THE TA S K. BOOK IV. THE WINTER EVENING. HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with it's wearisome but needful length 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, Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn; He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, 10 Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief 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, His horse and him, unconscious of them all. 21 30 And the loud laugh-I long to know them all; 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 40 And bor'd with elbow points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, This folio of four pages, happy work! 50 Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive Attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life, It's fluctuations, and it's vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, οι And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down, Here rills of oily eloquence in soft Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise; The dearth of information and good sense, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, 71 80 Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets, Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs, Æthereal journies, submarine exploits, And Katterfelto, with his hair on end At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread. To 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, peep at such a world; to see the stir |