dots-menu
×

Home  »  The English Poets  »  Extracts from the Task: Snow

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: Snow

I SAW the woods and fields at close of day

A variegated show; the meadows green,

Though faded; and the lands, where lately waved

The golden harvest, of a mellow brown,

Upturned so lately by the forceful share:

I saw far off the weedy fallows smile

With verdure not unprofitable, grazed

By flocks, fast feeding, and selecting each

His favourite herb; while all the leafless groves

That skirt the horizon, wore a sable hue,

Scarce noticed in the kindred dusk of eve.

To-morrow brings a change, a total change!

Which even now, though silently performed

And slowly, and by most unfelt, the face

Of universal nature undergoes.

Fast falls a fleecy shower: the downy flakes

Descending, and, with never-ceasing lapse,

Softly alighting upon all below,

Assimilate all objects. Earth receives

Gladly the thickening mantle, and the green

And tender blade that feared the chilling blast

Escapes unhurt beneath so warm a veil.

In such a world, so thorny, and where none

Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found,

Without some thistly sorrow at its side,

It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin

Against the law of love, to measure lots

With less distinguished than ourselves, that thus

We may with patience bear our moderate ills,

And sympathise with others, suffering more.

Ill fares the traveller now, and he that stalks

In ponderous boots beside his reeking team.

The wain goes heavily, impeded sore

By congregated 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.

O 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 learnèd 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;

The 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.