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Home  »  The English Poets  »  Extracts from the Task: The Post. The Fireside in Winter

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake

William Cowper (1731–1800)

Extracts from the Task: The Post. The Fireside in Winter

[From Book IV, The Winter Evening]

HARK! ’tis the twanging horn! O’er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks,

News from all nations lumbering at his back.

True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern

Is to conduct it to the destined inn,

And having dropped the expected bag—pass on.

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,

To him indifferent whether grief or joy.

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 charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But oh the important budget! ushered in

With such heart-shaking music, who can say

What are its tidings? have our troops awaked?

Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,

Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?

Is India free? and does she wear her plumed

And jewelled turban with a smile of peace,

Or do we grind her still? 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 set the imprisoned wranglers free,

And give them voice and utterance once again.

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 evening in.

*****

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year,

Thy scattered air with sleet like ashes filled,

Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks

Fringed with a beard made white with other snows

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapt in clouds,

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way;

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun

A prisoner in the yet undawning east,

Shortening his journey between morn and noon,

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

Down to the rosy west; but kindly still

Compensating his loss with added hours

Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering, at short notice, in one group

The family dispersed, and fixing thought,

Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

I crown thee King of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,

And all the comforts that the lowly roof

Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

Of long uninterrupted evening know.

No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;

No powdered pert, proficient in the art

Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors

Till the street rings; no stationary steeds

Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,

The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:

But here the needle plies its busy task,

The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,

Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,

Follow the nimble finger of the fair;

A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow

With most success when all besides decay.

The poet’s or historian’s page, by one

Made vocal for the amusement of the rest;

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds

The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;

And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,

And in the charming strife triumphant still;

Beguile the night, and set a keener edge

On female industry: the threaded steel

Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds.