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The Task.

BOOK I.

I

THE SOFA.

SING the SOFA. I, who lately sang
Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touch'd with awe
The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,
Escap'd with pain from that adventurous flight,
Now seek repose upon an humbler theme;
The theme though humble, yet august and proud
Th' occasion for the fair commands the song.

Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.
As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,
Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile;
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock
Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravely bank
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,
Fearless of wrong, repos'd his weary strength.
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next
The birth-day of invention; weak at first,
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.
Joint-stools were then created; on three legs
Upborn they stood. Three legs upholding firm
A massy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms:

And such, in ancient halls and mansions drear,
May still be seen; but perforated sore,

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And dril'd in holes, the solid oak is found,
By worms voracious eating through and through.

At length a generation more refin'd

Improv'd the simple plan; made three legs four,
Gave them a twisted form vermicular,

And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd,
Induc'd a splendid cover, green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tap'stry richly wrought
And woven close, or needle work sublime.
There might ye see the piony spread wide,
The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,
Lap-dog and lambkin with black staring eyes,
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

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Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright

With Nature's varnish; sever'd into stripes

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That interlac'd each other, these supplied

Of texture firm a lattice-work, that brac'd
The new machine, and it became a chair.
But restless was the chair; the back erect
Distress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease;
The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part

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That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down,
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.

These for the rich the rest, whom fate had plac'd
In modest mediocrity, content

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With base materials, sat on well-tann'd hides,
Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,

With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,
Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fixt;

If cushion might be call'd what harder seem'd

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Than the firm oak of which the frame was form'd.

No want of timber then was felt or fear'd

In Albion's happy isle. The umber stood
Ponderous and fixt by its own massy weight.
But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,
An alderman of Cripplegate contriv'd;
And some ascribe th' invention to a priest
Burly and big, and studious of his ease.
But, rude at first, and not with easy slope
Receding wide, they press'd against the ribs,
And bruis'd the side; and, elevated high,
Taught the rais'd shoulders to invade the ears.
Long time elaps'd or e'er our rugged sires
Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in,

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And ill at ease behind. The ladies first as became the softer sex.

'Gan murmur,

Ingenious fancy, never better pleas'd

Than when employ'd to accommodate the fair,

Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devis'd
The soft settee; one elbow at each end,
And in the midst an elbow it receiv'd,
United yet divided, twain at once.

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So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;
And so two citizens who take the air,
Close pack'd, and smiling in a chaise and one.
But relaxation of the languid frame,
By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs,
Was bliss reserv'd for happier days. So slow
The growth of what is excellent; so hard
To attain perfection in this nether world.
Thus first necessity invented stools,
Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,
And luxury the accomplish'd SOFA last.

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hir'd to watch the sick, Whom snoring she disturbs.

As sweetly he

Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour
To sleep within the carriage more secure,
His legs depending at the open door.
Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,
The tedious rector drawling o'er his head;

And sweet the clerk below. But neither sleep
Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,
Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour
To slumber in the carriage more secure,
Nor sleep enjoy'd by curate in his desk,
Nor yet the dozings of the clerk, are sweet,
Compar'd with the repose the SOFA yields.

Oh may I live exempted (while I live
Guiltless of pamper'd appetite obscene)
From pangs arthritic, that infest the toe
Of libertine excess. The SOFA suits
The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,
Though on a sOFA, may I never feel:
For I have lov'd the rural walk through lanes

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Of grassy swarth, close cropt by nibbling sheep,
And skirted thick with intertexture firm
Of thorny boughs; have lov'd the rural walk
O'er hills, through valleys, and by rivers' brink,

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E'er since a truant boy I pass'd my bounds
To 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 consum'd,
Still hung'ring, pennyless and far from home,
I fed on scarlet hips and stony 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, undeprav'd
By culinary arts, unsavoury deems.
No SOFA then awaited my return;

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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

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Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep;
A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they spare ;
T'h' elastic spring of an unwearied foot

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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 pow'r to charm me still.
And witress, 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 conjur❜d up
To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

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But genuine, and art partner of them all.

How oft, upon yon eminence, our pace

Has slacken'd to a pause, and we have born

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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

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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 their bank,
Stand, never overlook'd, our favourite 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

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Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower,

Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells

Just undulates upon the listening ear,

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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.

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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

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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 fluttering, all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring 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,

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To sooth and satisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

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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,

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