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,
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.
Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright
With Nature's varnish; sever'd into stripes
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
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
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
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,
And ill at ease behind. The ladies first as became the softer sex.
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.
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.
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
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,
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;
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
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
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,
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
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
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
Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower,
Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells
Just undulates upon the listening ear,
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.
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
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,
To sooth and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
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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