William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Whate’er befall, unless by cruel chance

  The wolf first give me a forbidding glance,

  Thou shalt not moulder undeplor’d, but long

  Thy praise shall dwell on ev’ry shepherd’s tongue;

  To Daphnis first they shall delight to pay,

  And, after Him, to thee the votive lay,

  While Pales shall the flocks and pastures love,

  Or Faunus to frequent the field or grove,

  At least if antient piety and truth

  With all the learned labours of thy youth

  May serve thee aught, or to have left behind

  A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind.

  Go, seek your home, my lambs, my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Yes, Damon! such thy sure reward shall be,

  But ah, what doom awaits unhappy me?

  Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide,

  As thou wast wont, for ever at my side,

  Both when the rugged frost annoy’d our feet,

  And when the herbage all was parch’d with heat,

  Whether the grim wolf’s ravage to prevent

  Or the huge lion’s, arm’d with darts we went?

  Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day,

  With charming song who, now, beguile my way?

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  In whom shall I confide? Whose counsel find

  A balmy med’cine for my troubled mind?

  Or whose discourse with innocent delight

  Shall fill me now, and cheat the wint’ry night,

  While hisses on my hearth the pulpy pear,

  And black’ning chesnuts start and crackle there,

  While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm,

  And the wind thunders thro’ the neighb’ring elm?

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Or who, when summer suns their summit reach,

  And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt’ring beech,

  When shepherds disappear, Nymphs seek the sedge,

  And the stretch’d rustic snores beneath the hedge,

  Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein

  Of Attic wit, thy jests, thy smiles again?

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown

  With tangled boughs, I wander now alone

  Till night descend, while blust’ring wind and show’r

  Beat on my temples through the shatter’d bow’r.

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Alas, what rampant weeds now shame my fields,

  And what a mildew’d crop the furrow yields!

  My rambling vines unwedded to the trees

  Bear shrivel’d grapes, my myrtles fail to please,

  Nor please me more my flocks; they, slighted, turn

  Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn.

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Aegon invites me to the hazel grove,

  Amyntas, on the river’s bank to rove,

  And young Alphesiboeus to a seat

  Where branching elms exclude the midday heat —

  ‘Here fountains spring-here mossy hillocks rise—’

  ‘Here Zephyr whispers and the stream replies—’

  Thus each persuades, but deaf to ev’ry call

  I gain the thickets, and escape them all.

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Then Mopsus said (the same who reads so well

  The voice of birds, and what the stars foretell,

  For He by chance had noticed my return)

  What means thy sullen mood, this deep concern?

  Ah Thyrsis! thou art either crazed with love,

  Or some sinister influence from above,

  Dull Saturn’s influence oft the shepherd rue,

  His leaden shaft oblique has pierced thee through.

  Go, go, my lambs, unpastur’d as ye are,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  The Nymphs amazed my melancholy see,

  And, Thyrsis! cry — what will become of thee?

  What would’st thou, Thyrsis? such should not appear

  The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe,

  Brisk youth should laugh and love — ah shun the fate

  Of those twice wretched mopes who love too late!

  Go, go, my lambs, unpastur’d as ye are,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  Aegle with Hyas came, to sooth my pain,

  And Baucis’ daughter, Dryope the vain,

  Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat

  Known far and near, and for her self-conceit,

  Came Chloris too, whose cottage on the lands

  That skirt the Idumanian current stands;

  But all in vain they came, and but to see

  Kind words and comfortable lost on me.

  Go, go, my lambs, unpastur’d as ye are,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  Ah blest indiff’rence of the playful herd,

  None by his fellow chosen or preferr’d!

  No bonds of amity the flocks enthrall,

  But each associates and is pleased with all;

  So graze the dappled deer in num’rous droves,

  And all his kind alike the zebra loves’

  The same law governs where the billows roar

  And Proteus’ shoals o’erspread the desert shore;

  The sparrow, meanest of the feather’d race,

  His fit companion finds in ev’ry place,

  With whom he picks the grain that suits him best,

  Flits here and there, and late returns to rest,

  And whom if chance the falcon make his prey,

  Or Hedger with his well-aim’d arrow slay,

  For no such loss the gay survivor grieves’

  New love he seeks, and new delight receives.

  We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice,

  Scorning all others, in a single choice,

  We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind,

  And if the long-sought good at last we find,

  When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals,

  And gives our heart a wound that nothing heals.

  Go, go, my lambs, unpastur’d as ye are,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  Ah, what delusion lured me from my flocks,

  To traverse Alpine snows, and rugged rocks!

  What need so great had I to visit Rome

  Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb?

  Or, had she flourish’d still as when, of old

  For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold,

  What need so great had I t’incur a pause

  Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause,

  For such a cause to place the roaring sea,

  Rocks, mountains, woods, between my friend and me?

  Else, I had grasp’d thy feeble hand, composed

  Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eye-lids closed,

  And, at the last, had said — Farewell — Ascend —

  Nor even in the skies forget thy friend.

  Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  Although well-pleas’d, ye tuneful Tuscan swains!

  My mind the mem’ry of your worth retains,

  Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn

  My Damon lost —
He too was Tuscan born,

  Born in your Lucca, city of renown,

  And Wit possess’d and Genius like your own.

  Oh how elate was I, when, stretch’d beside

  The murm’ring course of Arno’s breezy tide,

  Beneath the poplar-grove I pass’d my hours,

  Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flow’rs,

  And hearing, as I lay at ease along,

  Your swains contending for the prize of song!

  I also dared attempt (and, as it seems

  Not much displeas’d attempting) various themes,

  For even I can presents boast from you,

  The shepherd’s pipe and osier basket too,

  And Dati and Francini both have made

  My name familiar to the beechen shade,

  And they are learn’d, and each in ev’ry place

  Renown’d for song, and both of Lydian Race.

  Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  While bright the dewy grass with moon-beams shone,

  And I stood hurdling in my kids alone,

  How often have I said (but thou had’st found

  Ere then thy dark cold lodgment under-ground)

  Now Damon sings, or springes sets for hares,

  Or wicker-work for various use prepares!

  How oft, indulging Fancy, have I plann’d

  New scenes of pleasure, that I hop’d at hand,

  Call’d thee abroad as I was wont, and cried —

  What hoa, my friend — come, lay thy task aside —

  Haste, let us forth together, and beguile

  The heat beneath yon whisp’ring shades awhile,

  Or on the margin stray of Colne’s clear flood,

  Or where Cassivelan’s grey turrets stood!

  There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach

  Thy friend the name and healing pow’rs of each,

  From the tall blue-bell to the dwarfish weed,

  What the dry land and what the marshes breed,

  For all their kinds alike to thee are known,

  And the whole art of Galen is thy own.

  Ah, perish Galen’s art, and wither’d be

  The useless herbs that gave not health to thee!

  Twelve evenings since, as in poetic dream

  I meditating sat some statelier theme,

  The reeds no sooner touch’d my lip, though new

  And unassay’d before, than wide they flew,

  Bursting their waxen bands, nor could sustain

  The deep-ton’d music of the solemn strain;

  And I am vain perhaps, but will tell

  How proud a theme I choose — ye groves farewell!

  Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  Of Brutus, Dardan Chief, my song shall be,

  How with his barks he plough’d the British sea,

  First from Rutupia’s tow’ring headland seen,

  And of his consort’s reign, fair Imogen;

  Of Brennus and Belinus, brothers bold,

  And of Arviragus, and how of old

  Our hardy sires th’Armorican controll’d,

  And the wife of Gorlois, who, surprised

  By Uther in her husband’s form disguised,

  (Such was the force of Merlin’s art) became

  Pregnant with Arthur of heroic fame.

  These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate

  Proportion to these themes my lengthen’d date,

  Adieu my shepherd’s-reed — yon pine-tree bough

  Shall be thy future home, there dangle Thou

  Forgotten and disus’d, unless ere long

  Thou change thy Latin for a British song.

  A British? — even so — the pow’rs of Man

  Are bounded; little is the most he can,

  And it shall well suffice me, and shall be

  Fame and proud recompense enough for me,

  If Usa golden-hair’d my verse may learn,

  If Alain, bending o’er his chrystal urn,

  Swift-whirling Abra, Trent’s o’ershadow’d stream,

  Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem

  Tamar’s ore-tinctur’d flood, and, after these,

  The wave-worn shores of utmost Orcades

  Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare,

  My thoughts are all now due to other care.

  All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rind

  Enfolded safe, and for thy view design’d,

  This — and a gift from Manso’s hand beside,

  (Manso, not least his native city’s pride)

  Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone,

  Adorn’d by sculpture with a double zone.

  The spring was graven there; here, slowly wind

  The Red-Sea shores with groves of spices lined;

  Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs

  The sacred, solitary Phoenix shows,

  And, watchful of the dawn, reverts her head

  To see Aurora leave her wat’ry bed.

  In other part, th’expansive vault above,

  And there too, even there, the God of love;

  With quiver arm’d he mounts, his torch displays

  A vivid light, his gem-tip’d arrows blaze,

  Around, his bright and fiery eyes he rolls,

  Nor aims at vulgar minds or little souls

  Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high

  Sends every arrow to the lofty sky,

  Hence, forms divine, and minds immortal learn

  The pow’r of Cupid, and enamour’d burn.

  Thou also Damon (neither need I fear

  That hope delusive) thou art also there;

  For whither should simplicity like thine

  Retire, where else such spotless virtue shine?

  Thou dwell’st not (thought profane) in shades below,

  Nor tears suit thee — cease then my tears to flow,

  Away with grief on Damon ill-bestow’d,

  Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode,

  Has pass’d the show’ry arch, henceforth resides

  With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides

  Quaffs copious immortality and joy

  With hallow’d lips. Oh! blest without alloy,

  And now enrich’d with all that faith can claim,

  Look down entreated by whatever name,

  If Damon please thee most (that rural sound)

  Shall oft with ecchoes fill the groves around)

  Or if Diodatus, by which alone

  In those ethereal mansions thou art known.

  Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste

  Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste,

  The honours, therefore, by divine decree

  The lot of virgin worth are giv’n to thee;

  Thy brows encircled with a radiant band,

  And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand

  Thou immortal Nuptials shalt rejoice

  And join with seraphs thy according voice,

  Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatic lyre

  Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire.

  TO MR. JOHN ROUSE, LIBRARIAN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

  (Translated From Milton)

  Strophe I

  My two-fold Book! single in show

  But double in Contents,

  Neat, but not curiously adorn’d

  Which in his early youth,

  A poet gave, no lofty one in truth

  Although an earnest wooer of the Muse —

  Say, while in cool Ausonian shades

  Or British wilds he roam’d,

  Striking by turns his native lyre,

  By turns the Daunian lute

  And stepp’d almost in air, —

  Antistrophe

  Say, little book, what furtive hand

  Thee from
thy fellow books convey’d,

  What time, at the repeated suit

  Of my most learned Friend,

  I sent thee forth an honour’d traveller

  From our great city to the source of Thames,

  Caerulean sire!

  Where rise the fountains and the raptures ring,

  Of the Aonian choir,

  Durable as yonder spheres,

  And through the endless lapse of years

  Secure to be admired?

  Strophe II

  Now what God or Demigod

  For Britain’s ancient Genius mov’d

  (If our afflicted land

  Have expiated at length the guilty sloth

  Of her degen’rate sons)

  Shall terminate our impious feuds,

  And discipline, with hallow’d voice, recall?

  Recall the Muses too

  Driv’n from their antient seats

  In Albion, and well-nigh from Albion’s shore,

  And with keen Phoebean shafts

  Piercing th’unseemly birds,

  Whose talons menace us

  Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar?

  Antistrophe

  But thou, my book, though thou hast stray’d,

  Whether by treach’ry lost

  Or indolent neglect, thy bearer’s fault,

  From all thy kindred books,

  To some dark cell or cave forlorn,

  Where thou endur’st, perhaps,

  The chafing of some hard untutor’d hand,

  Be comforted —

  For lo! again the splendid hope appears

  That thou may’st yet escape

  The gulphs of Lethe, and on oary wings

  Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove,

  Strophe III

  Since Rouse desires thee, and complains

  That, though by promise his,

  Thou yet appear’st not in thy place

  Among the literary noble stores

  Giv’n to his care,

  But, absent, leav’st his numbers incomplete.

  He, therefore, guardian vigilant

  Of that unperishing wealth,

  Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,

  Where he intends a richer treasure far

  Than Ion kept — (Ion, Erectheus’ son

  Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born) —

  In the resplendent temple of his God,

  Tripods of gold and Delphic gifts divine.

  Antistrophe

  Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,

  The Muses’ fav’rite haunt;

  Resume thy station in Apollo’s dome,

  Dearer to him

  Than Delos, or the fork’d Parnassian hill.

  Exulting go,

  Since now a splendid lot is also thine,

  And thou art sought by my propitious friend;