My soul! henceforth, in sweetest union join
The two supports of human happiness,

Which some, erroneous, think can never meet;
True taste of life and constant thought of death.
The thought of death, sole victor of its dread!
Hope be thy joy; and probity thy skill;
Thy patron HE,

Eternity, thy prize :

And leave the racers of the world their own,
Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils:
They part with all, for that which is not bread;
They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, pow'r ;
And laugh to scorn, the fools that aim at more.

Seize wisdom, ere 'tis torment to be wise; That is, seize wisdom, ere she seizes thee. For, what, my small philosopher! is hell? 'Tis nothing, but full knowledge of the truth, When truth, resisted long, * becomes our foe; And calls eternity to do her right. p. 355.

EXTRACTS FROM COWPER'S TASK.

The gouty limb, 'tis true; but gouty limb,

The sofa suits

p. 33.

Scenes that sooth'd

Though on a sofa, may I never feel:

Or charm'd me young, no longer young, I find

Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. p. 34.

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.

I call'd the low-roof'd lodge the peasant's nest.

And hidden as it is, and far remote

p. 35.

From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear
In village or in town, the bay of curs
Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,
And infant's clam'rous, whether pleas'd or pain'd,
Oft have I wish'd the peaceful covert mine.
Here, I have said, at least I should possess
The poet's treasure, silence, and indulge
The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.

EXTRACTS FROM COWPER'S TASK.

Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat
Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

*

If solitude make scant the means of life,
Society for me!-thou seeming sweet,

Be still a pleasing object in my view;

My visit still, but never mine abode.

p. 38.

Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,

Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil.
He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,
Disfigures earth; and plotting in the dark,
Toils much to earn a monumental pile,
That may record the mischiefs he has done.

By rural carvers, who with knives deface
The pannels, leaving an obscure, rude name,
In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.
So strong the zeal to immortalize himself

Beats in the breast of man, that e'en a few,

p. 39.

Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd,
Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,

And even to a clown.

p. 40.

Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,

As bashful yet impatient to be seen.

The guiltless eye

p. 41.

Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys. p. 41.

51

E'en the oak

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm.

*

More fix'd below, the more disturb’d above.

The law, by which all creatures else are bound,

Binds man the lord of all.

Himself derives

p. 43.

No mean advantage from a kindred cause,

From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease. p. 43.

The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns. p. 46.

Whom call we gay? That honour has been long

The boast of mere pretenders to the name.

The innocent are gay.

But save me from the gaiety of those

Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed.
And save me too from theirs whose haggard eyes
Flash desperation, and betray their pangs
For property stripp'd of by cruel chance;

p. 47.

From gaiety that fills the bones with pain,

The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe.

Prospects, however lovely, may be seen

Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight,

Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off,
Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes.

Then snug enclosures in the shelter'd vale,
Where frequent hedges intercept the eye,
Delight us; happy to renounce a while,

Not senseless of its charms, what still we love,
That such short absence may endear it more.

p. 47.

p. 48.

She begs an idle pin of all she meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never.-Kate is craz'd!

p. 49.

Hard-faring race!

They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge,

Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves unquench'd

The spark of life.

p. 50.

And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring much,

Need other physic none to heal th' effects

Of loathsome diet, penury, and cold.

Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd