William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works
Page 42
And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleas’d in wood or lawn,
While peace possess’d these silent bow’rs,
Her animating smile withdrawn,
Has lost its beauties and its pow’rs. 16
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
They seek, like me, the secret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come. 24
HEU! QUAM REMOTUS
[Written “die ultimo 1774.” Published in the 1835 edition of the Autobiography.]
Heu! quam remotus vescor ab omnibus
Quibus fruebar sub lare patrio,
Quam nescius jucunda quondam
Arva domum socios reliqui,
Et praeter omnes te mihi flebilem,
Te cariorem luce vel artubus,
Te vinculo nostram jugali
Deserui tremulam sub ense;
Sed nec ferocem me genuit pater,
Nec vagientem nutriit ubere 10
Leaena dumoso sub antro;
Fata sed haec voluere nostra.
Et fluctuosum ceu mare volvitur,
Dum commovebar mille timoribus,
Coactus in fauces Averni
Totus atro perii sub amne.
THE WINTER NOSEGAY
[Written 1777 (?). Published 1782.]
What nature, alas! has denied
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,
And winter is deck’d with a smile.
See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flow’rs have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 8
’Tis a bow’r of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime,
A fortress, to which she retreats
From the cruel assaults of the clime.
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May. 16
See how they have safely surviv’d
The frowns of a sky so severe;
Such Mary’s true love, that has liv’d
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem grac’d with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you. 24
ON THE TRIAL OF ADMIRAL KEPPEL
[Written 1778. Published, from the copy among the Ash MSS., in The Universal Review, 1890. ]
KEPPEL, returning from afar
With laurels on his brow,
Comes home to wage a sharper war,
And with a fiercer foe.
The blow was rais’d with cruel aim,
And meant to pierce his heart,
But lighting on his well earn’d fame
Struck an immortal part. 8
Slander and Envy strive to tear
His wreath so justly won,
But Truth, who made his cause her care,
Has bound it faster on.
The charge, that was design’d to sound
The signal of disgrace,
Has only call’d a navy round
To praise him to his face. 16
AN ADDRESS TO THE MOB ON OCCASION OF THE LATE RIOT AT THE HOUSE OF SIR HUGH PALLISER
[Written 1778. Published, from the copy among the Ash MSS., in The Universal Review, 1890.]
AND is it thus, ye base and blind,
And fickle as the shifting wind,
Ye treat a warrior staunch and true,
Grown old in combating for you?
Can one false step, and made in haste,
Thus cancel every service past?
And have ye all at once forgot,
(As whose deservings have ye not?)
That Palliser, like Keppel brave,
Has baffled France on yonder wave; 10
And when his country ask’d the stake,
Has pledg’d his life for England’s sake?
Though now he sink oppress’d with shame,
Forgetful of his former fame,
Yet Keppel with deserv’d applause
Proclaims him bold in Britain’s cause,
And to his well known courage pays
The tribute of heroic praise.
Go learn of him whom ye adore,
Whose name now sets you in a roar, 20
Whom ye were more than half prepar’d
To pay with just the same reward,
To render praise where praise is due,
To keep his former deeds in view
Who fought and would have died for you.
A TALE, FOUNDED ON A FACT WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779
[Written Jan., 1779. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Where Humber pours his rich commercial stream,
There dwelt a wretch, who breath’d but to blaspheme.
In subterraneous caves his life he led,
Black as the mine, in which he wrought for bread.
When on a day, emerging from the deep,
A Sabbath-day! (such sabbaths thousands keep!)
The wages of his weekly toil he bore
To buy a cock — whose blood might win him more;
As if the noblest of the feather’d kind
Were but for battle and for death design’d; 10
As if the consecrated hours were meant
For sport, to minds on cruelty intent;
It chanc’d (such chances Providence obey!)
He met a fellow-lab’rer on the way,
Whose heart the same desires had once inflam’d —
But now the savage temper was reclaim’d;
Persuasion on his lips had taken place;
For all plead well, who plead the cause of grace!
His iron-heart with scripture he assail’d.
Woo’d him to hear a sermon, and prevail’d. 20
His faithful bow the mighty preacher drew,
Swift, as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew;
He wept; he trembled; cast his eyes around,
To find a worse than he; but none he found.
He felt his sins, and wonder’d he should feel.
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could heal!
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies!
He quits the sinner’s for the martyr’s prize.
That holy day was wash’d with many a tear,
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear. 30
The next, his swarthy brethren of the mine
Learn’d, by his alter’d speech — the change divine!
Laugh’d when they should have wept, and swore the day
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they.
No, (said the penitent): such words shall share
This breath no more; devoted now to pray’r.
Oh! if thou seest, (thine eye the future sees!)
That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these;
Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel,
Ere yet this heart relapses into steel; 40
Now take me to that Heav’n, I once defied,
Thy presence, thy embrace! — He spoke, and died!
THE BEE AND THE PINE-APPLE
[Written Sept., 1779. Published, in Unpublished Poems of Cowper, 1900, from the copy among the Ash MSS.]
A BEE allur’d by the perfume
Of a rich pine-apple in bloom,
Found it within a frame inclos’d,
And lick’d the glass that interpos’d.
Blossoms of apricot and peach,
The flow’rs that blow’d within his
reach,
Were arrant drugs compar’d with that,
He strove so vainly to get at.
No rose could yield so rare a treat,
Nor jessamine were half so sweet. 10
The gard’ner saw this much ado,
(The gard’ner was the master too)
And thus he said — Poor restless bee!
I learn philosophy from thee,
I learn how just it is and wise,
To use what Providence supplies,
To leave fine titles, lordships, graces,
Rich pensions, dignities, and places,
Those gifts of a superior kind,
To those for whom they were design’d. 20
I learn that comfort dwells alone
In that which Heav’n has made our own,
That fools incur no greater pain,
Than pleasure coveted in vain.
THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE
[Written Sept., 1779. Published 1782. There is a copy among the Ash MSS.]
THE pine-apples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceiv’d the fragrance as he pass’d,
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search’d for crannies in the frame,
Urg’d his attempt on ev’ry side,
To ev’ry pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light; 10
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm’d his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires,
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as she passes
The nymph between two chariot glasses, 20
She is the pine-apple, and he
The silly unsuccessful bee.
The maid who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glitt’ring ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!
Our dear delights are often such,
Expos’d to view, but not to touch: 30
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames:
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.
ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ. TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND
[Written Nov., 1779. Published 1782.]
ROUND Thurlow’s head in early youth,
And in his sportive days,
Fair science pour’d the light of truth,
And genius shed his rays.
See! with united wonder cried
Th’ experienc’d and the sage,
Ambition in a boy supplied
With all the skill of age! 8
Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
Proclaim him born to sway
The balance in the highest place,
And bear the palm away.
The praise bestow’d was just and wise;
He sprang impetuous forth,
Secure of conquest where the prize
Attends superior worth. 16
So the best courser on the plain
Ere yet he starts is known,
And does but at the goal obtain
What all had deem’d his own.
HUMAN FRAILTY
[Written Nov. (?), 1779. Published 1782. There is a MS. copy in the British Museum.]
Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again. 8
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.
’Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true. 16
Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne’er prevail
To reach the distant coast.
The breath of heav’n must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost. 24
THE YEARLY DISTRESS
OR, TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX
VERSES ADDRESSED TO A COUNTRY CLERGYMAN COMPLAINING OF THE DISAGREEABLENESS OF THE DAY ANNUALLY APPOINTED FOR RECEIVING THE DUES AT THE PARSONAGE.
[Written to Unwin, Dec., 1779 (MS. in British Museum). Published in The Gentleman’s Magazine Aug., 1783; afterwards in 1800.]
COME, ponder well, for ’tis no jest,
To laugh it would be wrong;
The troubles of a worthy priest
The burthen of my song.
This priest he merry is and blithe
Three quarters of the year,
But oh! it cuts him like a scythe
When tithing time draws near. 8
He then is full of frights and fears,
As one at point to die,
And long before the day appears
He heaves up many a sigh.
For then the farmers come jog, jog,
Along the miry road,
Each heart as heavy as a log,
To make their payments good. 16
In sooth, the sorrow of such days
Is not to be express’d,
When he that takes and he that pays
Are both alike distress’d.
Now all unwelcome, at his gates
The clumsy swains alight,
With rueful faces and bald pates —
He trembles at the sight. 24
And well he may, for well he knows
Each bumpkin of the clan,
Instead of paying what he owes,
Will cheat him if he can.
So in they come — each makes his leg,
And flings his head before,
And looks as if he came to beg,
And not to quit a score. 32
“And how does miss and madam do,
The little boy and all?”
“All tight and Well: and how do you,
Good Mr. What-d’ye-call?”
The dinner comes, and down they sit:
Were e’er such hungry folk?
There’s little talking and no wit;
It is no time to joke.
One wipes his nose upon his sleeve,
One spits upon the floor,
Yet, not to give offence or grieve,
Holds up the cloth before.
The punch goes round, and they are dull
And lumpish still as ever;
Like barrels with their bellies full,
They only weigh the heavier.
At length the busy time begins,
“Come, neighbours we must wag” —
The money chinks, down drop their chins,
Each lugging out his bag.
One talks of mildew and of frost,
And one of storms of hail,
And one, of pigs that he has lost
By maggots at the tail.
Quoth one, A rarer man than you
In pulpit none shall hear:
But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You sell it plaguy dear.
Oh, why are farmers made so coarse,
Or clergy made so fine!
A kick that scarce would move a horse
May kill a sound divine.
Then let the boobies stay at home;
’Twould cost him, I dare say,
Less trouble taking twice the sum,
Without the clowns that pay.
THE MODERN PATRIOT
[Written Feb., 1780. Published 1782.]
REBELLION is my theme all day;
I only wish ’twould come
(As who knows but perhaps it may?)
A little nearer home.
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight
On t’other side th’ Atlantic,
I always held them in the right,
But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court,
That man shall be my toast,
If breaking windows be the sport,
Who bravely breaks the most.
But oh! for him my fancy culls
The choicest flow’rs she bears,
Who constitutionally pulls
Your house about your ears. 16
Such civil broils are my delight;
Though some folks can’t endure ‘em,
Who say the mob are mad outright,
And that a rope must cure ‘em.
A rope! I wish we patriots had
Such strings for all who need ’em —
What! hang a man for going mad?
Then farewell British freedom. 24
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM
[Written Feb., 1780. Published 1782.]
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheer’d the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,