'Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat
To peep at such a world, to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
Again, invoking evening, he says:
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift:
And whether I devote the gentle hours of evening
To books, to music, or the poet's toil,
To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit,
Or turning silken threads round ivory reels,
When they command whom man was born to please.
Could there well be a more feminine picture than that? All the politics,
commerce, passions, conflicts of the world are shut out by Mrs. Unwin's
comfortable curtains, and, with her and Lady Austen for sympathising
companions, the poet fills his time, with perfect satisfaction, by holding
their skeins of wool, and meditating such homely lines as these:
For I, contented with a humble theme,
Have poured my stream of panegyric down
The vale of nature where it creeps and winds
Among her lovely works, with a secure
And unambitious ease reflecting clear
If not the virtues, yet the worth of brutes.
And I am recompensed, and deem the toils
Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine
May stand between an animal and woe,
And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.
Cowper was never married, nor ever, as far as I know, in love, though Lady
Austen, to her and his misfortune, for a time seemed to fancy he was; and
in his verse therefore we do not meet with the note of amatory sentiment.
But what love is there in this world more beautiful, more touching, more
truly romantic, than the love of a mother for her son, and of a son for
his mother? And where has it been more charmingly expressed than in
Cowper's lines on the receipt of his mother's picture? After that
beautiful outburst--
O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last
--he proceeds to recall the home, the scenes, the tender incidents of his
childhood, but, most of all, the fond care bestowed on him by his mother:
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid,
Thy fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they were and glowed,
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interposed too often makes;
All this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honour to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
The lines are not in what is called the highest vein of poetry. They have
not the bluff masculinity of Chaucer. They lack the magic of Spenser. They
do not purify the passions through terror as is done by _Lear_ or
_Macbeth_, and they are much inferior in majesty to the