief....Publie houses....The multitude of them censured....The farmer's daugh ter: what she was....what she is....The simplicity of country manners almost lost....Causes of the change....Desertion of the country by the rich....Neglect of magistrates....The militia principally in fault....The new recruit, and his transformation....Reflection on bodies corporate....The love of rural objects natural to all, and never to be totally extinguished.

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THE TASK.

BOOK IV.

THE WINTER EVENING.

HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome, but needful length,
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to its destin'd inn,

And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff'rent, whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet

With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks,

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains,

Or Nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh the important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with the smile of peace?
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harrangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh....I long to know them all;
I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each; So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd, And bor'd, with elbow-points, through both his sides, Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquility and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds

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