William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  The spot he loved has lost the pow’r to please;

  To cross his ambling poney day by day,

  Seems at the best, but dreaming life away,

  The prospect, such as might enchant despair,

  He views it not, or sees no beauty there,

  With aching heart and discontented looks,

  Returns at noon, to billiards or to books,

  But feels while grasping at his faded joys,

  A secret thirst of his renounced employs,

  He chides the tardiness of every post,

  Pants to be told of battles won or lost,

  Blames his own indolence, observes, though late,

  ’Tis criminal to leave a sinking state,

  Flies to the levee, and receiv’d with grace,

  Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place.

  Suburban villas, highway-side retreats,

  That dread th’ encroachment of our growing streets,

  Tight boxes, neatly sash’d, and in a blaze

  With all a July sun’s collected rays,

  Delight the citizen, who gasping there

  Breathes clouds of dust and calls it country air.

  Oh sweet retirement, who would baulk the thought,

  That could afford retirement, or could not?

  ’Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and strait,

  The second milestone fronts the garden gate,

  A step if fair, and if a show’r approach,

  You find safe shelter in the next stage-coach.

  There prison’d in a parlour snug and small,

  Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall,

  The man of bus’ness and his friends compress’d,

  Forget their labours, and yet find no rest;

  But still ’tis rural — trees are to be seen

  From ev’ry window, and the fields are green,

  Ducks paddle in the pond before the door,

  And what could a remoter scene show more?

  A sense of elegance we rarely find

  The portion of a mean or vulgar mind,

  And ignorance of better things, makes man

  Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can;

  And he that deems his leisure well bestow’d

  In contemplations of a turnpike road,

  Is occupied as well, employs his hours

  As wisely, and as much improves his pow’rs,

  As he that slumbers in pavilion’s graced

  With all the charms of an accomplish’d taste.

  Yet hence alas! Insolvencies, and hence

  Th’ unpitied victim of ill-judg’d expence,

  From all his wearisome engagements freed,

  Shakes hands with bus’ness, and retires indeed.

  Your prudent grand mammas ye modern belles,

  Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge-wells,

  When health requir’d it would consent to roam,

  Else more attach’d to pleasures found at home.

  But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife,

  Ingenious to diversify dull life,

  In coaches, chaises, caravans and hoys,

  Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys,

  And all impatient of dry land, agree

  With one consent to rush into the sea. —

  Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad,

  Much of the pow’r and majesty of God.

  He swathes about the swelling of the deep,

  That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep,

  Vast as it is, it answers as it flows

  The breathings of the lightest air that blows,

  Curling and whit’ning over all the waste,

  The rising waves obey th’ increasing blast,

  Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars,

  Thunder and flash upon the stedfast shores,

  ‘Till he that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein,

  Then, all the world of waters sleeps again. —

  Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads,

  Now in the floods, now panting in the meads,

  Vot’ries of pleasure still, where’er she dwells,

  Near barren rocks, in palaces or cells,

  Oh grant a poet leave to recommend,

  (A poet fond of nature and your friend)

  Her slighted works to your admiring view,

  Her works must needs excel, who fashion’d you.

  Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride,

  With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side,

  Condemn the prattler for his idle pains,

  To waste unheard the music of his strains,

  And deaf to all the impertinence of tongue,

  That while it courts, affronts and does you wrong.

  Mark well the finish’d plan without a fault,

  The seas globose and huge, th’ o’erarching vault,

  Earth’s millions daily fed, a world employ’d

  In gath’ring plenty yet to be enjoy’d,

  ‘Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise

  Of God, beneficent in all his ways,

  Grac’d with such wisdom how would beauty shine?

  Ye want but that to seem indeed divine.

  Anticipated rents and bills unpaid,

  Force many a shining youth into the shade,

  Not to redeem his time but his estate,

  And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate.

  There hid in loath’d obscurity, remov’d

  From pleasures left, but never more belov’d,

  He just endures, and with a sickly spleen

  Sighs o’er the beauties of the charming scene.

  Nature indeed looks prettily in rhime,

  Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime,

  The warblings of the black-bird, clear and strong,

  Are musical enough in Thomson’s song,

  And Cobham’s groves and Windsor’s green retreats,

  When Pope describes them, have a thousand sweets,

  He likes the country, but in truth must own,

  Most likes it, when he studies it in town.

  Poor Jack — no matter who — for when I blame

  I pity, and must therefore sink the name,

  Liv’d in his saddle, lov’d the chace, the course,

  And always, e’er he mounted, kiss’d his horse.

  Th’ estate his sires had own’d in antient years,

  Was quickly distanc’d, match’d against a peer’s.

  Jack vanish’d, was regretted and forgot,

  ’Tis wild good-nature’s never-failing lot.

  At length, when all had long suppos’d him dead,

  By cold submersion, razor, rope or lead,

  My lord, alighting at his usual place,

  The crown, took notice of an ostler’s face.

  Jack knew his friend, but hop’d in that disguise

  He might escape the most observing eyes,

  And whistling as if unconcern’d and gay,

  Curried his nag and look’d another way.

  Convinc’d at last upon a nearer view,

  ’Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew,

  O’erwhelm’d at once with wonder, grief and joy,

  He press’d him much to quit his base employ,

  His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand,

  Infl’ence and pow’r were all at his command.

  Peers are not always gen’rous as well-bred,

  But Granby was, meant truly what he said.

  Jack bow’d and was oblig’d — confess’d ’twas strange

  That so retir’d he should not wish a change,

  But knew no medium between guzzling beer,

  And his old stint, three thousand pounds a year.

  Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe,

  Some seeking happiness not found below,

  Some to comply with humour, and a mind

  To social scenes by nature disinclin’d,

  Some sway’d by fash
ion, some by deep disgust,

  Some self-impoverish’d, and because they must,

  But few that court Retirement, are aware

  Of half the toils they must encounter there.

  Lucrative offices are seldom lost

  For want of pow’rs proportion’d to the post:

  Give ev’n a dunce th’ employment he desires,

  And he soon finds the talents it requires;

  A business with an income at its heels,

  Furnishes always oil for its own wheels.

  But in his arduous enterprize to close

  His active years with indolent repose,

  He finds the labours of that state exceed

  His utmost faculties, severe indeed.

  ’Tis easy to resign a toilsome place,

  But not to manage leisure with a grace,

  Absence of occupation is not rest,

  A mind quite vacant is a mind distress’d.

  The vet’ran steed excused his task at length,

  In kind compassion of his failing strength,

  And turn’d into the park or mead to graze,

  Exempt from future service all his days,

  There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind,

  Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind.

  But when his lord would quit the busy road,

  To taste a joy like that he has bestow’d,

  He proves, less happy than his favour’d brute,

  A life of ease a difficult pursuit.

  Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem

  As natural, as when asleep, to dream,

  But reveries (for human minds will act)

  Specious in show, impossible in fact,

  Those flimsy webs that break as soon as wrought,

  Attain not to the dignity of thought.

  Nor yet the swarms that occupy the brain

  Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure reign,

  Nor such as useless conversation breeds,

  Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds.

  Whence, and what are we? to what end ordain’d?

  What means the drama by the world sustain’d?

  Business or vain amusement, care or mirth,

  Divide the frail inhabitants of earth,

  Is duty a mere sport, or an employ?

  Life an intrusted talent, or a toy?

  Is there as reason, conscience, scripture say,

  Cause to provide for a great future day,

  When earth’s assign’d duration at an end,

  Man shall be summon’d and the dead attend?

  The trumpet — will it sound? the curtain rise?

  And show th’ august tribunal of the skies,

  Where no prevarication shall avail,

  Where eloquence and artifice shall fail,

  The pride of arrogant distinctions fall,

  And conscience and our conduct judge us all?

  Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil,

  To learned cares or philosophic toil,

  Though I revere your honourable names,

  Your useful labors and important aims,

  And hold the world indebted to your aid,

  Enrich’d with the discoveries ye have made,

  Yet let me stand excused, if I esteem

  A mind employ’d on so sublime a theme,

  Pushing her bold enquiry to the date

  And outline of the present transient state,

  And after poising her advent’rous wings,

  Settling at last upon eternal things,

  Far more intelligent, and better taught

  The strenuous use of profitable thought,

  Than ye when happiest, and enlighten’d most,

  And highest in renown, can justly boast.

  A mind unnerv’d, or indispos’d to bear

  The weight of subjects worthiest of her care,

  Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires,

  Must change her nature, or in vain retires.

  An idler is a watch that wants both hands,

  As useless if it goes as when it stands.

  Books therefore, not the scandal of the shelves,

  In which lewd sensualists print out themselves,

  Nor those in which the stage gives vice a blow,

  With what success, let modern manners show,

  Nor his, who for the bane of thousands born,

  Built God a church and laugh’d his word to scorn,

  Skilful alike to seem devout and just,

  And stab religion with a sly side-thrust;

  Nor those of learn’d philologists, who chase

  A panting syllable through time and space,

  Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark,

  To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah’s ark;

  But such as learning without false pretence,

  The friend of truth, th’ associate of sound sense,

  And such as in the zeal of good design,

  Strong judgment lab’ring in rhe scripture mine,

  All such as manly and great souls produce,

  Worthy to live, and of eternal use;

  Behold in these what leisure hours demand,

  Amusement and true knowledge hand in hand.

  Luxury gives the mind a childish cast,

  And while she polishes, perverts the taste,

  Habits of close attention, thinking heads,

  Become more rare as dissipation spreads,

  ‘Till authors hear at length, one gen’ral cry,

  Tickle and entertain us, or we die.

  The loud demand from year to year the same,

  Beggars invention and makes fancy lame,

  ‘Till farce itself most mournfully jejune,

  Calls for the kind assistance of a tune,

  And novels (witness ev’ry month’s review)

  Belie their name and offer nothing new.

  The mind relaxing into needfull sport,

  Should turn to writers of an abler sort,

  Whose wit well manag’d, and whose classic stile,

  Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile.

  Friends (for I cannot stint as some have done

  Too rigid in my view, that name to one,

  Though one, I grant it in th’ gen’rous breast

  Will stand advanc’d a step above the rest,

  Flow’rs by that name promiscuously we call,

  But one, the rose, the regent of them all)

  Friends, not adopted with a school-boy’s haste,

  But chosen with a nice discerning taste,

  Well-born, well-disciplin’d, who plac’d a-part

  From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart,

  And (tho’ the world may think th’ ingredients odd)

  The love of virtue, and the fear of God!

  Such friends prevent what else wou’d soon succeed,

  A temper rustic as the life we lead,

  And keep the polish of the manners clean,

  As their’s who bustle in the busiest scene▪

  For solitude, however some may rave,

  Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave,

  A sepulchre in which the living lie,

  Where all good qualities grow sick and die.

  I praise the * Frenchman, his remark was shrew’d —

  How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!

  But grant me still a friend in my retreat,

  Whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.

  Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside

  That appetite can ask, or wealth provide,

  Can save us always from a tedious day,

  Or shine the dullness of still life away;

  Divine communion carefully enjoy’d,

  Or sought with energy, must fill the void.

  Oh sacred art, to which alone life owes

  Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close,

  Scorn’d in a world, indebted to that scorn

  For evils daily felt
and hardly borne,

  Not knowing thee, we reap with bleeding hands,

  Flow’rs of rank odor upon thorny lands,

  And while experience cautions us in vain,

  Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain.

  Despondence, self-deserted in her grief,

  Lost by abandoning her own relief,

  Murmuring and ungrateful discontent,

  That scorns afflictions mercifully meant,

  Those humours tart as wines upon the fret,

  Which idleness and weariness beget,

  These and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast

  Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest,

  Divine communion chases as the day

  Drives to their dens th’ obedient beasts of prey.

  See Judah’s promised king, bereft of all,

  Driv’n out an exile from the face of Saul,

  To distant caves the lonely wand’rer flies,

  To seek that peace a tyrant’s frown denies.

  Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful voice,

  Hear him o’erwhelm’d with sorrow, yet rejoice,

  No womanish or wailing grief has part,

  No, not a moment, in his royal heart,

  Tis manly music, such as martyrs make,

  Suff’ring with gladness for a Saviour’s sake;

  His soul exults, hope animates his lays,

  The sense of mercy kindles into praise,

  And wilds familiar with the lion’s roar,

  Ring with extatic sounds unheard before;

  ’Tis love like his that can alone defeat

  The foes of man, or make a desart sweet.

  Religion does not censure or exclude

  Unnumber’d pleasures harmlessly pursued.

  To study culture, and with artful toil

  To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil,

  To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands

  The grain or herb or plant that each demands,

  To cherish virtue in an humble state,

  And share the joys your bounty may create,

  To mark the matchless workings of the pow’r

  That shuts within its seed the future flow’r,

  Bids these in elegance of form excell,

  In colour these, and those delight the smell,

  Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies,

  To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes;

  To teach the canvass innocent deceit,

  Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet,

  These, these are arts pursued without a crime,

  That leave no stain upon the wing of time.

  Me poetry (or rather notes that aim

  Feebly and vainly at poetic fame)

  Employs, shut out from more important views,

  Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse,

  Content, if thus sequester’d I may raise

  A monitor’s, though not a poet’s praise,

  And while I teach an art too little known,