William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

With sentimental frippery and dream,

  Caught in a delicate soft silken net

  By some lewd Earl, or rake-hell Baronet;

  Ye pimps, who under virtue’s fair pretence,

  Steal to the closet of young innocence,

  And teach her unexperienc’d yet and green,

  To scribble as you scribble at fifteen;

  Who kindling a combustion of desire,

  With some cold moral think to quench the fire,

  Though all your engineering proves in vain,

  The dribbling stream ne’er puts it out again;

  Oh that a verse had pow’r, and could command

  Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land,

  Who fasten without mercy on the fair,

  And suck, and leave a craving maggot there.

  Howe’er disguis’d th’ inflammatory tale,

  And covered with a fine-spun specious veil,

  Such writers and such readers owe the gust

  And relish of their pleasure all to lust.

  But the muse eagle-pinion’d has in view

  A quarry more important still than you,

  Down down the wind she swims and sails away,

  Now stoops upon it and now grasps the prey.

  Petronius! all the muses weep for thee,

  But ev’ry tear shall scald thy memory.

  The graces too, while virtue at their shrine

  Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine,

  Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast,

  Abhorr’d the sacrifice, and curs’d the priest.

  Thou polish’d and high finish’d foe to truth,

  Gray beard corruptor of our list’ning youth,

  To purge and skim away the filth of vice,

  That so refin’d it might the more entice,

  Then pour it on the morals of thy son

  To taint his heart, was worthy of thine own.

  Now while the poison all high life pervades,

  Write if thou can’st one letter from the shades,

  One, and one only, charg’d with deep regret,

  That thy worst part, thy principles live yet;

  One fad epistle thence, may cure mankind,

  Of the plague spread by bundles left behind.

  ’Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears,

  Our most important are our earliest years,

  The mind impressible and soft, with ease

  Imbibes and copies what she hears and sees,

  And through life’s labyrinth holds fast the clue

  That education gives her, false or true.

  Plants rais’d with tenderness are seldom strong,

  Man’s coltish disposition asks the thong,

  And without discipline the fav’rite child,

  Like a neglected forrester runs wild.

  But we, as if good qualities would grow

  Spontaneous, take but little pains to sow,

  We give some latin and a smatch of greek,

  Teach him to fence and figure twice a week,

  And having done we think, the best we can,

  Praise his proficiency and dub him man.

  From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home,

  And thence with all convenient speed to Rome,

  With rev’rend tutor clad in habit lay,

  To teaze for cash and quarrel with all day,

  With memorandum-book for ev’ry town,

  Aud ev’ry post, and where the chaise broke down:

  His stock, a few French phrases got by heart,

  With much to learn, but nothing to impart,

  The youth obedient to his sire’s commands,

  Sets off a wand’rer into foreign lands:

  Surpriz’d at all they meet, the goslin pair

  With aukward gait, stretch’d neck, and silly stare,

  Discover huge cathedrals built with stone,

  And steeples tow’ring high much like our own,

  But show peculiar light by many a grin

  At Popish practices observ’d within.

  E’er long some bowing, smirking, smart Abbé

  Remarks two loit’rers that have lost their way,

  And being always primed with politesse

  For men of their appearance and andress,

  With much compassion undertakes the task,

  To tell them more than they have wit to ask.

  Points to inscriptions wheresoe’er they tread,

  Such as when legible were never read,

  But being canker’d now, and half worn out,

  Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt:

  Some headless hero or some Caesar shows,

  Defective only in his Roman nose;

  Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans,

  Models of Herculanean pots and pans,

  And sells them medals, which if neither rare

  Nor antient, will be so, preserv’d with care.

  Strange the recital! from whatever cause

  His great improvement and new lights he draws,

  The ‘Squire once bashful is shame-fac’d no more,

  But teems with pow’rs he never felt before:

  Whether encreas’d momentum, and the force

  With which from clime to clime he sped his course,

  As axles sometimes kindle as they go,

  Chaf’d him and brought dull nature to a glow;

  Or whether clearer skies and softer air

  That make Italian flow’rs so sweet and fair,

  Fresh’ning his lazy spirits as he ran,

  Unfolded genially and spread the man,

  Returning he proclaims by many a grace,

  By shrugs and strange contortions of his face,

  How much a dunce that has been sent to roam,

  Excels a dunce that has been kept at home.

  Accomplishments have taken virtue’s place,

  And wisdom falls before exterior grace;

  We slight the precious kernel of the stone,

  And toil to polish its rough coat alone.

  A just deportment, manners grac’d with ease

  Elegant phrase, and figure form’d to please,

  Are qualities that seem to comprehend

  Whatever parents, guardians, schools intend;

  Hence an unfurnish’d and a listless mind,

  Though busy, trifling; empty, though refin’d,

  Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash

  With indolence and luxury, is trash;

  While learning, once the man’s exclusive pride,

  Seems verging fast towards the female side.

  Learning itself receiv’d into a mind

  By nature weak, or viciously inclin’d,

  Serves but to lead philosophers astray

  Where children would with ease discern the way.

  And of all arts sagacious dupes invent

  To cheat themselves and gain the world’s assent

  The worst is scripture warp’d from it’s intent.

  The carriage bowls along and all are pleas’d

  If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greas’d,

  But if the rogue have gone a cup too far,

  Left out his linch-pin or forgot his tar,

  It suffers interruption and delay,

  And meets with hindrance in the smoothest way.

  When some hypothesis absurd and vain

  Has fill’d with all its fumes a critic’s brain,

  The text that sorts not with his darling whim,

  Though plain to others, is obscure to him.

  The will made subject to a lawless force,

  All is irregular, and out of course,

  And judgment drunk, and bribed to lose his way,

  Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noon day.

  A critic on the sacred book, should be

  Candid and learn’d, dispassionate and free;

  Free from the wayward bias bigots feel,

  From fancy’s influence, and i
ntemp’rate zeal.

  But above all (or let the wretch refrain,

  Nor touch the page he cannot but profane)

  Free from the domineering pow’r of lust,

  A lewd interpreter is never just.

  How shall I speak thee, or thy pow’r address,

  Thou God of our idolatry, the press?

  By thee, religion, liberty and laws

  Exert their influence, and advance their cause,

  By thee, worse plagues than Pharaoh’s land befel,

  Diffus’d, make earth the vestibule of hell:

  Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise,

  Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies,

  Like Eden’s dread probationary tree,

  Knowledge of good and evil is from thee.

  No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest,

  Till half mankind were like himself possess’d.

  Philosophers, who darken and put out

  Eternal truth by everlasting doubt,

  Church quacks, with passions under no command,

  Who fill the world with doctrines contraband,

  Discov’rers of they know not what, confin’d

  Within no bounds, the blind that lead the blind,

  To streams of popular opinion drawn,

  Deposit in those shallows, all their spawn.

  The wriggling fry soon fill the creeks around,

  Pois’ning the waters where their swarms abound;

  Scorn’d by the nobler tenants of the flood,

  Minnows and gudgeons gorge th’ unwholesome food.

  The propagated myriads spread so fast,

  E’en Leuwenhoek himself would stand aghast,

  Employ’d to calculate th’ enormous sum,

  And own his crab-computing pow’rs o’ercome.

  Is this Hyperbole? The world well known,

  Your sober thoughts will hardly find it one.

  Fresh confidence the speculatist takes

  From ev’ry hare-brain’d proselyte he makes,

  And therefore prints. Himself but half-deceiv’d,

  ‘Till others have the soothing tale believ’d.

  Hence comment after comment, spun as fine

  As bloated spiders draw the flimsy line.

  Hence the same word that bids our lusts obey,

  Is misapplied to sanctify their sway.

  If stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend,

  Hebrew or Syriac shall be forc’d to bend;

  If languages and copies all cry, No —

  Somebody prov’d it centuries ago.

  Like trout pursued, the critic in despair

  Darts to the mud and finds his safety there.

  Women, whom custom has forbid to fly

  The scholar’s pitch (the scholar best knows why)

  With all the simple and unletter’d poor,

  Admire his learning, and almost adore.

  Whoever errs, the priest can ne’er be wrong,

  With such fine words familiar to his tongue.

  Ye ladies! (for, indiff’rent in your cause,

  I should deserve to forfeit all applause)

  Whatever shocks, or gives the least offence

  To virtue, delicacy, truth or sense,

  (Try the criterion, ’tis a faithful guide)

  Nor has, nor can have scripture on its side.

  None but an author knows an author’s cares,

  Or fancy’s fondness for the child she bears.

  Committed once into the public arms,

  The baby seems to smile with added charms.

  Like something precious ventur’d far from shore,

  ’Tis valued for the dangers sake the more.

  He views it with complacency supreme,

  Solicits kind attention to his dream,

  And daily more enamour’d of the cheat,

  Kneels, and asks heav’n to bless the dear deceit.

  So one, whose story serves at least to show

  Men lov’d their own productions long ago,

  Wooed an unfeeling statue for his wife,

  Nor rested till the Gods had giv’n it life.

  If some mere driv’ler suck the sugar’d fib,

  One that still needs his leading string and bib,

  And praise his genius, he is soon repaid

  In praise applied to the same part, his head.

  For ’tis a rule that holds for ever true,

  Grant me discernment, and I grant it you.

  Patient of contradiction as a child,

  Affable, humble, diffident and mild,

  Such was Sir Isaac, and such Boyle and Locke,

  Your blund’rer is as sturdy as a rock.

  The creature is so sure to kick and bite,

  A muleteer’s the man to set him right.

  First appetite enlists him truth’s sworn foe,

  Then obstinate self-will confirms him so.

  Tell him he wanders, that his error leads

  To fatal ills, that though the path he treads

  Be flow’ry, and he see no cause of fear,

  Death and the pains of hell attend him there;

  In vain; the slave of arrogance and pride,

  He has no hearing on the prudent side.

  His still refuted quirks he still repeats,

  New rais’d objections with new quibbles meets,

  ‘Till sinking in the quicksand he defends,

  He dies disputing, and the contest ends;

  But not the mischiefs: they still left behind,

  Like thistle-seeds are sown by ev’ry wind.

  Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill,

  Bend the strait rule to their own crooked will,

  And with a clear and shining lamp supplied,

  First put it out, then take it for a guide.

  Halting on crutches of unequal size,

  One leg by truth supported, one by lies,

  They sidle to the goal with aukward pace,

  Secure of nothing, but to lose the race.

  Faults in the life breed errors in the brain,

  And these, reciprocally, those again.

  The mind and conduct mutually imprint

  And stamp their image in each other’s mint.

  Each, sire and dam, of an infernal race,

  Begetting and conceiving all that’s base.

  None sends his arrow to the mark in view,

  Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue.

  For though e’er yet the shaft is on the wing,

  Or when it first forsakes th’ elastic string,

  It err but little from th’ intended line,

  It falls at last, far wide of his design.

  So he that seeks a mansion in the sky,

  Must watch his purpose with a stedfast eye,

  That prize belongs to none but the sincere,

  The least obliquity is fatal here.

  With caution taste the sweet Circaean cup,

  He that sips often, at last drinks it up.

  Habits are soon assum’d, but when we strive

  To strip them off, ’tis being flay’d alive.

  Call’d to the temple of impure delight,

  He that abstains, and he alone does right.

  If a wish wander that way, call it home,

  He cannot long be safe, whose wishes roam.

  But if you pass the threshold, you are caught,

  Die then, if pow’r Almighty save you not.

  There hard’ning by degrees, ‘till double steel’d,

  Take leave of nature’s God, and God reveal’d,

  Then laugh at all you trembl’d at before,

  And joining the free-thinkers brutal roar,

  Swallow the two grand nostrums they dispense,

  That scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense:

  If clemency revolted by abuse

  Be damnable, then, damn’d without excuse.

  Some dream that they can silence when they will

  The storm of passio
n, and say, Peace, be still;

  But “Thus far and no farther, when addressed

  To the wild wave, or wilder human breast,

  Implies authority that never can,

  That never ought to be the lot of man.

  But muse forbear, long flights forebode a fall,

  Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all.

  Hear the just law, the judgment of the skies!

  He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies.

  And he that will be cheated to the last,

  Delusions, strong as hell, shall bind him fast.

  But if the wand’rer his mistake discern,

  Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return,

  Bewilder’d once, must he bewail his loss

  For ever and for ever? No — the cross.

  There and there only (though the deist rave,

  And atheist, if earth bear so base a slave)

  There and there only, is the pow’r to save.

  There no delusive hope invites despair,

  No mock’ry meets you, no deception there.

  The spells and charms that blinded you before,

  All vanish there, and fascinate no more.

  I am no preacher, let this hint suffice,

  The cross once seen, is death to ev’ry vice:

  Else he that hung there, suffer’d all his pain,

  Bled, groan’d and agoniz’d, and died in vain.

  TRUTH.

  Pensentur trutinâ.

  HOR.

  MAN on the dubious waves of error toss'd,

  His ship half founder'd and his compass lost,

  Sees far as human optics may command,

  A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land:

  Spreads all his canvass, ev'ry sinew plies,

  Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies.

  Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes,

  His well-built systems, philosophic dreams,

  Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell!

  He reads his sentence at the flames of hell.

  Hard lot of man! to toil for the reward

  Of virtue, and yet lose it — wherefore hard?

  He that would win the race, must guide his horse

  Obedient to the customs of the course,

  Else, though unequall'd to the goal he flies,

  A meaner than himself shall gain the prize.

  Grace leads the right way, if you chuse the wrong,

  Take it and perish, but restrain your tongue;

  Charge not, with light sufficient and left free,

  Your willful suicide on God's decree.

  Oh how unlike the complex works of man,

  Heav'ns easy, artless, unincumber'd plan!

  No meretricious graces to beguile,

  No clust'ring ornaments to clog the pile,

  From ostentation as from weakness free,

  It stands like the caerulean arch we see,