With borrow’d beams they shine. The gales that breathe
Now land-ward, and the current’s force beneath,
Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,
Advantag’d more, contemplates them aright.
Their lofty summits, crested high, they show,
With mingled sleet and long-incumbent snow. 30
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,
Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year,
Their infant growth began. He bade arise
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.
Oft as, dissolv’d by transient suns, the snow
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below,
He caught and curdled, with a freezing blast,
The current, ere it reach’d the boundless waste.
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,
And long-successive ages roll’d the while; 40
Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim’d to stand
Tall as its rival mountains on the land.
Thus stood — and, unremovable by skill
Or force of man, had stood the structure still;
But that, tho’ firmly fixt, supplanted yet
By pressure of its own enormous weight,
It left the shelving beach — and, with a sound
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,
Self-launch’d, and swiftly, to the briny wave,
As if instinct with strong desire to lave, 50
Down went the pond’rous mass. So bards of old,
How Delos swam th’ Ægean deep, have told.
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore
Herb, fruit, and flow’r. She, crown’d with laurel, wore,
E’en under wintry skies, a summer smile;
And Delos was Apollo’s fav’rite isle.
But, horrid wand’rers of the deep, to you
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due.
Your hated birth he deign’d not to survey,
But, scornful, turn’d his glorious eyes away. 60
Hence! Seek your home; no longer rashly dare
The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air;
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,
In no congenial gulf for ever lost!
THE CASTAWAY
[Written March 20, 1799. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
OBSCUREST night involv’d the sky,
Th’ Atlantic billows roar’d,
When such a destin’d wretch as I,
Wash’d headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left. 6
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov’d them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again. 12
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag’d with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life. 18
He shouted: nor his friends had fail’d
To cheek the vessel’s course,
But so the furious blast prevail’d,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind. 24
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay’d not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate’er they gave, should visit more. 30
Nor, cruel as it seem’d, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 36
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow’r,
His destiny repell’d;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried — Adieu! 42
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in év’ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 48
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson’s tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead. 54
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its ‘semblance in another’s case. 60
No voice divine the storm allay’d,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch’d from all effectual aid,
We perish’d, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm’d in deeper gulphs than he. 66
ON THE DEATH OF THE VICE-CHANCELLOR, A PHYSICIAN
(Translated From Milton)
Learn ye nations of the earth
The condition of your birth,
Now be taught your feeble state,
Know, that all must yield to Fate!
If the mournful Rover, Death,
Say but once-resign your breath-
Vainly of escape you dream,
You must pass the Stygian stream.
Could the stoutest overcome
Death’s assault, and baffle Doom,
Hercules had both withstood
Undiseas’d by Nessus’ blood.
Ne’er had Hector press’d the plain
By a trick of Pallas slain,
Nor the Chief to Jove allied
By Achilles’ phantom died.
Could enchantments life prolong,
Circe, saved by magic song,
Still had liv’d, and equal skill
Had preserv’d Medea still.
Dwelt in herbs and drugs a pow’r
To avert Man’s destin’d hour,
Learn’d Machaon should have known
Doubtless to avert his own.
Chiron had survived the smart
Of the Hydra-tainted dart,
And Jove’s bolt had been with ease
Foil’d by Asclepiades.
Thou too, Sage! of whom forlorn
Helicon and Cirrha mourn,
Still had’st filled thy princely place,
Regent of the gowned race,
Had’st advanc’d to higher fame
Still, thy much-ennobled name,
Nor in Charon’s skiff explored
The Tartarean gulph abhorr’d.
But resentful Proserpine,
Jealous of thy skill divine,
Snapping short thy vital thread
Thee too number’d with the Dead.
Wise and good! untroubled be
The green turf that covers thee,
Thence in gay profusion grow
All the sweetest flow’rs that blow!
Pluto’s Consort bid thee rest!
Oeacus pronounce thee blest!
To her home thy shade consign,
Make Elysium ever thine!
ON THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF ELY. ANNO AET. 17.
(Translated From Milton)
My lids with grief were tumid yet,
And still my sullied cheek was wet
With briny dews profusely shed
For venerable Winton dead,
Alas! are ever truest found,
The news through all our cities spread
Of yet another mitred head
By ruthless Fate to Death consign’d,
Ely, the honour of his kind.
At once, a storm of passion heav’d
My boiling bosom, much I grieved
But more I raged, at ev’ry breath
Devoting Death himself to death.
With less revenge did Naso teem
When hated Ibis was his theme;
With less, Archilochus, denied
The lovely Greek, his promis’d bride.
But lo! while thus I execrate,
Incens’d, the Minister of Fate,
Wondrous accents, soft, yet clear,
Wafted on the gale I hear.
Ah, much deluded! lay aside
Thy threats and anger misapplied.
Art not afraid with sounds like these
T’offend whom thou canst not appease?
Death is not (wherefore dream’st thou thus?)
The son of Night and Erebus,
Nor was of fel1 Erynnis born
In gulphs, where Chaos rules forlorn,
But sent from God, his presence leaves,
To gather home his ripen’d sheaves,
To call encumber’d souls away
From fleshly bonds to boundless day,
(As when the winged Hours excite,
And summon forth the Morning-light)
And each to convoy to her place
Before th’Eternal Father’s face.
But not the wicked-Them, severe
Yet just, from all their pleasures here
He hurries to the realms below,
Terrific realms of penal woe!
Myself no sooner heard his call
Than, scaping through my prison-wall,
I bade adieu to bolts and bars,
And soar’d with angels to the stars,
Like Him of old, to whom ’twas giv’n
To mount, on fiery wheels, to heav’n.
Bootes’ wagon, slow with cold
Appall’d me not, nor to behold
The sword that vast Orion draws,
Or ev’n the Scorpion’s horrid claws.
Beyond the Sun’s bright orb I fly,
And far beneath my feet descry
Night’s dread goddess, seen with awe,
Whom her winged dragons draw.
Thus, ever wond’ring at my speed
Augmented still as I proceed,
I pass the Planetary sphere,
The Milky Way — and now appear
Heav’ns crystal battlements, her door
Of massy pearl, and em’rald floor.
But here I cease. For never can
The tongue of once a mortal man
In suitable description trace
The pleasures of that happy place,
Suffice it that those joys divine
Are all, and all for ever, mine.
NATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME
(Translated From Milton)
AH, how the human mind wearies herself
With her own wanderings, and, involved in gloom
Impenetrable, speculates amiss!
Measuring, in her folly, things divine
By human; laws inscribed on adamant
By laws of man’s device, and counsels fixt
For ever by the hours that pass and die.
How? — shall the face of Nature then be ploughed
Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last
On the great parent fix a sterile curse?
Shall even she confess old age, and halt,
And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows?
Shall foul Antiquity with Rust, and Drought,
And Famine, vex the radiant worlds above?
Shall Time’s unsated maw crave and ingulf
The very heavens, that regulate his flight?
And was the Sire of all able to fence
His works, and to uphold the circling worlds,
But, through improvident and heedless haste,
Let slip the occasion? — so, then, all is lost —
And in some future evil hour yon arch
Shall crumble and come thundering down, the poles
Jar in collision, the Olympian king
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth
The terrors of the Gorgon shield in vain,
Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurled
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of heaven.
Thou also, with precipitated wheels,
Phoebus, thy own son’s fall shalt imitate,
With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep
Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss,
At the extinction of the lamp of day.
Then too shall Haemus, cloven to his base,
Be shattered, and the huge Ceraunian hills,
Once weapons of Tartarean Dis, immersed
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear.
No. The Almighty Father surer laid
His deep foundations, and, providing well
For the event of all, the scales of fate
Suspended in just equipoise, and bade
His universal works, from age to age,
One tenor hold, perpetual, undisturbed.
Hence the prime mover wheels itself about
Continual, day by day, and with it bears
In social measure swift the heavens around.
Not tardier now is Saturn than of old,
Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars.
Phoebus, his vigour unimpaired, still shows
The effulgence of his youth, nor needs the god
A downward course, that he may warm the vales;
But, ever rich in influence, runs his road,
Sign after sign, through all the heavenly zone.
Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star
From odoriferous Ind, whose office is
To gather home betimes the ethereal flock,
To pour them o’er the skies again at eve,
And to discriminate the night and day.
Still Cynthia’s changeful horn waxes and wanes
Alternate, and, with arms extended still,
She welcomes to her breast her brother’s beams.
Nor have the elements deserted yet
Their functions: thunder, with as loud a stroke
As erst, smites through the rocks, and scatters them.
The East still howls, still the relentless North
Invades the shuddering Scythian, still he breathes
The winter, and still rolls the storms along.
The king of ocean, with his wonted force,
Beats on Pelorus; o’er the deep is heard
The hoarse alarm of Triton’s sounding shell;
Nor swim the monsters of the AEgean sea
In shallows, or beneath diminished waves.
Thou, too, thy ancient vegetative power
Enjoyest, O earth! Narcissus still is sweet;
And, Phoebus! still thy favourite, and still
Thy favourite Cytherea! both retain
Their beauty; nor the mountains, ore-enriched
For punishment of man, with purer gold
Teemed ever, or with brighter gems the deep.
Thus in unbroken series all proceeds;
And shall, till wide involving either pole,
And the immensity of yonder heaven,
The final flames of destiny absorb
The world, consumed in one enormous pyre!
ON THE PLATONIC ‘IDEAL’ AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE.
(Translated From Milton)
Ye sister Pow’rs who o’er the sacred groves
Preside, and, Thou, fair mother of them all
Mnemosyne, and thou, who in thy grot
Immense reclined at leisure, hast in charg
e
The Archives and the ord’nances of Jove,
And dost record the festivals of heav’n,
Eternity! — Inform us who is He,
That great Original by Nature chos’n
To be the Archetype of Human-kind,
Unchangeable, Immortal, with the poles
Themselves coaeval, One, yet ev’rywhere,
An image of the god, who gave him Being?
Twin-brother of the Goddess born from Jove,
He dwells not in his Father’s mind, but, though
Of common nature with ourselves, exists
Apart, and occupies a local home.
Whether, companion of the stars, he spend
Eternal ages, roaming at his will
From sphere to sphere the tenfold heav’ns, or dwell
On the moon’s side that nearest neighbours Earth,
Or torpid on the banks of Lethe sit
Among the multitude of souls ordair’d
To flesh and blood, or whether (as may chance)
That vast and giant model of our kind
In some far-distant region of this globe
Sequester’d stalk, with lifted head on high
O’ertow’ring Atlas, on whose shoulders rest
The stars, terrific even to the Gods.
Never the Theban Seer, whose blindness proved
His best illumination, Him beheld
In secret vision; never him the son
Of Pleione, amid the noiseless night
Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal’d;
Him never knew th’ Assyrian priest, who yet
The ancestry of Ninus chronicles,
And Belus, and Osiris far-renown’d;
Nor even Thrice-great Hermes, although skill’d
So deep in myst’ry, to the worshippers
Of Isis show’d a prodigy like Him.
And thou, who hast immortalized the shades
Of Academus, if the school received
This monster of the Fancy first from Thee,
Either recall at once the banish’d bards
To thy Republic, or, thyself evinc’d
A wilder Fabulist, go also forth.
TO MY FATHER
(Translated From Milton)
Oh that Pieria’s spring would thro’ my breast
Pour its inspiring influence, and rush
No rill, but rather an o’erflowing flood!
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 57