God’s better gift they scoff at and refuse.
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem,
Are more intelligent at least, try them:
Oh vain enquiry! they without remorse
Are altogether gone a devious course,
Where beck’ning pleasure leads them, wildly stray,
Have burst the bands and cast the yoke away.
Now borne upon the wings of truth, sublime,
Review thy dim original and prime;
This island spot of unreclaim’d rude earth,
The cradle that receiv’d thee at thy birth,
Was rock’d by many a rough Norwegian blast,
And Danish howlings scar’d thee as they pass’d,
For thou wast born amid the din of arms,
And suck’d a breast that panted with alarms.
While yet thou wast a grov’ling puling chit,
Thy bones not fashion’d and thy joints not knit,
The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow,
Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now:
His victory was that of orient light,
When the sun’s shafts disperse the gloom of night:
Thy language at this distant moment shows
How much the country to the conqu’ror owes,
Expressive, energetic and refin’d,
It sparkles with the gems he left behind:
He brought thy land a blessing when he came,
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame,
Taught thee to cloath thy pink’d and painted hide,
And grace thy figure with a soldier’s pride,
He sow’d the seeds of order where he went,
Improv’d thee far beyond his own intent,
And while he rul’d thee by the sword alone,
Made thee at last a warrior like his own.
Religion if in heav’nly truths attir’d,
Needs only to be seen to be admir’d,
But thine as dark as witch’ries of the night,
Was form’d to harden hearts and shock the sight:
Thy Druids struck the well-strung harps they bore,
With fingers deeply dy’d in human gore,
And while the victim slowly bled to death,
Upon the tolling chords rung out his dying breath.
Who brought the lamp that with awak’ning beams
Dispell’d thy gloom and broke away thy dreams,
Tradition, now decrepid and worn out,
Babbler of antient fables, leaves a doubt:
But still light reach’d thee; and those gods of thine
Woden and Thor, each tott’ring in his shrine,
Fell broken and defac’d at his own door,
As Dagon in Philistia long before.
But Rome with sorceries and magic wand,
Soon rais’d a cloud that darken’d ev’ry land,
And thine was smother’d in the stench and fog
Of Tiber’s marshes and the papal bog:
Then priests with bulls and briefs and shaven crowns,
And griping fists and unrelenting frowns,
Legates and delegates with pow’rs from hell,
Though heav’nly in pretension, fleec’d thee well;
And to this hour to keep it fresh in mind,
Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.*
Thy soldiery the pope’s well-manag’d pack,
Were train’d beneath his lash and knew the smack,
And when he laid them on the scent of blood:
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood.
Lavish of life to win an empty tomb,
That prov’d a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome,
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies,
His worthless absolution all the prize.
Thou wast the veriest slave in days of yore,
That ever dragg’d a chain or tugg’d an oar;
Thy monarchs arbitrary, fierce, unjust,
Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust,
Disdain’d thy counsels, only in distress
Found thee a goodly spunge for pow’r to press.
Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee,
Provok’d and harrass’d, in return plagu’d thee,
Call’d thee away from peaceable employ,
Domestic happiness and rural joy,
To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down
In causeless feuds and bick’rings of their own:
Thy parliaments ador’d on bended knees
The sov’reignty they were conven’d to please;
Whate’er was ask’d, too timid to resist,
Comply’d with, and were graciously dismiss’d:
And if some Spartan soul a doubt express’d
And blushing at the tameness of the rest,
Dar’d to suppose the subject had a choice,
He was a traitor by the gen’ral voice.
Oh slave! with pow’rs thou didst not dare exert,
Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert,
It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain,
Thou self-entitled ruler of the main,
To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea
That clips thy shores, had no such charms for thee,
When other nations flew from coast to coast,
And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast.
Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust,
Blush if thou canst, not petrified, thou must:
Act but an honest and a faithful part,
Compare what then thou wast, with what thou art,
And God’s disposing providence confess’d,
Obduracy itself must yield the rest —
Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove
Hour after hour thy gratitude and love.
Has he not hid thee and thy favour’d land
For ages safe beneath his shelt’ring hand,
Giv’n thee his blessing on the clearest proof,
Bid nations leagu’d against thee stand aloof,
And charg’d hostility and hate to roar
Where else they would, but not upon thy shore?
His pow’r secur’d thee when presumptuous Spain
Baptiz’d her fleet invincible in vain;
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful, and resign’d
To ev’ry pang that racks an anxious mind,
Ask’d of the waves that broke upon his coast,
What tidings? and the surge replied — all lost —
And when the Stuart leaning on the Scot,
Then too much fear’d and now too much forgot,
Pierc’d to the very center of thy realm,
And hop’d to seize his abdicated helm,
’Twas but to prove how quickly with a frown,
He that had rais’d thee could have pluck’d thee down.
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess’d,
Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest;
Thy thunders travel over earth and seas,
And all at home is pleasure, wealth and ease.
’Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm,
Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm,
While his own Heav’n surveys the troubled scene,
And feels no change, unshaken and serene.
Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine,
Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine;
Thou hast as bright an int’rest in her rays,
As ever Roman had in Rome’s best days.
True freedom is, where no restraint is known
That scripture, justice, and good sense disown,
Where only vice and injury are tied,
And all from shore to shore is free beside,
Such freedom is — and Windsor’s hoary tow’rs
Stood trembling at the boldness of thy pow’rs,
That won a nymph on that immortal plain,
Like her th
e fabled Phoebus woo’d in vain;
He found the laurel only — happier you,
Th’ unfading laurel and the virgin too.*
Now think, if pleasure have a thought to spare,
If God himself be not beneath her care;
If bus’ness, constant as the wheels of time,
Can pause one hour to read a serious rhime;
If the new mail thy merchants now receive,
Or expectation of the next give leave,
Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears
For such indulgence gilding all thy years,
How much though long neglected, shining yet,
The beams of heav’nly truth have swell’d the debt.
When persecuting zeal made royal sport
With tortur’d innocence in Mary’s court,
And Bonner, blithe as shepherd at a wake,
Enjoy’d the show, and danc’d about the stake;
The sacred book, its value understood,
Receiv’d the seal of martyrdom in blood.
Those holy men, so full of truth and grace,
Seem to reflection of a diff’rent race,
Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere,
In such a cause they could not dare to fear,
They could not purchase earth with such a prize,
Nor spare a life too short to reach the skies.
From them to thee convey’d along the tide,
Their streaming hearts pour’d freely when they died,
Those truths which neither use nor years impair,
Invite thee, wooe thee, to the bliss they share.
What dotage will not vanity maintain,
What web too weak to catch a modern brain?
The moles and bats in full assembly find
On special search, the keen-ey’d eagle blind.
And did they dream, and art thou wiser now?
Prove it — if better, I submit and bow.
Wisdom and goodness are twin-born, one heart
Must hold both sisters, never seen apart.
So then — as darkness overspread the deep,
‘Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep,
And this delightful earth and that fair sky
Leap’d out of nothing, call’d by the Most High,
By such a change thy darkness is made light,
Thy chaos order, and thy weakness, might,
And he whose pow’r mere nullity obeys,
Who found thee nothing, form’d thee for his praise.
To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil,
Doing and suff’ring, his unquestion’d will,
’Tis to believe what men inspir’d of old,
Faithful and faithfully inform’d, unfold;
Candid and just, with no false aim in view,
To take for truth what cannot but be true,
To learn in God’s own school the Christian part,
And bind the task assign’d thee to thine heart:
Happy the man there seeking and there found,
Happy the nation where such men abound.
How shall a verse impress thee? by what name
Shall I adjure thee not to court thy shame?
By theirs whose bright example unimpeach’d
Directs thee to that eminence they reach’d,
Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires?
Or his, who touch’d their hearts with hallow’d fires?
Their names, alas! in vain reproach an age
Whom all the vanities they scorn’d, engage,
And his that seraphs tremble at, is hung
Disgracefully on ev’ry trifler’s tongue,
Or serves the champion in forensic war,
To flourish and parade with at the bar.
Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea,
If int’rest move thee, to persuade ev’n thee:
By ev’ry charm that smiles upon her face,
By joys possess’d, and joys still held in chace,
If dear society be worth a thought,
And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not,
Reflect that these and all that seems thine own,
Held by the tenure of his will alone,
Like angels in the service of their Lord,
Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word;
That gratitude and temp’rance in our use
Of what he gives, unsparing and profuse,
Secure the favour and enhance the joy,
That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy.
But above all reflect, how cheap soe’er
Those rights that millions envy thee, appear,
And though resolv’d to risk them, and swim down
The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown,
That blessings truly sacred, and when giv’n
Mark’d with the signature and stamp of Heav’n,
The word of prophecy, those truths divine
Which make that Heav’n, if thou desire it, thine;
(Awful alternative! believ’d, belov’d,
Thy glory, and thy shame if unimprov’d,)
Are never long vouchsaf’d, if push’d aside
With cold disgust or philosophic pride,
And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace,
Error and darkness occupy their place.
A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot
Not quickly found if negligently sought,
Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small,
Endur’st the brunt, and dar’st defy them all:
And wilt thou join to this bold enterprize
A bolder still, a contest with the skies?
Remember, if he guard thee and secure,
Whoe’er assails thee, thy success is sure;
But if he leave thee, though the skill and pow’r
Of nations sworn to spoil thee and devour,
Were all collected in thy single arm,
And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm,
That strength would fail, oppos’d against the push
And feeble onset of a pigmy rush.
Say not (and if the thought of such defence
Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thence)
What nation amongst all my foes is free
From crimes as base as any charg’d on me?
Their measure fill’d — they too shall pay the debt.
Which God, though long forborn, will not forget;
But know, that wrath divine, when most severe,
Makes justice still the guide of his career,
And will not punish in one mingled crowd,
Them without light, and thee without a cloud.
Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech,
Still murm’ring with the solemn truths I teach,
And while, at intervals, a cold blast sings
Through the dry leaves, and pants upon the strings,
My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament
A nation scourg’d, yet tardy to repent.
I know the warning song is sung in vain,
That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain:
But if a fweeter voice, and one design’d
A blessing to my country and mankind,
Reclaim the wand’ring thousands, and bring home
A flock so scatter’d and so wont to roam,
Then place it once again between my knees,
The sound of truth will then be sure to please,
And truth alone, where’er my life be cast,
In scenes of plenty or the pining waste,
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last.
HOPE.
— doceas iter et sacra ostia pandas.
VIRG. EN. 6.
ASK what is human life — the sage replies
With disappointment low’ring in his eyes,
A painful passage o’er a restless flood,
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good,
A
scene of fancied bliss and heart-felt care,
Closing at last in darkness and despair. —
The poor, inur’d to drudgery and distress,
Act without aim, think little and feel less,
And no where but in feign’d Arcadian scenes,
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means.
Riches are pass’d away from hand to hand,
As fortune, vice or folly may command;
As in a dance the pair that take the lead
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed,
So shifting and so various is the plan
By which Heav’n rules the mixt affairs of man,
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd,
The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud:
Bus’ness is labour, and man’s weakness such,
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much,
The very sense of it foregoes its use,
By repetition pall’d, by age obtuse.
Youth lost in dissipation, we deplore
Through life’s sad remnant, what no sighs restore,
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize,
Too many, yet too few to make us wise.
Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff,
Lothario cries, what philosophic stuff.
Oh querulous and weak! whose useless brain
Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain,
Whose eye reverted weeps o’er all the past,
Whose prospect shows thee a disheartning waste,
Would age in thee resign his wintry reign,
And youth invigorate that frame again,
Renew’d desire would grace with other speech
Joys always priz’d, when plac’d within our reach.
For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb,
See nature gay as when she first began,
With smiles alluring her admirer, man,
She spreads the morning over eastern hills,
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils,
The sun obedient, at her call appears
To fling his glories o’er the robe she wears,
Banks cloath’d with flow’rs, groves fill’d with sprightly sounds,
The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds,
Streams edg’d with osiers, fatt’ning ev’ry field
Where’er they flow, now seen and now conceal’d,
From the blue rim where skies and mountains meet,
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,
Ten thousand charms that only fools despise,
Or pride can look at with indiff’rent eyes,
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice
Cry to her universal realm, rejoice.
Man feels the spur of passions and desires,
And she gives largely more than he requires,
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 9
