The Task and Other Poems [31]
his reeking team; The wain goes heavily, impeded sore By congregating loads adhering close To the clogged wheels, and, in its sluggish pace, Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow. The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide, While every breath, by respiration strong Forced downward, is consolidated soon Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night, With half-shut eyes, and puckered cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on; One hand secures his hat, save when with both He brandishes his pliant length of whip, Resounding oft, and never heard in vain. Oh happy, and, in my account, denied That sensibility of pain with which Refinement is endued, thrice happy thou! Thy frame, robust and hardy, feels indeed The piercing cold, but feels it unimpaired; The learned finger never need explore Thy vigorous pulse, and the unhealthful East, That breathes the spleen, and searches every bone Of the infirm, is wholesome air to thee. Thy days roll on exempt from household care, Thy waggon is thy wife; and the poor beasts, That drag the dull companion to and fro, Thine helpless charge, dependent on thy care. Ah, treat them kindly! rude as thou appearest, Yet show that thou hast mercy, which the great, With needless hurry whirled from place to place, Humane as they would seem, not always show.
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; The few small embers left she nurses well. And while her infant race with outspread hands And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguished, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still, Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands, but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard-earned And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in their work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags, But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush To wear a tattered garb however coarse, Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Because deserving, silently retire. But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, And all your numerous progeny, well trained, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man, who when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name.
But poverty with most, who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth, By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's
Poor, yet industrious, modest, quiet, neat, Such claim compassion in a night like this, And have a friend in every feeling heart. Warmed while it lasts, by labour, all day long They brave the season, and yet find at eve, Ill clad and fed but sparely, time to cool. The frugal housewife trembles when she lights Her scanty stock of brushwood, blazing clear, But dying soon, like all terrestrial joys; The few small embers left she nurses well. And while her infant race with outspread hands And crowded knees sit cowering o'er the sparks, Retires, content to quake, so they be warmed. The man feels least, as more inured than she To winter, and the current in his veins More briskly moved by his severer toil; Yet he, too, finds his own distress in theirs. The taper soon extinguished, which I saw Dangled along at the cold finger's end Just when the day declined, and the brown loaf Lodged on the shelf, half-eaten, without sauce Of sav'ry cheese, or butter costlier still, Sleep seems their only refuge. For alas, Where penury is felt the thought is chained, And sweet colloquial pleasures are but few. With all this thrift they thrive not. All the care Ingenious parsimony takes, but just Saves the small inventory, bed and stool, Skillet and old carved chest, from public sale. They live, and live without extorted alms From grudging hands, but other boast have none To soothe their honest pride that scorns to beg, Nor comfort else, but in their mutual love. I praise you much, ye meek and patient pair, For ye are worthy; choosing rather far A dry but independent crust, hard-earned And eaten with a sigh, than to endure The rugged frowns and insolent rebuffs Of knaves in office, partial in their work Of distribution; liberal of their aid To clamorous importunity in rags, But ofttimes deaf to suppliants who would blush To wear a tattered garb however coarse, Whom famine cannot reconcile to filth; These ask with painful shyness, and, refused Because deserving, silently retire. But be ye of good courage! Time itself Shall much befriend you. Time shall give increase, And all your numerous progeny, well trained, But helpless, in few years shall find their hands, And labour too. Meanwhile ye shall not want What, conscious of your virtues, we can spare, Nor what a wealthier than ourselves may send. I mean the man, who when the distant poor Need help, denies them nothing but his name.
But poverty with most, who whimper forth Their long complaints, is self-inflicted woe, The effect of laziness or sottish waste. Now goes the nightly thief prowling abroad For plunder; much solicitous how best He may compensate for a day of sloth, By works of darkness and nocturnal wrong, Woe to the gardener's pale, the farmer's