William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works
Page 73
A present to his toast.
Belinda’s maids are soon preferr’d,
To teach him now and then a word,
As poll can master it;
But ’tis her own important charge,
To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.
Sweet Poll! his doting mistress cries,
Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies,
And calls aloud for sack.
She next instructs him in the kiss;
’Tis now a little one, like Miss,
And now a hearty smack.
At first he aims at what he hears;
And, listening close with both his ears,
Just catches at the sound;
But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amusement of the crowd,
And stuns the neighbours round.
A querulous old woman’s voice
His humorous talent next employs,
He scolds, and gives the lie.
And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,
Poor Poll is like to die!
Belinda and her bird! ’tis rare
To meet with such a well match’d pair,
The language and the tone,
Each character in every part
Sustain’d with so much grace and art,
And both in unison.
When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,
We think them tedious creatures;
But difficulties soon abate,
When birds are to be taught to prate,
And women are the teachers.
ON THE PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD.
SWEET babe, whose image here expressed
Does thy peaceful slumbers show;
Guilt or fear, to break thy rest,
Never did thy spirit know.
Soothing slumbers, soft repose,
Such as mock the painter’s skill,
Such as innocence bestows,
Harmless infant, lull thee still!
THE THRACIAN.
Thracian parents, at his birth,
Mourn their babe with many a tear,
But, with undissembled mirth,
Place him breathless on his bier.
Greece and Rome, with equal scorn,
“O the savages!” exclaim,
“Whether they rejoice or mourn,
Well entitled to the name!”
But the cause of this concern
And this pleasure would they trace,
Even they might somewhat learn
From the savages of Thrace.
RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.
Androcles, from his injured lord, in dread
Of instant death, to Lybia’s desert fled,
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parch’d with heat,
He spied at length a cavern’s cool retreat;
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roar’d approaching: but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed — arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, and implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand;
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day
Regales his inmate with the parted prey.
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live — still lost — sequester’d still —
Scarce seem’d his lord’s revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must — he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doom’d to perish on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands:
When lo! the selfsame lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famish’d into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And, soften’d by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment, the assembly gaze:
But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze?
All this is natural: nature bade him rend
An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
A MANUAL, MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.
There is a book, which we may call
(Its excellence is such)
Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains:
And thing with words compared,
Who needs be told, that has his brains,
Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
And open’d, it displays to view
Twelve pages at the most.
Nor name, nor title, stamp’d behind,
Adorns its outer part;
But all within ’tis richly lined,
A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit: and the fair
Preserve it in their bosoms stored,
As with a miser’s care.
Thence implements of every size,
And form’d for various use
(They need but to consult their eyes),
They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page;
A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such, from age.
The full charged leaf which next ensues,
Presents in bright array
The smaller sort, which matrons use,
Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Who with a more discerning eye
Perform a nicer task.
But still with regular decrease,
From size to size they fall,
In every leaf grow less and less;
The last are least of all.
Oh! what a fund of genius, pent
In narrow space is here!
This volume’s method and intent
How luminous and clear!
It leaves no reader at a loss
Or posed, whoever reads:
No commentator’s tedious gloss,
Nor even index needs.
Search Bodley’s many thousands o’er!
No book is treasured there,
Nor yet in Granta’s numerous store,
That may with this compare.
No! — rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen,
Or, that contents could justly boast,
So brilliant and so keen.
AN ENIGMA.
A needle, small as small can be,
In bulk and use surpasses me,
Nor is my purchase dear;
For little, and almost for nought
As many of my kind are bought
As days are in the year.
Yet though but little use we boast,
And are procured at little cost,
The labour is not light;
Nor few artificers it asks,
All skilful in their several tasks,
To fashion us aright,
One fuses metal o’er the fire,
A second draws it into wire,
The shears another plies;
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Who clips in length the brazen thread
From him who, chafing every shred,
Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob with which it must be crown’d;
His follower makes it fast;
And with his mallet and his file
To shape the point, employs awhile
The seventh and the last.
Now, therefore, Œdipus! declare
What creature, wonderful, and rare,
A process that obtains
Its purpose with so much ado
At last produces! — tell me true,
And take me for your pains!
SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
None ever shared the social feast,
Or as an inmate or a guest,
Beneath the celebrated dome
Where once Sir Isaac had his home,
Who saw not (and with some delight
Perhaps he view’d the novel sight)
How numerous, at the tables there,
The sparrows beg their daily fare.
For there, in every nook and cell
Where such a family may dwell,
Sure as the vernal season comes
Their nest they weave in hope of crumbs,
Which kindly given, may serve with food
Convenient their unfeather’d brood;
And oft as with its summons clear
The warning bell salutes their ear,
Sagacious listeners to the sound,
They flock from all the fields around;
To reach the hospitable hall,
None more attentive to the call.
Arrived, the pensionary band,
Hopping and chirping, close at hand,
Solicit what they soon receive:
The sprinkled, plenteous donative.
Thus is a multitude, though large,
Supported at a trivial charge;
A single doit would overpay
The expenditure of every day,
And who can grudge so small a grace
To suppliants, natives of the place.
FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.
As in her ancient mistress’ lap
The youthful tabby lay,
They gave each other many a tap,
Alike disposed to play.
But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm,
And with protruded claws
Ploughs all the length of Lydia’s arm,
Mere wantonness the cause.
At once, resentful of the deed,
She shakes her to the ground
With many a threat that she shall bleed
With still a deeper wound.
But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest:
It was a venial stroke:
For she that will with kittens jest
Should bear a kitten’s joke.
INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.
Sweet bird, whom the winter constrains —
And seldom another it can —
To seek a retreat while he reigns
In the well-shelter’d dwellings of man,
Who never can seem to intrude,
Though in all places equally free,
Come oft as the season is rude,
Thou art sure to be welcome to me.
At sight of the first feeble ray
That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day
My windows shall show thee a feast.
For, taught by experience, I know,
Thee mindful of benefit long;
And that, thankful for all I bestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song.
Then, soon as the swell of the buds
Bespeaks the renewal of spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing:
And shouldst thou, compell’d by a frost,
Come again to my window or door,
Doubt not an affectionate host,
Only pay as thou paid’st me before.
This music must needs be confess’d
To flow from a fountain above;
Else how should it work in the breast
Unchangeable friendship and love?
And who on the globe can be found,
Save your generation and ours,
That can be delighted by sound,
Or boasts any musical powers?
STRADA’S NIGHTINGALE.
The shepherd touch’d his reed; sweet Philomel
Essay’d, and oft essay’d to catch the strain,
And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,
The numbers, echo’d note for note again.
The peevish youth, who ne’er had found before
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
And soon (for various was his tuneful store)
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.
She dared the task, and, rising as he rose,
With all the force that passion gives inspired,
Return’d the sounds awhile, but in the close
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expired.
Thus strength, not skill prevail’d. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun;
And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,
And he may wish that he had never won!
ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.
Ancient dame, how wide and vast
To a race like ours appears,
Rounded to an orb at last,
All thy multitude of years!
We, the herd of human kind,
Frailer and of feebler powers;
We, to narrow bounds confined,
Soon exhaust the sum of ours.
Death’s delicious banquet — we
Perish even from the womb,
Swifter than a shadow flee,
Nourish’d but to feed the tomb.
Seeds of merciless disease
Lurk in all that we enjoy;
Some that waste us by degrees,
Some that suddenly destroy.
And, if life o’erleap the bourn
Common to the sons of men,
What remains, but that we mourn,
Dream, and dote, and drivel then?
Fast as moons can wax and wane
Sorrow comes; and, while we groan,
Pant with anguish, and complain,
Half our years are fled and gone.
If a few (to few ’tis given),
Lingering on this earthly stage,
Creep and halt with steps uneven
To the period of an age,
Wherefore live they, but to see
Cunning, arrogance, and force,
Sights lamented much by thee,
Holding their accustom’d course?
Oft was seen, in ages past,
All that we with wonder view;
Often shall be to the last;
Earth produces nothing new.
Thee we gratulate, content
Should propitious Heaven design
Life for us as calmly spent,
Though but half the length of thine.
THE CAUSE WON.
Two neighbours furiously dispute;
A field — the subject of the suit.
Trivial the spot, yet such the rage
With which the combatants engage,
‘Twere hard to tell who covets most
The prize — at whatsoever cost.
The pleadings swell. Words still suffice:
No single word but has its price.
No term but yields some fair pretence
For novel and increased expense.
Defendant thus becomes a name,
Which he that bore it may disclaim,
Since both in one description blended,
Are plaintiffs — when the suit is ended.
THE SILKWORM.
The beams of April, ere it goes,
A worm, scarce visible, disclose;
All winter long content to dwell
The tenant of his native shell.
The same prolific season gives
The sustenance by which he lives,
The mulberry leaf, a simple store,
That serves him — till he needs no more!
For, his dimensions once complete,
Thenceforth none ever sees him eat;
Though till his growing time be past
Scarce ever is he seen to fast.
That hour arrived, his work begins.
He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins;
Till circle upon circle, wound
Careless around him and around,
Conceals him with a veil, though slight,
Impervious to the keenest sight.
Thus self-enclosed, as in a cask,
At length he finishes his task;
And, though a worm when he was lost,
Or caterpillar at the most,
When next we see him, wings he wears,
And in papilio pomp appears;
Becomes oviparous; supplies
With future worms and future flies
The next ensuing year — and dies!
Well were it for the world, if all
Who creep about this earthly ball,
Though shorter-lived than most he be,
Were useful in their kind as he.
THE INNOCENT THIEF.
Not a flower can be found in the fields,
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure,
From the largest to the least, but it yields
The bee never wearied a treasure.
Scarce any she quits unexplored
With a diligence truly exact;
Yet, steal what she may for her hoard
Leaves evidence none of the fact.
Her lucrative task she pursues,
And pilfers with so much address,