“The history of the following production is briefly this:—A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave him the Sofa for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair—a volume.”

I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang

Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe

The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,

Escaped with pain from that advent’rous flight,

Now seek repose upon a humbler theme:

The theme though humble, yet august and proud

The occasion—for the Fair commands the song.

Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,

Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.

As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,

Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:

The hardy chief upon the rugged rock

Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank

Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,

Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.

Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next

The birthday of invention; weak at first,

Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.

Joint-stools were then created; on three legs

Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm

A massy slab, in fashion square or round.

On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,

And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;

And such in ancient halls and mansions drear

May still be seen, but perforated sore

And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,

By worms voracious eating through and through.

At length a generation more refined

Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,

Gave them a twisted form vermicular,

And o’er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed,

Induced a splendid cover green and blue,

Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought

And woven close, or needlework sublime.

There might ye see the peony spread wide,

The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,

Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,

And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright

With Nature’s varnish; severed into stripes

That interlaced each other, these supplied,

Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced

The new machine, and it became a chair.

But restless was the chair; the back erect

Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;

The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part

That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,

Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.

These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed

In modest mediocrity, content

With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides

Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,

With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,

Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:

If cushion might be called, what harder seemed

Than the firm oak of which the frame was formed.

No want of timber then was felt or feared

In Albion’s happy isle. The lumber stood

Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.

But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,

An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,

And some ascribe the invention to a priest

Burly and big, and studious of his ease.

But rude at first, and not with easy slope

Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,

And bruised the side, and elevated high

Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.

Long time elapsed or e’er our rugged sires

Complained, though incommodiously pent in,

And ill at ease behind. The ladies first

Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.

Ingenious fancy, never better pleased

Than when employed to accommodate the fair,

Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised

The soft settee; one elbow at each end,

And in the midst an elbow, it received,

United yet divided, twain at once.

So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;

And so two citizens who take the air,

Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.

But relaxation of the languid frame

By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,

Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow

The growth of what is excellent, so hard

To attain perfection in this nether world.

Thus first necessity invented stools,

Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,

And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.

The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,

Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he

Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour

To sleep within the carriage more secure,

His legs depending at the open door.

Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,

The tedious rector drawling o’er his head,

And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep

Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,

Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour

To slumber in the carriage more secure,

Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,

Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,

Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.

Oh, may I live exempted (while I live

Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)

From pangs arthritic that infest the toe

Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits

The gouty limb, ’tis true; but gouty limb,

Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:

For I have loved the rural walk through lanes

Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,

And skirted thick with intertexture firm

Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk

O’er hills, through valleys, and by river’s brink,

E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds

To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.

And still remember, nor without regret

Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,

How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,

Still hungering penniless and far from home,

I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,

Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss

The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.

Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite

Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved

By culinary arts unsavoury deems.

No Sofa then awaited my return,

No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs

His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil

Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,

As life declines, speed rapidly away,

And not a year but pilfers as he goes

Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,

A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

Their length and colour from the locks they spare;

The elastic spring of an unwearied foot

That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,

That play of lungs inhaling and again

Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes

Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,

Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired

My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed

Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find

Still soothing and of power to charm me still.

And witness, dear companion of my walks,

Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive

Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,

Confirmed by long experience of thy worth

And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire—

Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.

Thou know’st my praise of Nature most sincere,

And that my raptures are not conjured up

To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

But genuine, and art partner of them all.

How oft upon yon eminence, our pace

Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne

The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,

While admiration feeding at the eye,

And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!

Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned

The distant plough slow-moving, and beside

His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,

The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain

Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,

Conducts the eye along his sinuous course

Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank

Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms

That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;

While far beyond and overthwart the stream

That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,

The sloping land recedes into the clouds;

Displaying on its varied side the grace

Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,

Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells

Just undulates upon the listening ear;

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.

Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed

Please daily, and whose novelty survives

Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:

Praise justly due to those that I describe.

Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds

Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,

That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood

Of ancient growth, make music not unlike

The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,

Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,

And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.

Nor less composure waits upon the roar

Of distant floods, or on the softer voice

Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip

Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length

In matted grass, that with a livelier green

Betrays the secret of their silent course.

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,

But animated Nature sweeter still

To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes

Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.

Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,

Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,

And only there, please highly for their sake.

Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought

Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!

Fearless of humid air and gathering rains

Forth steps the man—an emblem of myself!

More delicate his timorous mate retires.

When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,

Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,

Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,

The task of new discoveries falls on me.

At such a season and with such a charge

Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,

A cottage, whither oft we since repair:

’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close

Environed with a ring of branching elms

That overhang the thatch, itself unseen

Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset

With foliage of such dark redundant growth,

I called the low-roofed lodge the peasant’s nest.

And hidden as it is, and far remote

From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear

In village or in town, the bay of curs

Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,

And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,

Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.

Here, I have said, at least I should possess

The poet’s treasure, silence, and indulge

The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.

Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat

Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

Its elevated site forbids the wretch

To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;

He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,

And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,

Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits

Dependent on the baker’s punctual call,

To hear his creaking panniers at the door,

Angry and sad and his last crust consumed.

So farewell envy of the peasant’s nest.

If solitude make scant the means of life,

Society for me! Thou seeming sweet,

Be still a pleasing object in my view,

My visit still, but never mine abode.

Not distant far, a length of colonnade

Invites us; monument of ancient taste,

Now scorned, but worthy of a better fate.

Our fathers knew the value of a screen

From sultry suns, and, in their shaded walks

And long-protracted bowers, enjoyed at noon

The gloom and coolness of declining day.

We bear our shades about us; self-deprived

Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread,

And range an Indian waste without a tree.

Thanks to Benevolus—he spares me yet

These chestnuts ranged in corresponding lines,

And, though himself so polished, still reprieves

The obsolete prolixity of shade.

Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast)

A sudden steep, upon a rustic bridge

We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip

Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink.

Hence ankle-deep in moss and flowery thyme

We mount again, and feel at every step

Our foot half sunk in hillocks green and soft,

Raised by the mole, the miner of the soil.

He, not unlike the great ones of mankind,

Disfigures earth, and plotting in the dark

Toils much to earn a monumental pile,

That may record the mischiefs he has done.

The summit gained, behold the proud alcove

That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures

The grand retreat from injuries impressed

By rural carvers, who with knives deface

The panels, leaving an obscure rude name

In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss.

So strong the zeal to immortalise himself

Beats in the breast of man, that even a few

Few transient years, won from the abyss abhorred

Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize,

And even to a clown. Now roves the eye,

And posted on this speculative height

Exults in its command. The sheepfold here

Pours out its fleecy tenants o’er the glebe.

At first, progressive as a stream, they seek

The middle field; but scattered by degrees,

Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land.

There, from the sunburnt hay-field homeward creeps

The loaded wain; while, lightened of its charge,

The wain that meets it passes swiftly by,

The boorish driver leaning o’er his team,

Vociferous, and impatient of delay.

Nor less attractive is the woodland scene

Diversified with trees of every growth,

Alike yet various. Here the gray smooth trunks

Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine,

Within the twilight of their distant shades;

There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood

Seems sunk, and shortened to its topmost boughs.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms,

Though each its hue peculiar; paler some,

And of a wannish gray; the willow such,

And poplar that with silver lines his leaf,

And ash far-stretching his umbrageous arm;

Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still,

Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak.

Some glossy-leaved and shining in the sun,

The maple, and the beech of oily nuts

Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve

Diffusing odours; nor unnoted pass

The sycamore, capricious in attire,

Now green, now tawny, and ere autumn yet

Have changed the woods, in scarlet honours bright.

O’er these, but far beyond (a spacious map

Of hill and valley interposed between),

The Ouse, dividing the well-watered land,

Now glitters in the sun, and now retires,

As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.

Hence the declivity is sharp and short,

And such the re-ascent; between them weeps

A little Naiad her impoverished urn,

All summer long, which winter fills again.

The folded gates would bar my progress now,

But that the lord of this enclosed demesne,

Communicative of the good he owns,

Admits me to a share: the guiltless eye

Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys.

Refreshing change! where now the blazing sun?

By short transition we have lost his glare,

And stepped at once into a cooler clime.

Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn

Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice

That yet a remnant of your race survives.

How airy and how light the graceful arch,

Yet awful as the consecrated roof

Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath,

The chequered earth seems restless as a flood

Brushed by the wind. So sportive is the light

Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,

Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,

And darkening and enlightening, as the leaves

Play wanton, every moment, every spot.

And now, with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered,

We tread the wilderness, whose well-rolled walks,

With curvature of slow and easy sweep—

Deception innocent—give ample space

To narrow bounds. The grove receives us next;

Between the upright shafts of whose tall elms

We may discern the thresher at his task.

Thump after thump resounds the constant flail,

That seems to swing uncertain and yet falls

Full on the destined ear. Wide flies the chaff,

The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist

Of atoms, sparkling in the noonday beam.

Come hither, ye that press your beds of down

And sleep not: see him sweating o’er his bread

Before he eats it.—’Tis the primal curse,

But softened into mercy; made the pledge

Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan.

By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.

Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel

That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,

Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads

An instant’s pause, and lives but while she moves.

Its own revolvency upholds the world.

Winds from all quarters agitate the air,

And fit the limpid element for use,

Else noxious: oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams

All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed

By restless undulation: even the oak

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:

He seems indeed indignant, and to feel

The impression of the blast with proud disdain,

Frowning as if in his unconscious arm

He held the thunder. But the monarch owes

His firm stability to what he scorns,
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