William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  They, strangers to the controversial field,

  Where deists always foil'd, yet scorn to yield,

  And never check'd by what impedes the wise,

  Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize.

  Envy ye great the dull unletter'd small,

  Ye have much cause for envy — but not all;

  We boast some rich ones whom the gospel sways,

  And one that wears a coronet and prays;

  Like gleanings of an olive tree they show,

  Here and there one upon the topmost bough.

  How readily upon the gospel plan,

  That question has its answer — what is man?

  Sinful and weak, in ev'ry sense a wretch,

  An instrument whose chords upon the stretch

  And strain'd to the last screw that he can bear,

  Yield only discord in his maker's ear:

  Once the blest residence of truth divine,

  Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine,

  Where in his own oracular abode,

  Dwelt visibly the light-creating God;

  But made long since like Babylon of old,

  A den of mischiefs never to be told:

  And she, once mistress of the realms around,

  Now scatter'd wide and no where to be found,

  As soon shall rise and re-ascend the throne,

  By native pow'r and energy her own,

  As nature at her own peculiar cost,

  Restore to man the glories he has lost.

  Go bid the winter cease to chill the year,

  Replace the wand'ring comet in his sphere,

  Then boast (but wait for that unhop'd-for hour)

  The self-restoring arm of human pow'r.

  But what is man in his own proud esteem?

  Hear him, himself the poet and the theme;

  A monarch cloath'd with majesty and awe,

  His mind his kingdom and his will his law.

  Grace in his mien and glory in his eyes,

  Supreme on earth and worthy of the skies,

  Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod,

  And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God.

  So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and form,

  The song magnificent, the theme a worm:

  Himself so much the source of his delight,

  His maker has no beauty in his sight:

  See where he sits contemplative and fixt,

  Pleasure and wonder in his features mixt,

  His passions tam'd and all at his controul,

  How perfect the composure of his soul!

  Complacency has breath'd a gentle gale

  O'er all his thoughts, and swell'd his easy sail:

  His books well trimm'd and in the gayest stile,

  Like regimented coxcombs rank and file,

  Adorn his intellects as well as shelves,

  And teach him notions splendid as themselves:

  The bible only stands neglected there,

  Though that of all most worthy of his care,

  And like an infant, troublesome awake,

  Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake.

  What shall the man deserve of human kind,

  Whose happy skill and industry combin'd,

  Shall prove (what argument could never yet)

  The bible an imposture and a cheat?

  The praises of the libertine profess'd,

  The worst of men, and curses of the best.

  Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes,

  The dying, trembling at their awful close,

  Where the betray'd, forsaken and oppress'd,

  The thousands whom the world forbids to rest,

  Where should they find (those comforts at an end

  The scripture yields) or hope to find a friend?

  Sorrow might muse herself to madness then,

  And seeking exile from the sight of men,

  Bury herself in solitude profound,

  Grow frantic with her pangs and bite the ground.

  Thus often unbelief grown sick of life,

  Flies to the tempting pool or felon knife,

  The jury meet, the coroner is short,

  And lunacy the verdict of the court:

  Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known,

  Such lunacy is ignorance alone;

  They knew not, what some bishops may not know,

  That scripture is the only cure of woe:

  That field of promise, how it flings abroad

  Its odour o'er the Christians thorny road;

  The soul reposing on assur'd relief,

  Feels herself happy amidst all her grief,

  Forgets her labour as she toils along,

  Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song.

  But the same word that like the polish'd share

  Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care,

  Kills too the flow'ry weeds wheree'r they grow,

  That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow.

  Oh that unwelcome voice of heav'nly love,

  Sad messenger of mercy from above,

  How does it grate upon his thankless ear,

  Crippling his pleasures with the cramp of fear!

  His will and judgment at continual strife,

  That civil war imbitters all his life;

  In vain he points his pow'rs against the skies,

  In vain he closes or averts his eyes,

  Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware —

  And shakes the sceptic in the scorner's chair.

  Though various foes against the truth combine,

  Pride above all opposes her design;

  Pride, of a growth superior to the rest,

  The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest,

  Swells at the thought, and kindling into rage,

  Would hiss the cherub mercy from the stage.

  And is the soul indeed so lost, she cries,

  Fall'n from her glory and too weak to rise,

  Torpid and dull beneath a frozen zone,

  Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own?

  Grant her indebted to what zealots call

  Grace undeserv'd, yet surely not for all —

  Some beams of rectitude she yet displays,

  Some love of virtue and some pow'r to praise,

  Can lift herself above corporeal things,

  And soaring on her own unborrow'd wings,

  Possess herself of all that's good or true,

  Assert the skies, and vindicate her due.

  Past indiscretion is a venial crime,

  And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time,

  Bore on his branch luxuriant then, and rude,

  Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude,

  Maturer years shall happier stores produce,

  And meliorate the well concocted juice.

  Then conscious of her meritorious zeal,

  To justice she may make her bold appeal,

  And leave to mercy with a tranquil mind,

  The worthless and unfruitful of mankind.

  Hear then how mercy slighted and defied,

  Retorts th' affront against the crown of pride.

  Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd,

  And the fool with it that insults his Lord.

  Th' atonement a Redeemer's love has wrought

  Is not for you, — the righteous need it not.

  Seest thou yon harlot wooing all she meets

  The worn-out nuisance of the public streets,

  Herself from morn to night, from night to morn,

  Her own abhorrence, and as much your scorn,

  The gracious show'r, unlimited and free,

  Shall fall on her, when heav'n denies it thee.

  Of all that wisdom dictates, this the drift,

  That man is dead in sin, and life a gift.

  Is virtue then, unless of christian growth,

  Mere fallacy, or foolishness, or both,


  Ten thousand sages lost in endless woe,

  For ignorance of what they could not know?

  That speech betrays at once a bigot's tongue,

  Charge not a God with such outrageous wrong.

  Truly not I — the partial light men have,

  My creed persuades me, well employed may save,

  While he that scorns the noon-day beam perverse,

  Shall find the blessing, unimprov'd, a curse.

  Let heathen worthies whose exalted mind,

  Left sensuality and dross behind,

  Possess for me their undisputed lot,

  And take unenvied the reward they sought.

  But still in virtue of a Savior's plea,

  Not blind by choice, but destin'd not to see.

  Their fortitude and wisdom were a flame

  Celestial, though they knew not whence it came,

  Deriv'd from the same source of light and grace

  That guides the christian in his swifter race;

  Their judge was conscience, and her rule their law,

  That rule pursued with rev'rence and with awe,

  Led them, however fault'ring, faint and slow,

  From what they knew, to what they wish'd to know;

  But let not him that shares a brighter day,

  Traduce the splendor of a noon-tide ray,

  Prefer the twilight of a darker time,

  And deem his base stupidity no crime;

  The wretch that slights the bounty of the skies,

  And sinks while favour'd with the means to rise,

  Shall find them rated at their full amount,

  The good he scorn'd all carried to account.

  Marshalling all his terrors as he came,

  Thunder and earthquake and devouring flame,

  From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law,

  Life for obedience, death for ev'ry flaw.

  When the great sov'reign would his will express.

  He gives a perfect rule; what can he less?

  And guards it with a sanction as severe

  As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear:

  Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim,

  And man might safely trifle with his name:

  He bids him glow with unremitting love

  To all on earth, and to himself above;

  Condemns th' injurious deed, the sland'rous tongue,

  The thought that meditates a brother's wrong;

  Brings not alone, the more conspicuous part,

  His conduct to the test, but tries his heart.

  Hark! universal nature shook and groan'd,

  'Twas the last trumpet — see the judge enthron'd:

  Rouse all your courage at your utmost need,

  Now summon ev'ry virtue, stand and plead.

  What, silent? Is your boasting heard no more?

  That self-renouncing wisdom learn'd before,

  Had shed immortal glories on your brow,

  That all your virtues cannot purchase now.

  All joy to the believer! He can speak —

  Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek.

  Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot,

  And cut up all my follies by the root,

  I never trusted in an arm but thine,

  Nor hop'd, but in thy righteousness divine:

  My pray'rs and alms, imperfect and defil'd,

  Were but the feeble efforts of a child,

  Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part,

  That they proceeded from a grateful heart:

  Cleans'd in thine own all-purifying blood,

  Forgive their evil and accept their good;

  I cast them at thy feet — my only plea

  Is what it was, dependence upon thee;

  While struggling in the vale of tears below,

  That never fail'd, nor shall it fail me now.

  Angelic gratulations rend the skies,

  Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise,

  Humility is crown'd, and faith receives the prize.

  EXPOSTULATION.

  Tantane, tam patiens, nullo certamine tolli

  Dona sines?

  VIRG.

  WHY weeps the muse for England?

  What appears

  In England’s case to move the muse to tears?

  From side to side of her delightful isle,

  Is she not cloath’d with a perpetual smile?

  Can nature add a charm, or art confer

  A new found luxury not seen in her?

  Where under heav’n is pleasure more pursued,

  Or where does cold reflection less intrude?

  Her fields a rich expanse of wavy corn

  Pour’d out from plenty’s overflowing horn,

  Ambrosial gardens in which art supplies

  The fervor and the force of Indian skies,

  Her peaceful shores, where busy commerce waits

  To pour his golden tide through all her gates,

  Whom fiery suns that scorch the russet spice

  Of eastern groves, and oceans floor’d with ice;

  Forbid in vain to push his daring way

  To darker climes, or climes of brighter day,

  Whom the winds waft where’er the billows roll,

  From the world’s girdle to the frozen pole;

  The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets,

  Her vaults below where ev’ry vintage meets,

  Her theatres, her revels, and her sports,

  The scenes to which not youth alone resorts,

  But age in spite of weakness and of pain

  Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again,

  All speak her happy — let the muse look round

  From East to West, no sorrow can be found,

  Or only what in cottages confin’d,

  Sighs unregarded to the passing wind;

  Then wherefore weep for England, what appears

  In England’s case to move the muse to tears?

  The prophet wept for Israel, wish’d his eyes

  Were fountains fed with infinite supplies;

  For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong,

  There were the scorner’s and the sland’rer’s tongue,

  Oaths used as playthings or convenient tools,

  As Int’rest biass’d knaves, or fashion fools,

  Adult’ry neighing at his neighbour’s door,

  Oppression labouring hard to grind the poor,

  The partial balance and deceitsul weight,

  The treach’rous smile, a mask for secret hate,

  Hypocrisy, formality in pray’r,

  And the dull service of the lip were there.

  Her women insolent and self-caress’d,

  By vanity’s unwearied finger dress’d,

  Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart

  To modest cheeks, and borrowed one from art;

  Were just such trifles without worth or use,

  As silly pride and idleness produce,

  Curl’d, scented, furbelow’d and flounc’d around,

  With feet too delicate to touch the ground,

  They stretch’d the neck, and roll’d the wanton eye,

  And sigh’d for ev’ry fool that flutter’d by.

  He saw his people slaves to ev’ry lust,

  Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust,

  He heard the wheels of an avenging God

  Groan heavily along the distant road;

  Saw Babylon set wide her two leav’d brass

  To let the military deluge pass;

  Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil’d,

  Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil’d;

  Wept till all Israel heard his bitter cry,

  Stamp’d with his foot and smote upon his thigh;

  But wept and stamp’d and smote his thigh in vain,

  Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain,

  And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit

  Ears long ac
custom’d to the pleasing lute;

  They scorn’d his inspiration and his theme,

  Pronounc’d him frantic and his fears a dream,

  With self-indulgence wing’d the fleeting hours,

  Till the foe found them, and down fell the tow’rs.

  Long time Assyria bound them in her chain,

  Till penitence had purg’d the public stain,

  And Cyrus, with relenting pity mov’d,

  Return’d them happy to the land they lov’d:

  There, proof against prosperity, awhile

  They stood the test of her ensnaring smile,

  And had the grace in scenes of peace to show

  The virtue they had learn’d in scenes of woe.

  But man is frail and can but ill sustain

  A long immunity from grief and pain,

  And after all the joys that plenty leads,

  With tip-toe step vice silently succeeds.

  When he that rul’d them with a shepherd’s rod,

  In form a man, in dignity a God,

  Came not expected in that humble guise,

  To sift, aud search them with unerring eyes,

  He found conceal’d beneath a fair outside,

  The filth of rottenness and worm of pride,

  Their piety a system of deceit,

  Scripture employ’d to sanctify the cheat,

  The pharisee the dupe of his own art,

  Self-idolized and yet a knave at heart.

  When nations are to perish in their sins,

  ’Tis in the church the leprosy begins:

  The priest whose office is, with zeal sincere

  To watch the fountain, and preserve it clear,

  Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink,

  While others poison what the flock must drink;

  Or waking at the call of lust alone,

  Infuses lies and errors of his own:

  His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure,

  And tainted by the very means of cure,

  Catch from each other a contagious spot,

  The foul forerunner of a general rot:

  Then truth is hush’d that heresy may preach,

  And all is trash that reason cannot reach;

  Then God’s own image on the soul impress’d,

  Becomes a mock’ry and a standing jest,

  And faith, the root whence only can arise

  The graces of a life that wins the skies,

  Loses at once all value and esteem,

  Pronounc’d by gray beards a pernicious dream:

  Then ceremony leads her bigots forth,

  Prepar’d to fight for shadows of no worth,

  While truths on which eternal things depend,

  Find not, or hardly find a single friend:

  As soldiers watch the signal of command,

  They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand,

  Happy to fill religion’s vacant place

  With hollow form and gesture and grimace.