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THE TASK.

BOOK IV.

THE WINTER EVENING.

HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearifome but needful length Beftrides the wintry flood, in which the moon : Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

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With fpatter'd boots, ftrapp'd waift, and frozen locks;

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the clofe pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the deftin'd inn;

And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on,
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

Cold and yet cheerful: meffenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to fome;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in afhes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Faft as the periods from his fluent quill,

Or charg'd with am'rous fighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs refponfive, equally affect

His horfe and him, unconfcious of them afl.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in
With fuch heart-fhaking mufic, who can fay
What are its tidings? Have our troops awak'd?
Or do they fill, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does the wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her ftill? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to fet th' imprifon'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Stothard Del

Published Feb 1.1798 by JJohnson London.

Heath Scalp

Now stir the fire, & close the Shutters fast, Let fall the Curtains, wheel the Sofa round,

Now ftir the fire, and close the shutters faft, Let fall the curtains, wheel the fofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hiffing urn Throws up a fteamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in. Not fuch his ev'ning, who with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, fqueez'd And bor'd with elbow points through both his fides, Out-fcolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and failes. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not ev'n critics criticife; that holds Inquifitive attention, while I read,

Faft bound in chains of filence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themfelves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of busy life,

Its fluctuations, and its vaft concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the fummit fee
The feals of office glitter in his eyes;

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