William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  E’er dress’d Alcinous’ gardens half so gay.

  A silver current, like the Tagus, roll’d

  O’er golden sands, but sands of purer gold,

  With dewy airs Favonius fann’d the flow’rs,

  With airs awaken’d under rosy bow’rs.

  Such poets feign, irradiated all o’er

  The sun’s abode on India’s utmost shore. 50

  While I, that splendour and the mingled shade

  Of fruitful vines, with wonder fixt survey’d,

  At once, with looks that beam’d celestial grace,

  The Seer of Winton stood before my face.

  His snowy vesture’s hem descending low

  His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow

  New-fallen shone the mitre on his brow.

  Where’er he trod, a tremulous sweet sound

  Of gladness shook the flow’ry scene around:

  Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 60

  The trumpet shakes the sky, all aether rings,

  Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast,

  And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest.

  “Ascend, my son! thy Father’s kingdom share,

  My son! henceforth be free’d from ev’ry care.”

  So spake the voice, and at its tender close

  With psaltry’s sound th’Angelic band arose.

  Then night retired, and chased by dawning day

  The visionary bliss pass’d all away.

  I mourn’d my banish’d sleep with fond concern, 70

  Frequent, to me may dreams like this return.

  ELEGY IV

  Anno Aetates 18.

  To My Tutor, Thomas Young,

  Chaplain of the English Merchants Resident at Hamburg.

  Hence, my epistle — skim the Deep — fly o’er

  Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!

  Haste — lest a friend should grieve for thy delay —

  And the Gods grant that nothing thwart thy way!

  I will myself invoke the King who binds

  In his Sicanian ecchoing vault the winds,

  With Doris and her Nymphs, and all the throng

  Of azure Gods, to speed thee safe along.

  But rather, to insure thy happier haste,

  Ascend Medea’s chariot, if thou may’st, 10

  Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore

  Descended welcome on the Scythian shore.

  The sands that line the German coast descried,

  To opulent Hamburg turn aside,

  So call’d, if legendary fame be true,

  From Hama, whom a club-arm’d Cimbrian slew.

  There lives, deep-learn’d and primitively just,

  A faithful steward of his Christian trust,

  My friend, and favorite inmate of my heart —

  That now is forced to want its better part! 20

  What mountains now, and seas, alas! how wide!

  From me this other, dearer self divide,

  Dear, as the sage renown’d for moral truth

  To the prime spirit of the Attic youth!

  Dear, as the Stagyrite to Ammon’s son,

  His pupil, who disdain’d the world he won!

  Nor so did Chiron, or so Phoenix shine 0

  In young Achilles’ eyes, as He in mine.

  First led by him thro’ sweet Aonian1 shade

  Each sacred haunt of Pindus I survey’d; 30

  And favor’d by the muse, whom I implor’d,

  Thrice on my lip the hallow’d stream I pour’d.

  But thrice the Sun’s resplendent chariot roll’d

  To Aries, has new ting’d his fleece with gold,

  And Chloris twice has dress’d the meadows gay,

  And twice has Summer parch’d their bloom away,

  Since last delighted on his looks I hung,

  Or my ear drank the music of his tongue.

  Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest’s speed!

  Aware thyself that there is urgent need. 40

  Him, ent’ring, thou shalt haply seated see

  Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee,

  Or turning page by page with studious look

  Some bulky Father, or God’s Holy Book,

  Or minist’ring (which is his weightiest care)

  To Christ’s assembled flock their heav’nly fare.

  Give him, whatever his employment be,

  Such gratulation as he claims from me,

  And with a down-cast eye and carriage meek

  Addressing him, forget not thus to speak. 50

  If, compass’d round with arms, thou canst attend

  To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend,

  Long due and late I left the English shore,

  But make me welcome for that cause the more.

  Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer,

  The slow epistle came, tho’ late, sincere.

  But wherefore This? why palliate I a deed,

  For which the culprit’s self could hardly plead?

  Self-charged and self-condemn’d, his proper part

  He feels neglected, with an aching heart; 60

  But Thou forgive — Delinquents who confess,

  And pray forgiveness, merit anger less;

  From timid foes the lion turns away,

  Nor yawns upon or rends a crouching prey,

  Even pike-wielding Thracians learn to spare,

  Won by soft influence of a suppliant’s prayer;

  And heav’n’s dread thunderbolt arrested stands

  By a cheap victim and uplifted hands.

  Long had he wish’d to write, but was witheld,

  And writes at last, by love alone compell’d, 70

  For Fame, too often true when she alarms,

  Reports thy neighbouring-fields a scene of arms; 2

  Thy city against fierce besiegers barr’d,

  And all the Saxon Chiefs for fight prepar’d.

  Enyo3 wastes thy country wide around,

  And saturates with blood the tainted ground;

  Mars rests contented in his Thrace no more,

  But goads his steeds to fields of German gore,

  The ever-verdant olive fades and dies,

  And peace, the trumpet-hating goddess, flies, 80

  Flies from that earth which justice long had left,

  And leaves the world of its last guard bereft.

  Thus horror girds thee round. Meantime alone

  Thou dwell’st, and helpless in a soil unknown,

  Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand

  The aid denied thee in thy native land.

  Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more

  Than thy own billow-beaten chalky shore!

  Leav’st Thou to foreign Care the Worthies giv’n

  By providence, to guide thy steps to Heav’n? 90

  His ministers, commission’d to proclaim

  Eternal blessings in a Saviour’s name?

  Ah then most worthy! with a soul unfed

  In Stygian night to lie for ever dead.

  So once the venerable Tishbite stray’d

  An exil’d fugitive from shade to shade,

  When, flying Ahab and his Fury wife,

  In lone Arabian wilds he shelter’d life;

  So, from Philippi wander’d forth forlorn

  Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn; 100

  And Christ himself so left and trod no more

  The thankless Gergesenes’ forbidden shore.

  But thou take courage, strive against despair,

  Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care.

  Grim war indeed on ev’ry side appears,

  And thou art menac’d by a thousand spears,

  Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend

  Ev’n the defenceless bosom of my friend;

  For thee the Aegis of thy God shall hide,

  Jehova’s self shall combat on thy side, 110


  The same, who vanquish’d under Sion’s tow’rs

  At silent midnight all Assyria’s pow’rs,

  The same who overthrew in ages past,

  Damascus’ sons that lay’d Samaria waste;

  Their King he fill’d and them with fatal fears

  By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears,

  Of hoofs and wheels and neighings from afar

  Of clanging armour and the din of war.

  Thou therefore, (as the most affiicted may)

  Still hope, and triumph o’er thy evil day, 120

  Look forth, expecting happier times to come,

  And to enjoy once more thy native home!

  ELEGY V

  Anno Aetates 20.

  On the Approach of Spring.

  Time, never wand’ring from his annual round,

  Bids Zephyr breathe the Spring, and thaw the ground;

  Bleak Winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain,

  And earth assumes her transient youth again.

  Dream I, or also to the Spring belong

  Increase of Genius, and new pow’rs of song?

  Spring gives them, and, how strange soere it seem,

  Impels me now to some harmonious theme.

  Castalia’s fountain and the forked hill

  By day, by night, my raptur’d fancy fill, 10

  My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within

  A sacred sound that prompts me to begin,

  Lo! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he blends

  The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends;

  I mount, and, undepress’d by cumb’rous clay,

  Through cloudy regions win my easy way;

  Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly:

  The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,

  My spirit searches all the realms of light,

  And no Tartarean gulphs elude my sight. 20

  But this ecstatic trance — this glorious storm

  Of inspiration — what will it perform?

  Spring claims the verse that with his influence glows,

  And shall be paid with what himself bestows.

  Thou, veil’d with op’ning foliage, lead’st the throng

  Of feather’d minstrels, Philomel! in song;

  Let us, in concert, to the season sing,

  Civic, and sylvan heralds of the spring!

  With notes triumphant spring’s approach declare!

  To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear! 30

  The Orient left and Aethiopia’s plains

  The Sun now northward turns his golden reins,

  Night creeps not now, yet rules with gentle sway,

  And drives her dusky horrors swift away;

  Now less fatigued on his aetherial plain

  Bootes follows his celestial wain;

  And now the radiant centinels above

  Less num’rous watch around the courts of Jove,

  For, with the night, Force, Ambush, Slaughter fly,

  And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. 40

  Now haply says some shepherd, while he views,

  Recumbent on a rock, the redd’ning dews,

  This night, this surely, Phoebus miss’d the fair,

  Who stops his chariot by her am’rous care.

  Cynthia, delighted by the morning’s glow,

  Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow;

  Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear,

  Blesses his aid who shortens her career.

  Come — Phoebus cries — Aurora come — too late

  Thou linger’st slumb’ring with thy wither’d mate, 50

  Leave Him, and to Hymettus’ top repair,

  Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there.

  The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays,

  But mounts, and driving rapidly obeys.

  Earth now desires thee, Phoebus! and, t’engage

  Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age.

  Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet,

  When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat?

  Her breath imparts to ev’ry breeze that blows

  Arabia’s harvest and the Paphian rose. 60

  Her lofty front she diadems around

  With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown’d,

  Her dewy locks with various flow’rs new-blown,

  She interweaves, various, and all her own,

  For Proserpine in such a wreath attired

  Taenarian Dis himself with love inspired.

  Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the Nymph refuse,

  Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs sues,

  Each courts thee fanning soft his scented wing,

  And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. 70

  Nor, unendow’d and indigent, aspires

  Th’am’rous Earth to engage thy warm desires,

  But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim

  Divine Physician! to that glorious name.

  If splendid recompense, if gifts can move

  Desire in thee (gifts often purchase love),

  She offers all the wealth, her mountains hide,

  And all that rests beneath the boundless tide.

  How oft, when headlong from the heav’nly steep

  She sees thee plunging in the Western Deep 80

  How oft she cries — Ah Phoebus! why repair

  Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there?

  Can Tethys win thee? wherefore should’st thou lave

  A face so fair in her unpleasant wave?

  Come, seek my green retreats, and rather chuse

  To cool thy tresses in my chrystal dews,

  The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest,

  Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,

  And breathing fresh through many a humid rose,

  Soft whisp’ring airs shall lull thee to repose. 90

  No fears I feel like Semele to die,

  Nor lest thy burning wheels approach too nigh,

  For thou can’st govern them. Here therefore rest,

  And lay thy evening glories on my breast.

  Thus breathes the wanton Earth her am’rous flame,

  And all her countless offspring feel the same;

  For Cupid now through every region strays

  Bright’ning his faded fires with solar rays,

  His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound,

  And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound, 100

  Nor Dian’s self escapes him now untried,

  Nor even Vesta at her altar-side;

  His mother too repairs her beauty’s wane,

  And seems sprung newly from the Deep again.

  Exulting youths the Hymenaeal0 sing,

  With Hymen’s name roofs, rocks, and valleys ring;

  He, new attired and by the season dress’d

  Proceeds all fragrant in his saffron vest.

  Now, many a golden-cinctur’d virgin roves

  To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 110

  All wish, and each alike, some fav’rite youth

  Hers in the bonds of Hymenaeal truth.

  Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,

  Nor Phyllis wants a song that suits the strain,

  With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere,

  And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear,

  Jove feels, himself, the season, sports again

  With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train.

  Now too the Satyrs in the dusk of Eve

  Their mazy dance through flow’ry meadows weave, 120

  And neither God nor goat, but both in kind,

  Sylvanus,1 wreath’d with cypress, skips behind.

  The Dryads leave the hollow sylvan cells

  To roam the banks, and solitary dells;

  Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe

  Ceres2 and Cybele seem hardly safe,

  And Faunus,3 all on fire to reach the
prize,

  In chase of some enticing Oread4 flies;

  She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,

  And hidden lies, but wishes to be found. 130

  Our shades entice th’Immortals from above,

  And some kind Pow’r presides oter ev’ry grove,

  And long ye Pow’rs o’er ev’ry grove preside,

  For all is safe and blest where ye abide!

  Return O Jove! the age of gold restore —

  Why chose to dwell where storms and thunders roar?

  At least, thou, Phoebus! moderate thy speed,

  Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed,

  Command rough Winter back, nor yield the pole

  Too soon to Night’s encroaching, long control. 140

  ELEGY VI

  To Charles Diodati,

  When He Was Visiting in the Country

  Who sent the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.

  With no rich viands overcharg’d, I send

  Health, which perchance you want, my pamper’d friend;

  But wherefore should thy Muse tempt mine away

  From what she loves, from darkness into day?

  Art thou desirous to be told how well

  I love thee, and in verse? Verse cannot tell.

  For verse has bounds, and must in measure move;

  But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.

  How pleasant in thy lines described appear

  December’s harmless sports and rural cheer! 10

  French spirits kindling with caerulean fires,

  And all such gambols as the time inspires!

  Think not that Wine against good verse offends;

  The Muse and Bacchus have been always friends,

  Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found

  With Ivy, rather than with Laurel, crown’d.

  The Nine themselves oftimes have join’d the song

  And revels of the Bacchanalian throng.

  Not even Ovid could in Scythian air

  Sing sweetly — why? no vine would flourish there. 20

  What in brief numbers sang Anacreon’s muse?

  Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews.

  Pindar with Bacchus glows — his every line

  Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine,

  While, with loud crash o’erturn’d, the chariot lies

  And brown with dust the fiery courser flies.

  The Roman lyrist steep’d in wine his lays

  So sweet in Glycera’s, and Chloe’s praise.

  Now too the plenteous feast, and mantling bowl