Our Word of the Week is home, and that may bring to mind the question, “Where’s the best place to make your home?” Dr. Johnson famously said that he who is weary of London, is weary of life. Well, the good Doctor was a city man who liked the conversations and the coffee houses and the newspapers and the bustle around Parliament, because that’s what he was used to. But at the same time, we’ve got, in a place called Olney, a man who was very much like Johnson — William Cowper. He was a poet, a devout Christian, a man who felt deeply and who had to wrestle against what we’d call periods of depression. He was the vicar at rural Olney, and many of our readers may know that he was the close friend of his fellow worker and clergyman, the slave-trader turned abolitionist, John Newton. The famous book, Olney Hymns, is their joint effort. Now it seems that one day, Cowper’s neighbor, Lady Austen, noting that he hadn’t written much poetry lately, suggested that blank verse would suit him better than the rhyming couplets he’d been writing in. “But what shall I choose for a subject?” said Cowper. “Oh, you can write on anything at all,” said Lady Austen. “Write about this sofa!” Well, Cowper accepted the playful challenge, and that’s why this poem is called The Task, as it was a task set for him by his delightful friend. “I sing the sofa!” the poem begins, and, as we’d expect from a chatty and amiable poem, Cowper moves from one thing to another with ease, but always he’s got in mind not the sofa exactly, but where you’ll find the sofa. You’ll find it in a peaceful home.
But where can you find that peaceful home? That brings us to the excerpts I’ve chosen as our Poem of the Week, from Book Three of The Task. You’re most likely to be at peace where the world around you is at peace, and that will be in the country, if you’re fortunate enough not to have to sweat all the time over the land. Cowper wasn’t rich — far from it. But he had enough for a little comfort, as a clergyman should have, and he had his books, and friends, and plenty of good healthy manual labor in his gardens and fields.
I’m of Cowper’s mind, myself, and so is Debra. We like the country, and small towns, because we like the people there, and the clearer skies, the mysterious woods, and the creatures with which we share the world. One of those, whom we’ve called Yogi, a great glossy black bear, shambled off with our bird feeder a couple of years ago. It had a block of suet and seeds in it, and Yogi couldn’t resist. The deer go gently prancing in the back yard sometimes, and a flock of wild turkeys will visit; one year we saw the most comical sight for sheer awkwardness. It was late in the fall, and the turkeys had stationed themselves around and underneath the neighbor’s small crabapple tree. They’d weigh the branches down if they tried to light on them, so instead they craned their necks as high as they’d go, and they hopped to snag the fruit. There were about twenty of them, hopping just like that. I mention it here because in the selection I’ve chosen, Cowper talks about a wild rabbit that doesn’t have to fear the hunters. That’s because she’s become a real pet for him, a companion — a touch of Eden, after all.
Oh friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life in rural leisure passed! ...... ................... One sheltered hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar; she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes -- thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed. For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me, to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, And when I place thee in it, sighing say, I knew at least one hare that had a friend. How various his employments, whom the world Calls idle, and who justly in return Esteems that busy world an idler too! Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoyed at home, And nature in her cultivated trim Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad -- Can he want occupation who has these? Will he be idle who has much to enjoy? ... .... The morning finds the self-sequestered man Fresh for his task, intend what task he may. Whether inclement seasons recommend His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her who shares his pleasures and his heart, Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant tea Which neatly she prepares; then to his book Well chosen, and not sullenly perused In selfish silence, but imparted oft As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, Or turn to nourishment digested well....
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