William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works
Page 13
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge such as only dungeons teach,
And only sympathy like thine could reach;
That grief, sequester’d from the public stage,
Might smooth her feathers and enjoy her cage,
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldest patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamor and debate,
That pleads for peace ‘till it disturbs the state,
Were hush’d in favour of thy gen’rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and heaven’s smile thy fee.
Philosophy that does not dream or stray,
Walks arm in arm with nature all his way,
Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends
Whatever steep enquiry recommends,
Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll
Round other systems under her controll,
Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light
That cheers the silent journey of the night,
And brings at his return a bosom charged,
With rich instruction, and a soul enlarged.
The treasured sweets of the capacious plan
That heav’n spreads wide before the view of man,
All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue
Still prompt him, with a pleasure always new:
He too has a connecting pow’r, and draws
Man to the center of the common cause,
Aiding a dubious and deficient sight
With a new medium and a purer light.
All truth is precious if not all divine,
And what dilates the pow’rs must needs refine,
He reads the skies, and watching ev’ry change,
Provides the faculties an ampler range,
And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail,
A proudcer station on the gen’ral scale.
But reason still unless divinely taught,
Whate’er she learns, learns nothing as she ought;
The lamp of revelation only, shows,
What human wisdom cannot but oppose,
That man in nature’s richest mantle clad,
And graced with all philosophy can add,
Though fair without, and luminous within,
Is still the progeny and heir of sin.
Thus taught down falls the plumage of his pride,
He feels his need of an unerring guide,
And knows that falling he shall rise no more,
Unless the pow’r that bade him stand, restore.
This is indeed philosophy; this known,
Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own;
And without this, whatever he discuss,
Whether the space between the stars and us,
Whether he measure earth, compute the sea,
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea,
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill
Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still,
Blind was he born, and his misguided eyes
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies.
Self-knowledge truly learn’d, of course implies
The rich possession of a nobler prize,
For self to self, and God to man reveal’d,
(Two themes to nature’s eye for ever seal’d)
Are taught by rays that fly with equal pace
From the same center of enlight’ning-grace.
Here stay thy foot, how copious and how clear
Th’ o’erflowing well of Charity springs here!
Hark! ’tis the music of a thousand rills,
Some through the groves, some down the sloping hills,
Winding a secret or an open course,
And all supplied from an eternal source.
The ties of nature do but feebly bind,
And commerce partially reclaims mankind,
Philosophy without his heav’nly guide,
May blow up self-conceit and nourish pride,
But while his province is the reas’ning part,
Has still a veil of midnight on his heart:
’Tis truth divine exhibited on earth,
Gives Charity her being and her birth.
Suppose (when thought is warm and fancy flows,
What will not argument sometimes suppose)
An isle possess’d by creatures of our kind,
Endued with reason, yet by nature blind.
Let supposition lend her aid once more,
And land some grave optician on the shore,
He claps his lens, if haply they may see,
Close to the part where vision ought to be,
But finds that though his tubes assist the sight,
They cannot give it, or make darkness light.
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud
A sense they know not, to the wond’ring crowd,
He talks of light and the prismatic hues,
As men of depth in erudition use,
But all he gains for his harangue is — Well —
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell.
The soul whose sight all-quick’ning grace renews,
Takes the resemblance of the good she views,
As di’monds stript of their opaque disguise,
Reflect the noon-day glory of the skies.
She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend,
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end,
In language warm as all that love inspires,
And in the glow of her intense desires
Pants to communicate her noble fires.
She sees a world stark blind to what employs
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys,
Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call,
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all:
Herself as weak as her support is strong,
She feels that frailty she denied so long,
And from a knowledge of her own disease,
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees.
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence,
The reign of genuine Charity commence;
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears,
She still is kind, and still she perseveres;
The truth she loves, a sightless world blaspheme,
’Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream,
The danger they discern not, they deny,
Laugh at their only remedy, and die:
But still a soul thus touch’d, can never cease
Whoever threatens war to speak of peace,
Pure in her aim and in her temper mild,
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child,
She makes excuses where she might condemn,
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them;
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast,
The worst suggested, she believes the best;
Not soon provoked, however stung and teaz’d,
And if perhaps made angry, soon appeas’d,
She rather waves than will dispute her right,
And injur’d, makes forgiveness her delight.
Such was the pourtrait an apostle drew,
The bright original was one he knew,
Heav’n held his hand, the likeness must be true.
When one that holds communion with the skies,
Has filled his urn where these pure waters rise,
And once more mingles with us meaner things,
’Tis ev’n as if an angel shook his wings;
Immortal fragrance fills the circuit wide,
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied.
So when a ship well freighted with the stores
The sun matures on India’s spicy shores,
Has dropt her anchor and her canvas furl’d,
In some safe haven of our western world,
‘Twere vain enqui
ry to what port she went,
The gale informs us, laden with the scent.
Some seek, when queazy conscience has its qualms,
To lull the painful malady with alms;
But charity not feign’d, intends alone
Another’s good — theirs centers in their own;
And too short-lived to reach the realms of peace,
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease.
Flavia, most tender of her own good name,
Is rather careless of a sister’s fame,
Her superfluity the poor supplies,
But if she touch a character, it dies.
The seeming virtue weigh’d against the vice,
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price,
No charity but alms aught values she,
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree.
How many deeds with which the world has rung,
From pride in league with ignorance have sprung?
But God o’erules all human follies still,
And bends the tough materials to his will.
A conflagration or a wintry flood,
Has left some hundreds without home or food,
Extravagance and av’rice shall subscribe,
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe.
The brief proclaim’d, it visits ev’ry pew,
But first the ‘Squire’s, a compliment but due:
With slow deliberation he unties
His glitt’ring purse, that envy of all eyes,
And while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm,
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm,
‘Till finding what he might have found before,
A smaller piece amidst the precious store,
Pinch’d close between his finger and his thumb,
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum;
Gold to be sure! — throughout the town ’tis told
How the good ‘Squire gives never less than gold.
From motives such as his, though not the best,
Springs in due time supply for the distress’d,
Not less effectual than what love bestows,
Except that office clips it as it goes.
But lest I seem to sin against a friend,
And wound the grace I mean to recommend,
(Though vice derided with a just design
Implies no trespass against love divine)
Once more I would adopt the graver stile,
A teacher should be sparing of his smile.
Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satyr is more than those he brands, to blame,
He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare,
Affects indeed a most humane concern
That men if gently tutor’d will not learn,
That muleish folly not to be reclaim’d
By softer methods, must be made asham’d,
But (I might instance in St. Patrick’s dean)
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.
Most sat’rists are indeed a public scourge,
Their mildest physic is a farrier’s purge,
Their acrid temper turns as soon as stirr’d
The milk of their good purpose all to curd,
Their zeal begotten as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse;
The wild assassins start into the street,
Prepar’d to poignard whomsoe’er they meet;
No skill in swordsmanship however just,
Can be secure against a madman’s thrust,
And even virtue so unfairly match’d,
Although immortal, may be prick’d or scratch’d.
When scandal has new minted an old lie,
Or tax’d invention for a fresh supply,
’Tis called a satyr, and the world appears
Gath’ring around it with erected ears;
A thousand names are toss’d into the crowd,
Some whisper’d softly, and some twang’d aloud,
Just as the sapience of an author’s brain
Suggests it safe or dang’rous to be plain.
Strange! how the frequent interjected dash,
Quickens a market and helps off the trash,
Th’ important letters that include the rest,
Serve as a key to those that are suppress’d,
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw,
The world is charm’d, and Scrib. escapes the law.
So when the cold damp shades of night prevail,
Worms may be caught by either head or tail,
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess,
They meet with little pity, no redress;
Plung’d in the stream they lodge upon the mud,
Food for the famish’d rovers of the flood.
All zeal for a reform that gives offence
To peace and charity, is mere pretence:
A bold remark, but which if well applied,
Would humble many a tow’ring poet’s pride:
Perhaps the man was in a sportive fit,
And had no other play-place for his wit;
Perhaps enchanted with the love of fame,
He sought the jewel in his neighbour’s shame;
Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue,
The cause of virtue could not be his view.
At ev’ry stroke wit flashes in our eyes,
The turns are quick, the polish’d points surprise,
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms,
That while they please possess us with alarms:
So have I seen, (and hasten’d to the sight
On all the wings of holiday delight)
Where stands that monument of antient pow’r,
Named with emphatic dignity, the tow’r,
Guns, halberts, swords and pistols, great and small,
In starry forms disposed upon the wall;
We wonder, as we gazing stand below,
That brass and steel should make so fine a show;
But though we praise th’ exact designer’s skill,
Account them implements of mischief still.
No works shall find acceptance in that day
When all disguises shall be rent away,
That square not truly with the Scripture plan,
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man.
As he ordains things sordid in their birth
To be resolved into their parent earth,
And though the soul shall seek superior orbs,
Whate’er this world produces, it absorbs,
So self starts nothing but what tends apace
Home to the goal where it began the race.
Such as our motive is our aim must be,
If this be servile, that can ne’er be free;
If self employ us, whatsoe’er is wrought,
We glorify that self, not him we ought:
Such virtues had need prove their own reward,
The judge of all men owes them no regard.
True Charity, a plant divinely nurs’d,
Fed by the love from which it rose at first,
Thrives against hope and in the rudest scene,
Storms but enliven its unfading green;
Exub’rant is the shadow it supplies,
Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies.
To look at him who form’d us and redeem’d,
So glorious now, though once so disesteem’d,
To see a God stretch forth his human hand,
T’ uphold the boundless scenes of his command,
To recollect that in a form like ours,
He bruis’d beneath his feet th’ infernal pow’rs,
Captivity led captive rose to claim
The wreath he won so dearly, in our name,
That thron’d above all height, he condescends
To call the few that trust i
n him his friends,
That in the heav’n of heav’ns, that space he deems
Too scanty for th’ exertion of his beams,
And shines as if impatient to bestow
Life and a kingdom upon worms below;
That sight imparts a never-dying flame,
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same;
Like him, the soul thus kindled from above,
Spreads wide her arms of universal love,
And still enlarg’d as she receives the grace,
Includes creation in her close embrace.
Behold a Christian — and without the fires
The founder of that name alone inspires,
Though all accomplishments, all knowledge meet,
To make the shining prodigy complete,
Whoever boasts that name — behold a cheat.
Were love in these the world’s last doting years
As frequent, as the want of it appears,
The churches warm’d, they would no longer hold
Such frozen figures, stiff as they are cold;
Relenting forms would lose their pow’r or cease,
And ev’n the dipt and sprinkled, live in peace;
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast,
And flow in free communion with the rest.
The statesman skill’d in projects dark and deep,
Might burn his useless Machiavel, and sleep;
His budget often filled yet always poor,
Might swing at ease behind his study door,
No longer prey upon our annual rents,
Nor scare the nation with its big contents:
Disbanded legions freely might depart,
And slaying man would cease to be an art.
No learned disputants would take the field,
Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield,
Both sides deceiv’d if rightly understood,
Pelting each other for the public good.
Did Charity prevail, the press would prove
A vehicle of virtue, truth and love,
And I might spare myself the pains to show
What few can learn, and all suppose they know.
Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay
With many a wild indeed, but flow’ry spray,
In hopes to gain what else I must have lost,
Th’ attention pleasure has so much engross’d.
But if unhappily deceiv’d I dream,
And prove too weak for so divine a theme,
Let Charity forgive me a mistake
That zeal not vanity has chanc’d to make,
And spare the poet for his subject sake.
CONVERSATION.
Nam ne{que} me tantum venientis sibilus austri,
Nec percussa juvant fluctû tam litora, nec quae
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles.
VIRG. ECL. 5.