William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Majestic in its own simplicity.

  Inscrib'd above the portal, from afar

  Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,

  Legible only by the light they give,

  Stand the soul-quick'ning words — BELIEVE AND LIVE.

  Too many shock'd at what should charm them most,

  Despise the plain direction and are lost.

  Heav'n on such terms! they cry with proud disdain,

  Incredible, impossible, and vain —

  Rebel because 'tis easy to obey,

  And scorn for its own sake the gracious way.

  These are the sober, in whose cooler brains

  Some thought of immortality remains;

  The rest too busy or too gay, to wait

  On the sad theme, their everlasting state,

  Sport for a day and perish in a night,

  The foam upon the waters not so light.

  Who judg'd the Pharisee? What odious cause

  Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws?

  Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,

  Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?

  Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray

  From the strict duties of the sacred day?

  Sit long and late at the carousing board?

  (Such were the sins with which he charg'd his Lord)

  No — the man's morals were exact, what then?

  'Twas his ambition to be seen of men;

  His virtues were his pride; and that one vice

  Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;

  He wore them as fine trappings for a show,

  A praying, synagogue frequenting beau.

  The self-applauding bird, the peacock see —

  Mark what a sumptuous Pharisee is he!

  Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold

  His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold;

  He treads as if some solemn music near,

  His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear,

  And seems to say, ye meaner fowl, give place,

  I am all splendor, dignity and grace.

  Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes,

  Though he too has a glory in his plumes.

  He, christian like, retreats with modest mien,

  To the close copse or far sequester'd green,

  And shines without desiring to be seen.

  The plea of works, as arrogant and vain,

  Heav'n turns from with abhorrence and disdain;

  Not more affronted by avow'd neglect,

  Than by the mere dissemblers feign'd respect.

  What is all righteousness that men devise,

  What, but a fordid bargain for the skies?

  But Christ as soon would abdicate his own,

  As sloop from heav'n to sell the proud a throne.

  His dwelling a recess in some rude rock,

  Book, beads, and maple-dish his meagre stock,

  In shirt of hair and weeds of canvass dress'd,

  Girt with a bell-rope that the Pope has bless'd,

  Adust with stripes told out for ev'ry crime,

  And sore tormented long before his time,

  His pray'r preferr'd to saints that cannot aid,

  His praise postpon'd, and never to be paid,

  See the sage hermit by mankind admir'd,

  With all that bigotry adopts, inspir'd,

  Wearing out life in his religious whim,

  'Till his religious whimsy wears out him.

  His works, his abstinence, his zeal allow'd,

  You think him humble, God accounts him proud;

  High in demand, though lowly in pretence,

  Of all his conduct, this the genuine sense —

  My penitential stripes, my streaming blood

  Have purchas'd heav'n, and prove my title good.

  Turn eastward now, and fancy shall apply

  To your weak sight her telescopic eye.

  The Bramin kindles on his own bare head

  The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade,

  His voluntary pains, severe and long,

  Would give a barb'rous air to British song,

  Nor grand inquisitor could worse invent,

  Than he contrives to suffer, well content.

  Which is the saintlier worthy of the two?

  Past all dispute, yon anchorite say you.

  Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?

  I say the Bramin has the fairer claim.

  If suff'rings scripture no where recommends,

  Devis'd by self to answer selfish ends

  Give saintship, then all Europe must agree,

  Ten starvling hermits suffer less than he.

  The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,

  And prejudice have left a passage clear)

  Pride has attain'd its most luxuriant growth,

  And poison'd every virtue in them both.

  Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean;

  Humility may cloath an English Dean;

  That grace was Cowper's — his confess'd by all —

  Though plac'd in golden Durham's second stall.

  Not all the plenty of a Bishop's board,

  His palace, and his lacqueys, and, my Lord!

  More nourish pride, that condescending vice,

  Than abstinence, and beggary and lice.

  It thrives in misery, and abundant grows

  In misery fools upon themselves impose.

  But why before us Protestants produce

  An Indian mystic or a French recluse?

  Their sin is plain, but what have we to fear,

  Reform'd and well instructed? You shall hear.

  Yon antient prude, whose wither'd features show

  She might be young some forty years ago,

  Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,

  Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,

  Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray

  To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,

  With boney and unkerchief'd neck defies

  The rude inclemency of wintry skies,

  And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs

  Duely at clink of bell, to morning pray'rs.

  To thrift and parsimony much inclin'd,

  She yet allows herself that boy behind;

  The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,

  With slipshod heels, and dew drop at his nose,

  His predecessors coat advanc'd to wear,

  Which furture pages are yet doom'd to share,

  Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm,

  And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

  She, half an angel in her own account,

  Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,

  Though not a grace appears on strictest search,

  But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.

  Conscious of age she recollects her youth,

  And tells, not always with an eye to truth,

  Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,

  Scrawl'd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name,

  Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,

  And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.

  Of temper as invenom'd as an asp,

  Censorious, and her every word a wasp,

  In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes,

  Or real, or fictitious, of the times,

  Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

  And holds them dangling at arms length in scorn.

  Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,

  Of malice fed while flesh is mortified.

  Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs,

  Where hermits and where Bramins meet with theirs,

  Your portion is with them: nay, never frown,

  But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

  Artist attend — your brushes and your paint —

  Produc
e them — take a chair — now draw a Saint.

  Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears

  Channel her cheeks, a Niobe appears.

  Is this a Saint? Throw tints and all away,

  True piety is chearful as the day,

  Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan

  For others woes, but smiles upon her own.

  What purpose has the King of Saints in view?

  Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew?

  To call up plenty from the teeming earth,

  Or curse the desart with a tenfold dearth?

  Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd

  From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd?

  To loose the links that gall'd mankind before,

  Or bind them faster on, and add still more?

  The freeborn Christian has no chains to prove,

  Or if a chain, the golden one of love;

  No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,

  What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.

  Shall he for such deliv'rance freely wrought,

  Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought:

  His masters int'rest and his own combin'd,

  Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind;

  Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince,

  His freedom is the freedom of a Prince.

  Man's obligations infinite, of course

  His life should prove that he perceives their force,

  His utmost he can render is but small,

  The principle and motive all in all.

  You have two servants — Tom, an arch, sly rogue,

  From top to toe the Geta now in vogue;

  Genteel in figure, easy in address,

  Moves without noise, and swift as an express,

  Reports a message with a pleasing grace,

  Expert in all the duties of his place:

  Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?

  Has he a world of gratitude and love?

  No, not a spark — 'tis all mere sharpers play;

  He likes your house, your housemaid and your pay;

  Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

  Tom quits you, with, your most obedient Sir —

  The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand,

  Watches your eye, anticipates command,

  Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail,

  And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale;

  Consults all day your int'rest and your ease,

  Richly rewarded if he can but please,

  And proud to make his firm attachment known,

  To save your life would nobly risque his own.

  Now, which stands highest in your serious thought?

  Charles, without doubt, say you — and so he ought;

  One act that from a thankful heart proceeds,

  Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

  Thus heav'n approves as honest and sincere,

  The work of gen'rous love and filial fear,

  But with averted eyes th'omniscient judge,

  Scorns the base hireling and the slavish drudge.

  Where dwell these matchless Saints? Old Curio cries —

  Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes,

  The favour'd few, th' enthusiasts you despise.

  And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground,

  Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found,

  Reproach a people with his single fall,

  And cast his filthy raiment at them all.

  Attend — an apt similitude shall show,

  Whence springs the conduct that offends you so.

  See where it smoaks along the sounding plain,

  Blown all aslant, a driving dashing rain,

  Peal upon peal redoubling all around,

  Shakes it again and faster to the ground,

  Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play,

  Swift beyond thought the light'nings dart away;

  Ere yet it came the traveller urg'd his steed,

  And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed,

  Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case,

  He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace;

  Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude,

  Long hid by interposing hill or wood,

  Some mansion neat and elegantly dress'd,

  By some kind hospitable heart possess'd,

  Offer him warmth, security and rest;

  Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease,

  He hears the tempest howling in the trees,

  What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ,

  While danger past is turn'd to present joy.

  So fares it with the sinner when he feels,

  A growing dread of vengeance at his heels,

  His conscience like a glassy lake before,

  Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar,

  The law grown clamorous, though silent long,

  Arraigns him, charges him with every wrong,

  Asserts the rights of his offended Lord,

  And death or restitution is the word;

  The last impossible, he fears the first,

  And having well deserv'd, expects the worst

  Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home,

  Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come!

  Crush me ye rocks, ye falling mountains hide,

  Or bury me in oceans angry tide —

  The scrutiny of those all seeing eyes

  I dare not — and you need not, God replies;

  The remedy you want I freely give,

  The book shall teach you, read, believe and live:

  'Tis done — the raging storm is heard no more,

  Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore,

  And justice, guardian of the dread command,

  Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand.

  A soul redeem'd demands a life of praise,

  Hence the complexion of his future days,

  Hence a demeanor holy and unspeck'd,

  And the world's hatred as its sure effect.

  Some lead a life unblameable and just,

  Their own dear virtue, their unshaken trust.

  They never sin — or if (as all offend)

  Some trivial slips their daily walk attend,

  The poor are near at hand, the charge is small,

  A slight gratuity atones for all.

  For though the Pope has lost his int'rest here,

  And pardons are not sold as once they were,

  No Papist more desirous to compound,

  Than some grave sinners upon English ground:

  That plea refuted, other quirks they seek,

  Mercy is infinite and man is weak,

  The future shall obliterate the past,

  And heav'n no doubt shall be their home at last.

  Come then — a still, small whisper in your ear,

  He has no hope that never had a fear;

  And he that never doubted of his state,

  He may perhaps — perhaps he may — too late.

  The path to bliss abounds with many a snare,

  Learning is one, and wit, however rare:

  The Frenchman first in literary fame,

  (Mention him if you please — Voltaire? The same)

  With spirit, genius, eloquence supplied,

  Liv'd long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily and died:

  The scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew

  Bon môts to gall the Christian and the Jew:

  An infidel in health, but what when sick?

  Oh then, a text would touch him at the quick:

  View him at Paris in his last career,

  Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere,

  Exalted on his pedestal of pride,

  And fum'd with frankincense on ev'ry side,

  He begs their flattery with his latest breath,

  And smother'd in't at last, is prais'd
to death.

  Yon cottager who weaves at her own door,

  Pillow and bobbins all her little store,

  Content though mean, and chearful, if not gay,

  Shuffling her threads about the live-long day,

  Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night

  Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;

  She for her humble sphere by nature fit,

  Has little understanding, and no wit,

  Receives no praise, but (though her lot be such,

  Toilsome and indigent) she renders much;

  Just knows, and knows no more, her bible true,

  A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew,

  And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes,

  Her title to a treasure in the skies.

  Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard!

  His the mere tinsel, her's the rich reward;

  He prais'd perhaps for ages yet to come,

  She never heard of half a mile from home;

  He lost in errors his vain heart prefers,

  She safe in the simplicity of hers.

  Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound

  In science, win one inch of heav'nly ground;

  And is it not a mortifying thought

  The poor should gain it, and the rich should not?

  No — the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget

  One pleasure lost, lose heav'n without regret;

  Regret would rouse them and give birth to pray'r,

  Pray'r would add faith, and faith would fix them there.

  Not that the Former of us all in this,

  Or aught he does, is govern'd by caprice,

  The supposition is replete with sin,

  And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in.

  Not so — the silver trumpet's heav'nly call,

  Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for all;

  Kings are invited, and would kings obey,

  No slaves on earth more welcome were than they:

  But royalty, nobility, and state,

  Are such a dead preponderating weight,

  That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem)

  In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam.

  'Tis open and ye cannot enter — why?

  Because ye will not, Conyers would reply —

  And he says much that many may dispute

  And cavil at with ease, but none refute.

  Oh bless'd effect of penury and want,

  The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant!

  No soil like poverty for growth divine,

  As leanest land supplies the richest wine.

  Earth gives too little, giving only bread,

  To nourish pride or turn the weakest head:

  To them, the sounding jargon of the schools,

  Seems what it is, a cap and bells for fools:

  The light they walk by, kindled from above,

  Shows them the shortest way to life and love: