Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born.
That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within.
This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow.
In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose,
Possess'd of every kind.
Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head
Wing'd broad on either side,
The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat,
As luxury could provide.
Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight
'Twixt birds to battle train'd.
One feathered champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.
It chanced at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desperate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.
The master storm'd, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,
He doom'd his favourite dead.
He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird,
Alive and struggling, tied.
The horrid sequel asks a veil;
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be shall be sunk--
Led by the sufferer's screams aright
His shock'd companions view the sight,
And him with fury drunk.
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.
But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch'd his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,
Big with a curse too closely pent,
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.
'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgment of the skies;
But judgments plain as this,
That, sent for man's instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,
'Tis hard to read amiss.
May, 1789.
TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.
BY AN OLD SCHOOLFELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER.
Hastings! I knew thee young, and of a mind,
While young, humane, conversable, and kind,
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle then,
Now grown a villain, and the worst of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppress'd
And worried thee, as not themselves the best.
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON,
ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE'S ODE, "AD LIBRUM SUUM."
Maria, could Horace have guess'd
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address'd,
The honour which you have bestow'd;
Who have traced it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat,
He had laugh'd at the critical sneer
Which he seems to have trembled to meet.
And sneer, if you please, he had said,
A nymph shall hereafter arise,
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well.
Feb. 1790.
TO THE IMMORTAL MEMORY OF THE HALIBUT,
ON WHICH I DINED THIS DAY, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 1784.
Where hast thou floated, in what seas pursued
Thy pastime? when wast thou an egg new spawn'd,
Lost in the immensity of ocean's waste?
Roar as they might, the overbearing winds
That rock'd the deep, thy cradle, thou wast safe--
And in thy minikin and embryo state,
Attach'd to the firm leaf of some salt weed,
Didst outlive tempests, such as wrung and rack'd
The joints of many a stout and gallant bark,
And whelm'd them in the unexplored abyss.
Indebted to no magnet and no chart,
Nor under guidance of the polar fire,
Thou wast a voyager on many coasts,
Grazing at large in meadows submarine,
Where flat Batavia, just emerging, peeps
Above the brine--where Caledonia's rocks
Beat back the surge--and where Hibernia shoots
Her wondrous causeway far into the main.
--Wherever thou hast fed, thou little thoughtst,
And I not more, that I should feed on thee.
Peace, therefore, and good health, and much good fish,
To him who sent thee! and success, as oft
As it descends into the billowy gulf,
To the same drag that caught thee!--Fare thee well!
Thy lot thy brethren of the slimy fin
Would envy, could they know that thou wast doom'd
To feed a bard, and to be praised in verse.
INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE
ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE SEAT OF
T. GIFFARD, ESQ. 1790.
Other stones the era tell
When some feeble mortal fell;
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost--these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay,
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree,
Spread its branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.
Cherish honour, virtue, truth,
So shalt thou prolong thy youth.
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fix'd and form'd to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
June, 1790.
ANOTHER,
For a stone erected on a similar occasion at the same place in the
following year.
Reader! behold a monument
That asks no sigh or tear,
Though it perpetuate the event
Of a great burial here.
June, 1790.
Anno 1791.
TO MRS. KING,
On her kind present to the author, a patchwork counterpane of her
own making.
The bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken'd by a call
Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair,
Who deigns to deck his bed.
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,
(As Homer's epic shows)
Composed of sweetest vernal flowers,
Without the aid of sun or showers,
For Jove and Juno rose.
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain,
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.
What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan'd for me!
Should every maiden come
To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.
And oh, what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of every hue
All in a moment fled!
As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers--
Each pocketing a shred.
Thanks then to every gentle fair
Who will not come to peck me bare
As bird of borrow'd feather,
And thanks to one above them all,
The gentle fair of Pertenhall,
Who put the whole together.
August, 1790.
IN MEMORY OF
THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.
Poets attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And, next, commemorating worthies lost,
The dead in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore,
Thee, Thornton! worthy in some page to shine,
As honest and more eloquent than mine,
I mourn; or, since thrice happy thou must be,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee.
Thee to deplore were grief misspent indeed;
It were to weep that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepared in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous when they die.
What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess afford,
Sweet as the privilege of healing woe
By virtue suffer'd combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heaven gave thee means
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes,
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food;
Avarice in thee was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable or by stealth,
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven
Surpassing all that mine or mint had given.
And, though God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still by motives of religious force
Impell'd thee more to that heroic course,
Yet was thy liberality discreet,
Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat;
And, though in act unwearied, secret still,
As in some solitude the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen.
Such was thy charity: no sudden start,
After long sleep, of passion in the heart,
But stedfast principle, and, in its kind,
Of close relation to the Eternal Mind,
Traced easily to its true source above,
To him whose works bespeak his nature, love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel's sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and power exemplified in thee.
Nov. 1790.
THE FOUR AGES.
(A BRIEF FRAGMENT OF AN EXTENSIVE PROJECTED POEM.)
"I could be well content, allowed the use
Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd
From worn-out follies, now acknowledged such,
To recommence life's trial, in the hope
Of fewer errors, on a second proof!"
Thus, while grey evening lull'd the wind, and call'd
Fresh odours from the shrubbery at my side,
Taking my lonely winding walk, I mused,
And held accustom'd conference with my heart;
When from within it thus a voice replied:
"Couldst thou in truth? and art thou taught at length
This wisdom, and but this, from all the past?
Is not the pardon of thy long arrear,
Time wasted, violated laws, abuse
Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err
With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect?"
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd--what is man.
Knows he his origin? can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? And in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve and die.
May, 1791.
THE RETIRED CAT.[831]
[831] Cowper's partiality to animals is well known. Lady Hesketh,
in one of her letters, states, "that he had, at one time, five
rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a jay, and a
starling; besides two goldfinches, two canary birds, and two
dogs. It is amazing how the three hares can find room to gambol
and frolic (as they certainly do) in his small parlour;" and she
adds, "I forgot to enumerate a squirrel, which he had at the same
time, and which used to play with one of the hares continually.
One evening, the cat giving one of the hares a sound box on the
ear, the hare ran after her, and, having caught her, punished her
by drumming on her back with her two feet as hard as drum-sticks,
till the creature would have actually been killed, had not Mrs.
Unwin rescued her."
A poet's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick--
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending, debonnair,
An apple tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering pot:
There, wanting nothing save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change, it seems, has place
Not only in our wiser race;
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within:
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use,
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression,
Survey'd the scene, and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast;
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held.
Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)
"Was ever cat attended thus?
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid, and it was closed,
How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!
O what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away,
(With her indeed 'twas never day,)
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening grey again ensued,
And puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb'd the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.
That night, by chance, the poet watching,
Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said--"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him and dispell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Any thing rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head:
MORAL.
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence:
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around, in all that's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
1791.
THE JUDGMENT OF THE POETS.
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,
Of numerous charms possess'd,
A warm dispute once chanced to wage,
Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been complete
Had both alike been mild:
But one, although her smile was sweet,
Frown'd oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frown'd,
Would raise her voice, and roar,
And shake with fury to the ground
The garland that she wore.
The other was of gentler cast,
From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,
And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song
The nymphs referr'd the cause,
Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong,
And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,
The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft,
That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,
Or so resolved to err--
In short the charms her sister had
They lavish'd all on her.
Then thus the god, whom fondly they
Their great inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day,
To reprimand them all.
"Since thus ye have combined," he said,
"My favourite nymph to slight,
Adorning May, that peevish maid,
With June's undoubted right,
"The minx shall, for your folly's sake,
Still prove herself a shrew,
Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,
And pinch your noses blue."
May, 1791.
YARDLEY OAK.[832]
[832] This tree had been known by the name of _Judith_ for many
ages. Perhaps it received that name on being planted by the
Countess Judith, niece to the Conqueror, whom he gave in marriage
to the English Earl Waltheof, with the counties of Northampton
and Huntingdon as her dower. _Vide_ Letters, p. 301.
Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all
That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,
(Since which I number threescore winters past,)
A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,
As now, and with excoriate forks deform,
Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued
With truth from heaven, created thing adore,
I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.
It seems idolatry with some excuse,
When our forefather druids in their oaks
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet
Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine,
Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom
Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste
Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.
But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains
Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil
Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared
The soft receptacle, in which, secure,
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.
So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,
Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss,
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!
Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clod
Swelling with vegetative force instinct,
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins,
Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact;
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,
And, all the elements thy puny growth
Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.
Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, could'st thou speak,
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
Oracular, I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.
By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,
The clock of history, facts and events
Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts
Recovering, and misstated setting right--
Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again!
Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;
And time hath made thee what thou art--a cave
For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs
O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope
Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm.
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived
Thy popularity, and art become
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing
Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.
While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd
Of treeship--first a seedling, hid in grass;
Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd
Slow after century, a giant bulk
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root
Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd
With prominent wens globose--till at the last
The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict
On other mighty ones, found also thee.
What exhibitions various hath the world
Witness'd of mutability in all
That we account most durable below?
Change is the diet on which all subsist,
Created changeable, and change at last,
Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds--
Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought,
Invigorate by turns the springs of life
In all that live, plant, animal, and man,
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,
Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works,
Delight in agitation, yet sustain
The force that agitates not unimpair'd;
But worn by frequent impulse, to the cause
Of their best tone their dissolution owe.
Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still
The great and little of thy lot, thy growth
From almost nullity into a state
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence,
Slow, into such magnificent decay.
Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a fly
Could shake thee to the root--and time has been
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck
Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold,
Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load![833]
But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply
The bottomless demands of contest waged
For senatorial honours. Thus to time
The task was left to whittle thee away
With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved,
Achieved a labour which had, far and wide,
By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.
Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self
Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink,
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root,
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st
The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite.
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock,
A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,
Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.
So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth
Pulverized of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself!
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild
With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left
A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white;
And some memorial none where once they grew.
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth
Proof not contemptible of what she can,
Even where death predominates. The spring
Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force
Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood,
So much thy juniors, who their birth received
Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well-qualified by age
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice
May be expected from thee, seated here
On thy distorted root, with hearers none,
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform
Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may.
One man alone, the father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gazed,
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,
Nor owed articulation to his ear;
But, moulded by his Maker into man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd
To each his name significant, and, fill'd
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven
In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excused the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charged his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind
With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course,
Eventful, should supply her with a theme....
1791.
[833] Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which,
by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle
formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE,
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Whence is it that, amazed, I hear
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou, rather, under force
Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
Of happier days at hand!
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need'st to sing
To make e'en January charm,
And every season spring.
1792.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM
OF MISS PATTY MORE'S, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.
In vain to live from age to age
While modern bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty's page,
And gain my point for ever.
W. COWPER.
March 6, 1792.
SONNET
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd
From exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.
Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the ear
Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; [pause
Hope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold caution
And weave delay, the better hour is near
That shall remunerate thy toils severe,
By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth and all the blest above.
April 16, 1792.
EPIGRAM
PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.
To purify their wine, some people bleed
A lamb into the barrel, and succeed;
No nostrum, planters say, is half so good
To make fine sugar as a negro's blood.
Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,
And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs,
'Tis in the blood of innocence alone--
Good cause why planters never try their own.
TO DR. AUSTIN,
OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.
Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.
Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in my verse may find;
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died:
And O! could I command the glittering wealth
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health!
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give,
I would not recompense his arts with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.
Friend of my friend![834] I love thee, though unknown,
And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
May 26, 1792.
[834] Hayley.
CATHARINA:
THE SECOND PART: ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.
Believe it or not, as you choose,
The doctrine is certainly true,
That the future is known to the muse,
And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire
To see Catharina at home,
At the side of my friend George's fire,
And lo--she is actually come!
Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approved in the skies,
And therefore attains to its end.
'Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm'd
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form'd.
Maria[835] would leave us, I knew,
To the grief and regret of us all,
But less to our grief, could we view
Catharina the Queen of the Hall.
And therefore I wish'd as I did,
And therefore this union of hands:
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry--Amen--to the bans.
Since, therefore, I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain
When making good wishes for her,
I will e'en to my wishes again--
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life--
How soon I can make her a mother.
June, 1792.
[835] Lady Throckmorton.
EPITAPH ON FOP,
A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim.
No sycophant, although of spaniel race,
And though no hound, a martyr to the chace--
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
"Yes,"--the indignant shade of Fop replies--
"And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies."
August, 1792.
SONNET TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ.
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS,
Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of
August and September, 1792.
Romney, expert infallibly to trace
On chart or canvass, not the form alone
And semblance, but however faintly shown,
The mind's impression too on every face--
With strokes that time ought never to erase,
Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark--that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear.
Well--I am satisfied it should be so,
Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou see
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
October, 1792.
MARY AND JOHN.
If John marries Mary, and Mary alone,
'Tis a very good match between Mary and John.
Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!
It can't be a match--'tis a bundle of matches.
EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER,
OF CHICHELEY.
Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who knew him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep--
And justly--few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.
April, 1793.
TO MY COUSIN, ANNE BODHAM,
On receiving from her a network purse made by herself.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kitten both in size and glee,
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love;--that gem's too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.
May 4, 1793.
INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR'S GARDEN.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to--the last retreat.
May, 1793.
TO MRS. UNWIN.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
May, 1793.
TO JOHN JOHNSON, ESQ.
On his presenting me with an antique bust of Homer.
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!
When I behold the fruit of thy regard,
The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,
I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:
Joy too and grief--much joy that there should be,
Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to reward
With some applause my bold attempt and hard,
Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.
The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,
I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,
Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,
Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.
Be wiser thou--like our forefather Donne,
Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
May, 1793.
TO A YOUNG FRIEND,
On his arriving at Cambridge wet when no rain had fallen there.
If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he found
While moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,
Might fitly represent the church, endow'd
With heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,
Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry:
Heaven grant us half the omen--may we see
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee!
May, 1793.
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,
Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eat
And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?
July 15, 1793.
BEAU'S REPLY.
Sir, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.
You cried--Forbear!--but in my breast
A mightier cried--Proceed!--
'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.
Yet, much as nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor.
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And lick'd the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse
My disobedience now,
Nor some reproof yourself refuse
From your aggrieved bow-wow:
If killing birds be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,)
What think you, Sir, of killing time
With verse address'd to me!
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,
Than any built of stone or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth!
But what his commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.
ANSWER
To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine
Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on
condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy.
To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few like her the same,
The press might sleep for me.
So Homer in the memory stored
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved--a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.
1793.
ON FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE.
The suitors sinn'd, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
September, 1793.
TO THE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRAVINA,
On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse.
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And steep'd not now in rain,
But in Castilian streams by you,
Will never fade again.
1793.
INSCRIPTION
FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.
Pause here, and think: a monitory rhyme
Demands one moment of thy fleeting time.
Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;
Seems it to say--"Health here has long to reign?"
Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eye
That beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?
Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,
Anticipates a day it never sees;
And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloud
Exclaims "Prepare thee for an early shroud."
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread
And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath this walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.
[Illustration: _J. Gilbert fecit._
_W. Greatbach sculp._
THE TAME HARE.
"THOUGH DULY FROM MY HAND HE TOOK,
HIS PITTANCE EVERY NIGHT,
HE DID IT WITH A JEALOUS LOOK,
AND WHEN HE COULD WOULD BITE."]
EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.
Hic etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit,
Puss.
Siste paulisper,
Qui præteriturus es,
Et tecum sic reputa--
Hunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laqueus,
Nec imbres nimii,
Confecêre:
Tamen mortuus est--
Et moriar ego.
The following account of the treatment of his hares was inserted
by Cowper in the Gentleman's Magazine.
In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind and body,
incapable of diverting myself either with company or books, and
yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary, I was glad
of any thing that would engage my attention, without fatiguing
it. The children of a neighbour of mine had a leveret given them
for a plaything; it was at that time about three months old.
Understanding better how to tease the poor creature than to
feed it, and soon becoming weary of their charge, they readily
consented that their father, who saw it pining and growing leaner
every day, should offer it to my acceptance. I was willing enough
to take the prisoner under my protection, perceiving that, in the
management of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I
should find just that sort of employment which my case required.
It was soon known among the neighbours that I was pleased with
the present, and the consequence was, that in a short time I had
as many leverets offered to me as would have stocked a paddock. I
undertook the care of three, which it is necessary that I should
here distinguish by the names I gave them--Puss, Tiney, and Bess.
Notwithstanding the two feminine appellatives, I must inform you,
that they were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I
built them houses to sleep in; each had a separate apartment, so
contrived that their ordure would pass through the bottom of it;
an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever fell, which
being duly emptied and washed, they were thus kept perfectly
sweet and clean. In the day time they had the range of a hall,
and at night retired each to his own bed, never intruding into
that of another.
Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise
himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples.
He would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him about in my
arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep upon my knee.
He was ill three days, during which time I nursed him, kept him
apart from his fellows, that they might not molest him (for,
like many other wild animals, they persecute one of their own
species that is sick,) and by constant care, and trying him with
a variety of herbs, restored him to perfect health. No creature
could be more grateful than my patient after his recovery; a
sentiment which he most significantly expressed by licking my
hand, first the back of it, then the palm, then every finger
separately, then between all the fingers, as if anxious to leave
no part of it unsaluted; a ceremony which he never performed
but once again upon a similar occasion. Finding him extremely
tractable, I made it my custom to carry him always after
breakfast into the garden, where he hid himself generally under
the leaves of a cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till
evening; in the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite
repast. I had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty,
before he began to be impatient for the return of the time when
he might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by drumming
upon my knee, and by a look of such expression as it was not
possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not immediately
succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between his teeth,
and pull it with all his force. Thus Puss might be said to be
perfectly tamed; the shyness of his nature was done away, and on
the whole it was visible by many symptoms, which I have not room
to enumerate, that he was happier in human society than, when
shut up with his natural companions.
Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not the least
effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness had an equal share
of my attention; but if, after his recovery, I took the liberty
to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with his fore feet, spring
forward, and bite. He was however very entertaining in his way;
even his surliness was matter of mirth, and in his play he
preserved such an air of gravity, and performed his feats with
such a solemnity of manner, that in him too I had an agreeable
companion.
Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose death
was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which had been
washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great humour and
drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage; Tiney was not to be
tamed at all; and Bess had a courage and confidence that made him
tame from the beginning. I always admitted them into the parlour
after supper, when, the carpet affording their feet a firm hold,
they would frisk, and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in
which Bess, being remarkably strong and fearless, was always
superior to the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the
party. One evening, the cat being in the room, had the hardiness
to pat Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by
drumming upon her back with such violence that the cat was happy
to escape from under his paws, and hide herself.
I describe these animals as having each a character of his
own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were so
expressive of that character, that, when I looked only on the
face of either, I immediately knew which it was. It is said
that a shepherd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes so
familiar with their features, that he can, by that indication
only, distinguish each from all the rest; and yet, to a common
observer, the difference is hardly perceptible. I doubt not that
the same discrimination in the cast of countenances would be
discoverable in hares, and am persuaded that among a thousand
of them no two could be found exactly similar: a circumstance
little suspected by those who have not had opportunity to observe
it. These creatures have a singular sagacity in discovering the
minutest alteration that is made in the place to which they are
accustomed, and instantly apply their nose to the examination
of a new object. A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was
mended with a patch, and that patch in a moment underwent the
strictest scrutiny. They seem too to be very much directed by
the smell in the choice of their favourites: to some persons,
though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled, and
would even scream when they attempted to touch them; but a miller
coming in engaged their affections at once; his powdered coat had
charms that were irresistible. It is no wonder that my intimate
acquaintance with these specimens of the kind has taught me to
hold the sportman's amusement in abhorrence; he little knows
what amiable creatures he persecutes, of what gratitude they are
capable, how cheerful they are in their spirits, what enjoyment
they have of life, and that, impressed as they seem with a
peculiar dread of man, it is only because man gives them peculiar
cause for it.
That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short summary of
those articles of diet that suit them best.
I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but it is
an erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple; they seem
rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of
almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their
favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered by
accident that fine white sand is in great estimation with them;
I suppose as a digestive. It happened, that I was cleaning a
birdcage when the hares were with me; I placed a pot filled with
such sand upon the floor, which, being at once directed to it by
a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously; since that time I
have generally taken care to see them well supplied with it. They
account green corn a delicacy, both blade and stalk, but the ear
they seldom eat: straw of any kind, especially wheat-straw, is
another of their dainties: they will feed greedily upon oats, but
if furnished with clean straw never want them; it serves them
also for a bed, and, if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and
dry for a considerable time. They do not indeed require aromatic
herbs, but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish,
and are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to
resemble sheep in this, that, if their pasture be too succulent,
they are very subject to the rot; to prevent which, I always made
bread their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan with it cut
into small squares, placed it every evening in their chambers,
for they feed only at evening and in the night; during the
winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I mingled this mess
of bread with shreds of carrot, adding to it the rind of apples
cut extremely thin; for, though they are fond of the paring, the
apple itself disgusts them. These however not being a sufficient
substitute for the juice of summer herbs, they must at this time
be supplied with water; but so placed, that they cannot overset
it into their beds. I must not omit, that occasionally they are
much pleased with twigs of hawthorn, and of the common brier,
eating even the very wood when it is of considerable thickness.
Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine years old,
and died at last, I have reason to think, of some hurt in his
loins by a fall; Puss is still living, and has just completed
his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor even of
age, except that he is grown more discreet and less frolicsome
than he was. I cannot conclude without observing, that I have
lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance, a spaniel that had
never seen a hare to a hare that had never seen a spaniel. I
did it with great caution, but there was no real need of it.
Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis the least symptom
of hostility. There is therefore, it should seem, no natural
antipathy between dog and hare, but the pursuit of the one
occasions the flight of the other, and the dog pursues because he
is trained to it; they eat bread at the same time out of the same
hand, and are in all respects sociable and friendly.
I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not add,
that they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they are
indefatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which purpose
nature has furnished them with a brush under each foot; and that
they are never infested by any vermin.
May 28, 1784.
MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER'S PAPERS.
Tuesday, March 9, 1786.
This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months. He died
between twelve and one at noon, of mere old age, and apparently
without pain.
* * * * *
A TALE[836]
[836] This tale is founded on an article which appeared in the
Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1793;--"Glasgow, May
23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert,
now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and
four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock,
and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is
occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds
have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest
but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends
to the hull for food."
In Scotland's realms, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found;
For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost
As hedgerows in the wild--
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late--
The history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.
The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd and the moors
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.
A ship!--could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest?
Hush--silent hearers profit most--
This racer of the sea
Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.
But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.
Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fix'd,
Form'd with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.
Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor
With russet specks bedight--
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.
The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
But goes the male? Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind.
No--soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love;
Then, perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair
Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man;
For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe--
Be it your fortune, year by year
The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!
June, 1793.
TO MARY.
The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah! would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flo
I see thee daily weaker gro
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more;
My Mary!
For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream:
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
Autumn of 1793.
THE CASTAWAY.
Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away:
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check 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.
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.
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.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd:
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--"Adieu!"
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
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.
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.
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 gulfs than he.
March 20, 1799.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
DEAR President, whose art sublime
Gives perpetuity to time,
And bids transactions of a day,
That fleeting hours would waft away
To dark futurity, survive,
And in unfading beauty live,--
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine--
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.
Thus say the sisterhood:--We come--
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints--
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.
First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Then slope it to a point below;
Your outline easy, airy, light,
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguine, horrid,
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:
Beneath (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
Each with a staring, stedfast eye,
Fix'd on his great and good ally.
France flies the kite--'tis on the wing--
Britannia's lightning cuts the string.
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,
Just rends it into thirteen pieces,
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet,
And lays them all at George's feet.
Iberia, trembling from afar,
Renounces the confederate war.
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,
France calls her shatter'd navies home.
Repenting Holland learns to mourn
The sacred treaties she has torn;
Astonishment and awe profound
Are stamp'd upon the nations round:
Without one friend, above all foes,
Britannia gives the world repose.
ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE.[837]
[837] Nominally by Robert Heron, Esq., but supposed to have been
written by John Pinkerton. 8vo. 1785.
The Genius of the Augustan age
His head among Rome's ruins rear'd,
And, bursting with heroic rage,
When literary Heron appear'd;
Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire,
By being scandalously bold,
Attain'd the mark of thy desire.
And for traducing Virgil's name
Shalt share his merited reward;
A perpetuity of fame,
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
OR, LABOUR IN VAIN.
_A New Song, to a Tune never sung before._
I sing of a journey to Clifton,[838]
We would have performed, if we could;
Without cart or barrow, to lift on
Poor Mary[839] and me through the mud.
Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud;
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding;
Hop, hop, _à la mode de deux frogs_;
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dressed in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about,
But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.
[838] A village near Olney.
[839] Mrs. Unwin.
DIALOGUE.
SHE.
"Well! now, I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves."
HE.
"Pshaw! never mind,
'Tis not in the wind,
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind."
SHE.
"I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end."
HE.
"The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way."
SHE.
"But now I begin to be frighted,
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted,
Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"
HE.
"Nay never care,
'Tis a common affair;
You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there."
SHE.
"Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do;
That terrible lane I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through."
HE.
"So think I:--
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try."
SHE.
"But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past!
Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last!
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
That struggling and striving is labour in vain."
HE.
"Stick fast there while I go and look;"
SHE.
"Don't go away, for fear I should fall:"
HE.
"I have examined it, every nook,
And what you see here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round,
The dirt we have found
Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound."
Now, sister Anne,[840] the guitar you must take,
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song:
I have varied the verse, for variety's sake,
And cut it off short--because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame,
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.
[840] The late Lady Austen.
STANZAS
ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF
MILTON.[841] ANNO 1790.
[841] The bones of Milton, who lies buried in Cripplegate church,
were disinterred; a pamphlet by Le Neve was published at the
time, giving an account of what appeared on opening his coffin.
"Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."[842]
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones[843]
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
August, 1790.
[842]
Forsitan et nostros ducat de marmore vultus,
Nectens aut Paphia myrti aut Parnasside lauri
Fronde comas--At ego secura pace quiescam.
_Milton in Manso._
[843] Cowper, no doubt, had in his memory the lines said to have
been written by Shakspeare on his tomb:
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust inclosed here.
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."
TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.
June 22, 1782.
MY DEAR FRIEND,
If reading verse be your delight,
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time
I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme
To soothe my friend, and, had I power,
To cheat him of an anxious hour;
Not meaning (for I must confess,
It were but folly to suppress)
His pleasure, or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
In the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once (and who but he?)
The name for setting genius free,
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise.
And he by no uncommon lot
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His Highness may have taken huff,
So seldom sought with invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw, through midnight vapour,
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh for a succedaneum, then,
To accelerate a creeping pen!
Oh for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbo jam caliginoso!
'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely mill'd,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences
To disengage the encumber'd senses.
Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine--
Forgive the bard, if bard he be,
Who once too wantonly made free,
To touch with a satiric wipe
That symbol of thy power, the pipe;
So may no blight infest thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains;
And so may smiling peace once more
Visit America's sad shore;
And thou, secure from all alarms,
Of thundering drums and glittering arms,
Rove unconfined beneath the shade
Thy wide expanded leaves have made;
So may thy votaries increase,
And fumigation never cease.
May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites,
While clouds of incense half divine
Involve thy disappearing shrine;
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.
EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.
Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
1791.
SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn,
Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd,
Can e'er forget the charms he left behind,
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!
In happier days to brighter prospects born,
O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,
Like thee, content in every state may find,
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn.
To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease!
ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER.
Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;[844]
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer.
[844] I have heard about my wether mutton from various quarters.
It was a blunder hardly pardonable in a man who has lived amid
fields and meadows, grazed by sheep, almost these thirty years.
I have accordingly satirized myself in two stanzas which I
composed last night, while I lay awake, tormented with pain, and
well dosed with laudanum. If you find them not very brilliant,
therefore, you will know how to account for it.--_Letter to
Joseph Hill, Esq._ dated April 15, 1792.
ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN THE YEAR
1789.
O sovereign of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway,
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound
Her navies wing their way,
With juster claims she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength,
Which strength restored to thee.
ADDRESSED TO MISS ---- ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.[845]
[845] For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see _Annual Register_, vol. v. p.
202.
And dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous Heaven design'd,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined--
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and woe!
Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Though Phoebus string the lyre.
Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,)
Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell:
In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.
With lenient balm may Oberon hence
To fairy land be driven,
With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from heaven.
"Oh! if my sovereign Author please,
Far be it from my fate
To live unbless'd in torpid ease,
And slumber on in state;
"Each tender tie of life defied,
Whence social pleasures spring,
Unmoved with all the world beside,
A solitary thing--"
Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,
Thus braves the whirling blast,
Eternal winter doom'd to know,
No genial spring to taste.
In vain warm suns their influence shed,
The zephyrs sport in vain,
He rears unchanged his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.
What though in scaly armour dress'd,
Indifference may repel
The shafts of woe--in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.
'Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heaven's decree,
That all the true delights of man
Should spring from sympathy.
'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws
Of nature we retain,
Our self-approving bosom draws
A pleasure from its pain.
Thus grief itself has comforts dear
The sordid never know;
And ecstasy attends the tear
When virtue bids it flow.
For, when it streams from that pure source,
No bribes the heart can win
To check, or alter from its course,
The luxury within.
Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.
Let no low thought suggest the prayer,
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!
Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,
With lustre-beaming eye,
A train, attendant on their queen,
(Her rosy chorus) fly;
The jocund loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,
And generous friendship, hand in hand
With pity's wat'ry sight.
The gentler virtues too are join'd
In youth immortal warm;
The soft relations, which, combined,
Give life her every charm.
The arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire;
The marble breathes, the canvas glows,
The muses sweep the lyre.
"Still may my melting bosom cleave
To sufferings not my own,
And still the sigh responsive heave
Where'er is heard a groan.
"So pity shall take virtue's part.
Her natural ally,
And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."
This artless vow may Heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve:
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love!
So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,
And every joy, which now is yours,
Extend a larger sphere!
And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless
With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!
1762.
FROM
A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.
Says the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.
Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company--pray do but note 'em--
You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
Or at least would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.
My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;
There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear.
Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging,
The box in reply was heard plainly to say,
What a silly dispute is this we are waging!
If you have a little of merit to claim,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed,
And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The before-mention'd drug in apology plead.
Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus,
We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
But of any thing else they may choose to put in us.
THE FLATTING MILL.
AN ILLUSTRATION.
When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show,
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow.
This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.
Alas for the poet! who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill--
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow.
After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows;
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.
EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST,
A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS.
These are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who she fears,
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch'd, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.
Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd
She sought him, but in vain--
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.
She therefore raised him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now.
Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin's stead,
Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame;
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame.
March, 1792.
SONNET,
ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Hayley--thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary, and me for her dear sake distress'd,
Such as it is, has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more to admire the bard than love the man.
June 2, 1792.
AN EPITAPH.
Here lies one who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his signified desire
Would advance, present, and fire--
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him!
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call'd, not he
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.
1792.
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.
In language warm as could be breathed or penn'd
Thy picture speaks the original, my friend,
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind--
They only speak thee friend of all mankind;
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me.
January, 1793.
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER.
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.
Thrive, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower,
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou camest from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Some future day the illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne show a jealous frown,
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the virgin's friend
Be crown'd with virgin's bower?
Spring of 1793.
ON RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL
FROM MR. HAYLEY.
I should have deem'd it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I received him as a gift from thee.
STANZAS,
ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH, BY A LADY,
_In returning a Poem, of Mr. Cowper's, lent to the Writer, on
condition she should neither show it nor take a copy._
What wonder! if my wavering hand
Had dared to disobey,
When Hesketh gave a harsh command,
And Cowper led astray.
Then take this tempting gift of thine,
By pen uncopied yet!
But canst thou Memory confine,
Or teach me to forget?
More lasting than the touch of art,
Her characters remain;
When written by a feeling heart
On tablets of the brain.
COWPER'S REPLY.
To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few, like her, the same,
The press might rest for me.
So Homer, in the mem'ry stor'd
Of many a Grecian belle,
Was once preserved--a richer hoard,
But never lodged so well.
LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS THEODORA JANE COWPER.
William was once a bashful youth,
His modesty was such,
That one might say, to say the truth,
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others, want of spirit,
(So blest a thing is impudence,)
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
And at each other winking,
Observed, that though he little said,
He paid it off with thinking.
Howe'er, it happened, by degrees,
He mended, and grew perter,
In company was more at ease,
And dress'd a little smarter;
Nay, now and then, could look quite gay,
As other people do;
And sometimes said, or tried to say,
A witty thing or so.
He eyed the women, and made free
To comment on their shapes,
So that there was, or seem'd to be,
No fear of a relapse.
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foolish,
"The creature may do well enough,
But wants a deal of polish."
At length improved from head to heel,
'Twere scarce too much to say,
No dancing beau was so genteel,
Or half so _dégagé_.
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown,
Let the dear maid who wrought the change
E'en claim him for her own!
TO THE SAME.
How quick the change from joy to wo,
How chequer'd is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair;
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care,
(Some pleasing intervals between,)
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid!
Far hence in happier fields I stray'd.
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I.
Next day the scene was overcast--
Such day till then I never pass'd,--
For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we look'd our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell,--
"Fear not that time, where'er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love."
LINES ON A SLEEPING INFANT.
Sweet babe! whose image here express'd
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.
LINES.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild roar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire,
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o'er the moss-embrowned turf,
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none,
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life!
INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON.
Here, free from riot's hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,
A book or friend bestows;
Far from the storms that shake the great,
Contentment's gale shall fan my seat,
And sweeten my repose.
LINES ON THE DEATH OF SIR WILLIAM RUSSEL.
Doom'd, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost;
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!
Still, still, I mourn, with each returning day,
Him[846] snatch'd by fate in early youth away;
And her--thro' tedious years of doubt and pain,
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful--but in vain!
O prone to pity, generous, and sincere,
Whose eye ne'er yet refus'd the wretch a tear;
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;
See me--ere yet my destin'd course half done,
Cast forth a wand'rer on a world unknown!
See me neglected on the world's rude coast,
Each dear companion of my voyage lost!
Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,
And ready tears wait only leave to flow!
Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,
All that delights the happy--palls with me!
[846] Sir William Russel, the favourite friend of the young poet.
ON THE HIGH PRICE OF FISH.
Cocoa-nut naught,
Fish too dear,
None must be bought
For us that are here:
No lobster on earth,
That ever I saw,
To me would be worth
Sixpence a claw.
So, dear madam, wait
Till fish can be got
At a reas'nable rate,
Whether lobster or not;
Till the French and the Dutch
Have quitted the seas,
And then send as much
And as oft as you please.
TO MRS. NEWTON.
A noble theme demands a noble verse,
In such I thank you for your fine oysters.
The barrel was magnificently large,
But, being sent to Olney at free charge,
Was not inserted in the driver's list,
And therefore overlook'd, forgot, or miss'd;
For, when the messenger whom we despatch'd
Inquir'd for oysters, Hob his noddle scratch'd;
Denying that his wagon or his wain
Did any such commodity contain.
In consequence of which, your welcome boon
Did not arrive till yesterday at noon;
In consequence of which some chanc'd to die,
And some, though very sweet, were very dry.
Now Madam says, (and what she says must still
Deserve attention, say she what she will,)
That what we call the diligence, be-case
It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift,
Returning downward with a pace as swift;
And therefore recommends it with this aim--
To save at least three days,--the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate'er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea-shore,
Pack'd in a barrel, they will charge no more.
News have I none that I can deign to write,
Save that it rain'd prodigiously last night;
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour,
Caught in the first beginning of the show'r;
But walking, running, and with much ado,
Got home--just time enough to be wet through,
Yet both are well, and, wond'rous to be told,
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold;
And wishing just the same good hap to you,
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, adieu!
VERSES PRINTED BY HIMSELF ON A FLOOD AT OLNEY.
To watch the storms, and hear the sky
Give all our almanacks the lie;
To shake with cold, and see the plains
In autumn drown'd with wintry rains;
'Tis thus I spend my moments here,
And wish myself a Dutch mynheer;
I then should have no need of wit;
For lumpish Hollander unfit!
Nor should I then repine at mud,
Or meadows deluged with a flood;
But in a bog live well content,
And find it just my element;
Should be a clod, and not a man;
Nor wish in vain for Sister Ann,
With charitable aid to drag
My mind out of its proper quag;
Should have the genius of a boor,
And no ambition to have more.
EXTRACT FROM A SUNDAY-SCHOOL HYMN.
Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray'r,
In heaven, thy dwelling-place,
From infants, made the public care,
And taught to seek thy face!
Thanks for thy word, and for thy day,
And grant us, we implore,
Never to waste in sinful play
Thy holy sabbaths more.
Thanks that we hear--but, oh! impart
To each desires sincere,
That we may listen with our heart,
And learn, as well as hear.
ON THE RECEIPT OF A HAMPER.
(IN THE MANNER OF HOMER.)
The straw-stuff'd hamper with his ruthless steel
He open'd, cutting sheer th' inserted cords
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat,
Or oats, or barley; next a bottle green
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill'd
Drop after drop odorous, by the art
Of the fair mother of his friend--the Rose.
ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER.
Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim, (I fear,)
"Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here."
SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF THE REV. JOHN NEWTON.
The Rev. John Newton has formed too prominent a feature in the life
and correspondence of Cowper, and is too intimately associated with
his endeared name, not to require a brief notice of the leading
events of his life, on introducing those beautiful Olney Hymns
which were written by Cowper. Any detailed statement is rendered
unnecessary by his own memoir of himself,[847] and a subsequent
one by the Rev. Mr. Cecil. The life of Newton abounds with the
most extraordinary incidents, resembling the fictions of romance,
rather than the realities of common life. But the hand of God is so
visible, and the ultimate triumph of divine grace is so signally
displayed amidst the most daring provocations, as to render it one
of the most remarkable biographical memoirs ever submitted to the
public eye.
[847] See The Life of the Rev. John Newton, written by himself,
in a series of letters addressed to the Rev. Mr. Haweis.
The Rev. John Newton was born in London the 24th of July, 1725. His
father was master of a ship in the Mediterranean trade. His mother
was a pious character; and it is to her that he was indebted, in
his early years, for those religious impressions which, however
subsequently weakened, were probably never wholly effaced. Her
premature death deprived him of this excellent parent, at an age
when he most needed her superintending care. When he was eleven
years old he joined his father, and made five voyages with him to
the Mediterranean. His early life seems to present a mingled detail
of religious duties and declensions--relapses into sin, accompanied
by strong convictions of his guilt and danger--providential
warnings, which roused his conscience for a time, and were
subsequently forgotten; till at length, by successive instances
of grieving God's Holy Spirit, he sank into the very depths of
wickedness. In the year 1742 he formed an attachment, equalling
in degree all that the writers of romance have imagined; but in
its duration unalterable. In 1743 he was impressed, put on board a
tender, from which he was released by the exertions of his father,
and soon after entered the navy as a midshipman. Here he was seduced
into infidel principles by one of his companions, who in a violent
storm was swept into eternity, while he himself was mercifully
spared. Having deserted his ship, he was overtaken, kept in irons,
publicly whipped, and degraded from his office. He now became a prey
to the most gloomy thoughts, and seemed to be given up to judicial
hardness, and even to doubt the existence of a future state of being.
We contemplate this period of his life with awe and terror. He
subsequently engaged in the slave-trade on the coast of Africa,
where his conduct awakened, even among the slaves, emotions of alarm
and astonishment. In the midst of this daring impiety, Newton passed
through every successive stage of providential dealings, from the
first whisper of conscience, till the awful catalogue of judgments
seemed to be utterly expended. Every thing was exhausted save the
long-suffering and mercy of God. His guilt was equalled only by his
misery. The slave-trade on the coast of Africa was to him the fit
memorial of a captivity more galling in its character, more terrible
in its consequences. At home, abroad, on the mighty deep, or on
foreign shores, he carried with him the marks of his servitude, the
taint of his corruption, and the visible wrath of an offended God.
The divine dealings towards the children of pious parents are
strongly illustrated in the foregoing narrative. We have often
observed that they are generally the subjects of a special
dispensation whenever they become wanderers from God. In mercy to
the praying parent, as well as to the erring child, he never leaves
them without repeated tokens of his displeasure and intimations
of his will. He disappoints their hopes, blights their prospects,
and brings upon them the day of his wrathful visitation. "_If his
children forsake my law, and walk not in my judgments; if they
break my statutes, and keep not my commandments; then will I visit
their transgression with the rod, and their iniquity with stripes.
Nevertheless, my loving-kindness will I not utterly take from him,
nor suffer my faithfulness to fail_." Psal. lxxxix. 30-33.
We by no means interpret this clause as generally conveying the
assurance that the children of pious parents will ultimately be
saved. The conclusion would be too absolute, and seem opposed to the
testimony of facts. But we nevertheless believe that the prayers and
instructions of a godly parent rise up, like the alms of Cornelius,
as a memorial before God; and that early impressions are seldom
utterly effaced. They pursue the memory amid the tumult of business,
the seductions of pleasure, and the broad path of sin. They are a
powerful stimulant to conscience in moments of pain, depression, and
sorrow; till at length the cry of penitence often bursts from the
overwhelmed heart, and the last accents have been known to be those
of prayer and praise.
We now proceed to detail the particulars of Newton's conversion.
This event occurs on his return homewards from the coast of Africa,
when the ship is overtaken by a dreadful storm, and death seems to
be inevitable. We extract the account from his own narrative.
"The 21st of March is a day much to be remembered by me, and I have
never suffered it to pass wholly unnoticed since the year 1748.
On that day the Lord sent from on high, and delivered me out of
deep waters. I began to think of my former religious professions;
the extraordinary turns in my life; the calls, warnings, and
deliverances I had met with; the licentious course of my
conversation, particularly my unparalleled effrontery in making the
gospel-history the constant subject of profane ridicule. I thought,
allowing the Scripture premises, there never was, nor could be such
a sinner as myself; and then, comparing the advantages I had broken
through, I concluded at first, that my sins were too great to be
forgiven. The Scripture likewise seemed to say the same; for I had
formerly been well acquainted with the Bible, and many passages
upon this occasion returned upon my memory, particularly those
awful passages, Prov. i. 24-31; Heb. vi. 4-6; and 2 Pet ii. 20,
which seemed so exactly to suit my case and character as to bring
with them a presumptive proof of a divine original. Thus, as I have
said, I waited with fear and impatience to receive my inevitable
doom. Yet, though I had thoughts of this kind, they were exceedingly
faint and disproportionate; it was not till long after, (perhaps
several years,) till I had gained some clear views of the infinite
righteousness and grace of Jesus Christ my Lord, that I had a deep
and strong apprehension of my state by nature and practice: and,
perhaps, till then I could not have borne the sight. When I saw,
beyond all probability, there was still hope of respite, and heard
about six in the evening that the ship was freed from water, there
arose a gleam of hope; I thought I saw the hand of God displayed in
our favour. I began to pray; I could not utter the prayer of faith;
I could not draw near to a reconciled God, and call him Father. My
prayer was like the cry of the ravens, which yet the Lord does not
disdain to hear. I now began to think of that Jesus whom I had so
often derided. I recollected the particulars of his life, and of his
death: and death for sins _not his own_, but, as I remembered, for
the sake of those who in their distress should put their trust in
Him. And now I chiefly wanted evidence. The comfortless principles
of infidelity were deeply riveted, and I rather wished than believed
these things were real facts. The great question now was, how to
obtain _faith_? I speak not of an appropriating faith, (of which I
then knew neither the nature nor necessity,) but how I should gain
an assurance that the Scriptures were of divine inspiration, and a
sufficient warrant for the exercise of trust and hope in God. One
of the first helps I received (in consequence of a determination
to examine the New Testament more carefully) was from Luke xi. 13.
I had been sensible that to profess faith in Jesus Christ, when in
reality I did not believe his history, was no better than a mockery
of a heart-searching God: but here I found a Spirit spoken of, which
was to be communicated to those who ask it. Upon this I reasoned
thus. If this book is true, the promise in this passage is true
likewise. I have need of that very Spirit by which the whole was
written, in order to understand it aright. He has engaged here to
give that Spirit to those who ask. I must, therefore, pray for it;
and if it is of God, he will make good his own word. My purposes
were strengthened by John vii. 17. I concluded from thence, that
though I could not say from my heart that I believed the gospel, yet
I would for the present take it for granted, and that by studying
it in this light I should be more and more confirmed in it. If what
I am writing could be perused by our modern infidels, they would
say (for I too well know their manner) that I was very desirous to
persuade myself into this opinion. I confess I was; and so would
they be, if the Lord should show them, as he was pleased to show me
at that time, the absolute necessity of some expedient to interpose
between a righteous God and a sinful soul. Upon the gospel scheme I
saw at least a peradventure of hope, but on every other side I was
surrounded with black unfathomable despair."[848]
[848] See "Life of Newton," prefixed to his works.
Alluding to the means which he enjoyed at this eventful period, for
acquiring spiritual light and knowledge, he observes, "As to books,
I had a New Testament, Stanhope, and a volume of Bishop Beveridge's
Sermons, one of which, upon our Lord's passion, affected me much.
In perusing the New Testament, I was struck with several passages,
particularly that of the fig-tree, Luke xiii.; the case of St.
Paul, 1 Tim. i.; but particularly the prodigal, Luke xv.--a case
I thought had never been so clearly exemplified as by myself. And
then the goodness of the father in receiving, nay, in running to
meet such a son, and this intended only to illustrate the Lord's
goodness to returning sinners; this gained upon me. I continued much
in prayer; I saw that the Lord had interposed _so far_ to save me;
and I hoped he would do more. The outward circumstances helped in
this place to make me still more serious and earnest in crying to
Him who alone could relieve me; and sometimes I thought I could be
content to die even for want of food, if I might but die a believer.
Thus far I was answered, that before we arrived in Ireland I had a
satisfactory evidence in my own mind of the truth of the gospel, as
considered in itself, and its exact suitableness to answer all my
needs. I saw that, by the way there pointed out, God might declare,
not his mercy only, but his justice also, in the pardon of sin, on
account of the obedience and sufferings of Jesus Christ. I stood
in need of an Almighty Saviour, and such a one I found described
in the New Testament. Thus far the Lord had wrought a marvellous
thing. I was no longer an infidel. I heartily renounced my former
profaneness; I had taken up some right notions; was seriously
disposed, and sincerely touched with a sense of the undeserved mercy
I had received, in being brought safe through so many dangers. I
was sorry for my past misspent life, and purposed an immediate
reformation: I was quite freed from the habit of swearing, which
seemed to have been deeply rooted in me as a second nature. Thus,
to all appearance, I was a new man. But though I cannot doubt that
this change, so far as it prevailed, was wrought by the Spirit and
power of God; yet still I was greatly deficient in many respects. I
was, in some degree, affected with a sense of my more enormous sins,
but I was little aware of the innate evils of my heart. I had no
apprehension of the spirituality and extent of the law of God. The
hidden life of a Christian, as it consists in communion with God by
Jesus Christ, and a continual dependence on him for hourly supplies
of wisdom, strength, and comfort, was a mystery, of which I had as
yet no knowledge. I acknowledged the Lord's mercy in pardoning what
was past, but depended chiefly upon my own resolution to do better
for the time to come. I had no Christian friend or faithful minister
to advise me that my strength was no more than my righteousness: and
though I soon began to inquire for serious books, yet, not having
spiritual discernment, I frequently made a wrong choice; and I was
not brought in the way of evangelical preaching or conversation,
(except a few times, when I heard but understood not,) for six years
after this period. Those things the Lord was pleased to discover to
me gradually. I learned them here a little and there a little, by
my own painful experience, at a distance from the common means and
ordinances, and in the midst of the same course of evil company, and
bad examples, as I had been conversant with for some time. From this
period I could no more make a mock at sin, or jest with holy things;
I no more questioned the truth of Scripture, or lost a sense of the
rebukes of conscience. Therefore I consider this as the beginning
of my return to God, or rather of his return to me; but I cannot
consider myself to have been a believer (in the full sense of the
word) till a considerable time afterwards."[849]
[849] Life of Newton.
Progressive conversions seem to be most agreeable to the analogy
of nature; and though we by no means question the reality of
instantaneous conversions, or consider that the grace of God is
limited either to time, manner, or degree; yet we have generally
observed that they partake too much of a spirit of excitement
to form a sure and safe test. The excitement of the senses is a
dangerous ingredient in holy things, because they are equally
susceptible of opposite impressions. Those conversions ultimately
prove most solid and abiding, where the understanding is
enlightened, the conscience roused, and the will subdued by the
simultaneous energy and power that moves and purifies the feelings
and affections of the heart.
But in whatever manner it was accomplished, the conversion of
Newton claims to rank among those memorable acts of divine grace
which have invested the names of a Rochester, a Gardiner, and a
Bunyan, with so much interest and celebrity. May we not also mark
its affinity to the still more distinguished examples recorded in
the sacred writings, such as a Manasses, or a Saul, prototypes not
less in guilt than in mercy? If any man could justly appropriate the
words of the apostle, surely that individual was Newton. "Howbeit
for this cause I obtained mercy, that in me first Jesus Christ
might show forth all long suffering, for a pattern to them which
should hereafter believe on him to life everlasting." 1 Tim. i. 16.
Instances like these abound in edifying truths. They exhibit the
divine sovereignty in legible and unerring characters. They serve
also to confound the pride and self-glory of man, by proving that
"base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath God
chosen, yea and things which are not, to bring to nought things that
are; that no flesh should glory in his presence." 1 Cor. i. 28, 29.
But above all they proclaim that no man is beyond the reach of
mercy, however guilty, depraved, or lost; and that the door is never
closed to the broken and contrite spirit. Let not then the penitent
despair, nor yet the impenitent presume; but rightly interpreting
these wonderful and gracious dispensations, may many a returning
prodigal, like Newton, exclaim in the accents of adoring faith and
love, "Who is a God like unto thee, that pardoneth iniquity, and
passeth by the transgression of the remnant of his heritage? He
retaineth not his anger for ever, because he delighteth in mercy."
Micah vii. 18.
That we may proceed to the more important events of Newton's
subsequent history, we shall here briefly mention, that at this
time he wrote to his father, who was then going out as Governor of
York Fort, in Hudson's Bay, where he died in 1750. He previously
gave his consent to his son's marriage with Miss Catlett, the lady
who had been the object of so long and romantic an attachment. They
were united on the 1st of February, 1750. After this event he made
three voyages to Africa, devoting much of his time to classical and
devotional studies, and performing public worship in his vessel
according to the Liturgy of the Church of England, twice every day.
The moral change which his mind had experienced is expressed in the
following beautiful and edifying manner, strongly exemplifying the
power of divine grace to raise and elevate the soul.
"To be at sea in these circumstances, withdrawn out of the reach of
innumerable temptations, with opportunity and turn of mind disposed
to observe the wonders of God in the great deep, with the two
noblest objects of sight, the expanded _heavens_ and the expanded
_ocean_, continually in view; and where evident interpositions of
Divine Providence, in answer to prayer, occur almost every day;
these are helps to quicken and confirm the life of faith, which,
in a good measure, supply to a religious sailor the want of those
advantages which can be enjoyed only upon the shore. And, indeed,
though my knowledge of spiritual things, as knowledge is usually
estimated, was at this time very small; yet I sometimes look back
with regret on these scenes. I never knew sweeter or more frequent
hours of divine communion, than in my two last voyages to Guinea,
when I was either almost secluded from society on shipboard, or
when on shore amongst the natives. I have wandered through the
woods, reflecting on the singular goodness of the Lord to me, in a
place where, perhaps, there was not a person that knew Him for some
thousands of miles round about me.
"In desert woods, with thee, my God,
Where human footsteps never trod,
How happy could I be;
Thou my repose from care, my light,
Amidst the darkness of the night,
In solitude my company."[850]
[850] These lines are a translation from the following well-known
passage of Propertius; Newton piously applying to the Creator
what the poet addresses to the creature.
Sic ego desertis possim bene vivere sylvis,
Quo nulla humano sit via trita pede.
Tu mihi curarum requies, in nocte vel atrâ
Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.
See _Life of Newton_.
His views on the subject of the slave-trade are thus recorded by
himself.
"During the time I was engaged in the slave-trade I never had
the least scruple as to its lawfulness. I was upon the whole
satisfied with it, as the appointment Providence had marked
out for me; yet it was, in many respects, far from eligible.
It was, indeed, accounted a genteel employment, and usually
very profitable, though to me it did not prove so, the Lord
seeing that a large increase of wealth would not be good for
me. However, I considered myself as a sort of a _gaoler_ or
_turnkey_, and I was sometimes shocked with an employment that
was perpetually conversant with chains, bolts, and shackles. In
this view I had often petitioned in my prayers that the Lord,
in his own time, would be pleased to fix me in a more humane
calling, and, if it might be, place me where I might have more
frequent converse with his people and ordinances, and be freed
from those long separations from home which very often were hard
to bear. My prayers were now answered, though in a way which I
little expected."[851]
[851] Life of Newton.
The circumstance to which he alludes may be briefly stated. When
he was within two days of sailing on a new voyage, and to all
appearance in good health, he was suddenly seized with a fit, which
deprived him of sense and motion. It lasted about an hour, but left
behind such symptoms as induced the physicians to judge that it
would not be safe or prudent to proceed on the voyage. The event was
remarkable. The person who was appointed to take his place, most of
the officers, and many of the crew died, and the vessel was brought
back to Liverpool with great difficulty.[852]
[852] Ibid.
Thus ended Newton's connexion with Africa and the slave-trade and
with a sea-faring mode of life. He was destined for higher ends,
and the providence and grace of God soon pointed out a sphere more
suited to his newly acquired views, and presenting ample means for
extended usefulness.