Analysis of The Task: Book II, The Time-Piece (excerpts)

England, with all thy faults, I love thee still--
   My country! and, while yet a nook is left
   Where English minds and manners may be found,
   Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime
   Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd
   With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost,
   I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
   And fields without a flow'r, for warmer France
   With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
  Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.
  To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime
  Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
  Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
  But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
  Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart
  As any thund'rer there. And I can feel
  Thy follies, too; and with a just disdain
  Frown at effeminates, whose very looks
  Reflect dishonour on the land I love.
  How, in the name of soldiership and sense,
  Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth
  And tender as a girl, all essenc'd o'er
  With odours, and as profligate as sweet;
  Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
  And love when they should fight; when such as these
  Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
  Of her magnificent and awful cause?
  Time was when it was praise and boast enough
  In ev'ry clime, and travel where we might,
  That we were born her children. Praise enough
  To fill th' ambition of a private man,
  That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
  And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.
  Farewell those honours, and farewell with them
  The hope of such hereafter! They have fall'n
  Each in his field of glory; one in arms,
  And one in council--Wolfe upon the lap
  Of smiling victory that moment won,
  And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame!
  They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still
  Consulting England's happiness at home,
  Secur'd it by an unforgiving frown
  If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought,
  Put so much of his heart into his act,
  That his example had a magnet's force,
  And all were swift to follow whom all lov'd.
  Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such!
  Or all that we have left is empty talk
  Of old achievements, and despair of new....

There is a pleasure in poetic pains
  Which only poets know. The shifts and turns,
  Th' expedients and inventions multiform
  To which the mind resorts in chase of terms
  Thought apt, yet coy, and difficult to win,
  T' arrest the fleeting images that fill
  The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast,
  And force them sit, till he has pencill'd off
  A faithful likeness of the forms he views;
  Then to dispose his copies with such art
   That each may find its most propitious light,
  And shine by situation hardly less
  Than by the labour and the skill it cost,
  Are occupations of the poet's mind
  So pleasing, and that steal away the thought
  With such address from themes of sad import,
  That, lost in his own musings, happy man!
  He feels th' anxieties of life, denied
  Their wonted entertainment, all retire.
  Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such,
  Or seldom such, the hearers of his song.
  Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps
  Aware of nothing arduous in a task
  They never undertook, they little note
  His dangers or escapes, and haply find
  Their least amusement where he found the most.
  But is amusement all? Studious of song,
  And yet ambitious not to sing in vain,
  I would not trifle merely, though the world
  Be loudest in their praise who do no more.
  Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay?
  It may correct a foible, may chastise
  The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress,
  Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch;
  But where are its sublimer trophies found?
  What vice has it subdu'd? whose heart reclaim'd
  By rigour, or whom laugh'd into reform?
  Alas! Leviathan is not so tam'd.
  Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard,
  Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales,
  That fear no discipline of human hands.
      The pulpit, therefore, (and I name it fill'd
  With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
  With what intent I touch that holy thing)--
  The pulpit (when the satirist has at last,
  Strutting and vapouring in an empty school,
  Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)--
  I say the pulpit (in the sober use
  Of its legitimate, peculiar pow'rs)
  Must stand acknowledg'd, while the world shall stand,
 The most important and effectual guard,