William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  To close life wisely, may not waste my own.

  The Task and Other Poems

  After the publication of Table Talk and Other Poems in 1782, Cowper found a new friend in Lady Austen, a baronet’s widow, living close to Olney. In the summer of 1781, when his first volume was being printed, Cowper met Lady Austen and her sister in the street at Olney, and persuaded Mrs. Unwin to invite them to tea. Their visit was the beginning of a cordial and fruitful friendship. Lady Austen, without being less earnest, had a liveliness that satisfied Cowper’s sense of fun to an extent that stirred jealousy in Mrs. Unwin.

  In the summer of 1783, when one his friends had been reading blank verse aloud, Lady Austen complained to Cowper that blank verse was to be preferred to the rhymed couplets in which his first book of poetry had been written, and that he should write a poem in that form. “I will,” he said, “if you will give me a subject.” “Oh,” she answered, “you can write upon anything. Write on this sofa.” The poet playfully accepted that as “the task” set him and began his poem titled “The Task,” which was finished in the summer of the following year in 1784. Yet before “The Task” was finished, Mrs. Unwin’s jealousy obliged Cowper to give up his new friend — whom he had made a point of calling upon every morning at eleven — and prevent her return to summer quarters in the vicarage.

  When the publisher asked for a few more pages to his volume of The Task, Cowper gave him as makeweights an Epistle to Joseph Hill, Tirocinium and, a little doubtfully, The Diverting History of John Gilpin, which had been submitted several years ago and largely ignored. The collection was published in June 1785; and was particularly popular due to being by the author of “John Gilpin,”, at once winning recognition. Although his preceding volume of verse had not made Cowper famous, The Task at once established his place among the poets of his day.

  The Task is to this day, along with Wordsworth’s Excursion, one of the English literature’s greatest didactic poems. The “Sofa” stands only as a point of departure: — it suits a gouty limb; but as the poet is not gouty, he is up and off. For example, he takes a walk with Mrs. Unwin in the country about Olney. He dwells on the rural sights and rural sounds, taking first the inanimate sounds, then the animate. In muddy winter weather he walks alone, finds a solitary cottage and draws from it comment upon the false sentiment of solitude. He describes the walk to the park at Weston Underwood, the prospect from the hilltop, touches upon his privilege in having a key of the gate, describes the avenues of trees, the wilderness, the grove, and the sound of the thresher’s flail then suggests to him that all live by energy, best ease is after toil. He compares the luxury of art with wholesomeness of Nature free to all, that brings health to the sick, joy to the returned seafarer. Spleen vexes votaries of artificial life. True gaiety is for the innocent. So thought flows on, and touches in its course the vital questions of a troubled time.

  Nevertheless, the poem continues to be overshadowed by the comic ballad that also featured in the same collection and remains to this day one of Cowper’s most enduring works: The Diverting History of John Gilpin. One evening in the summer of 1782, when Cowper was feeling low-spirited, Lady Austen had told him in lively fashion the story upon which he founded the ballad of John Gilpin. Its original hero is said to have been a Mr. Bayer, who owned a draper’s shop in London, at the corner of Cheapside. Cowper was so fascinated by the tale, that he laid awake part of the night rhyming and laughing. By the next evening the ballad was complete. It was published anonymously in the Public Advertiser in 1782 and then published with The Task in 1785. The Diverting History of John Gilpin was so popular the second time around that pirate copies were being sold across the country, together with Gilpin books and toys.

  ‘Crazy Kate’, an illustration for ‘The Task’ by Henry Fuseli, 1807

  CONTENTS

  THE TASK.

  BOOK I. THE SOFA.

  BOOK II. THE TIMEPIECE.

  BOOK III. THE GARDEN.

  BOOK IV. THE WINTER EVENING.

  BOOK V. THE WINTER MORNING WALK.

  BOOK VI. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON.

  AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

  TIROCINIUM: A REVIEW FOR SCHOOLS

  THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN

  An illustration of Cowper’s famous comic ballad ‘The Diverting History of John Gilpin’ by Randolph Caldecott

  THE TASK.

  BOOK I. THE SOFA.

  [“The history of the following production is briefly this: — A lady, fond of blank verse, demanded a poem of that kind from the author, and gave him the SOFA for a subject. He obeyed, and having much leisure, connected another subject with it; and, pursuing the train of thought to which his situation and turn of mind led him, brought forth, at length, instead of the trifle which he at first intended, a serious affair — a volume.]

  I sing the Sofa. I, who lately sang

  Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe

  The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,

  Escaped with pain from that advent’rous flight,

  Now seek repose upon a humbler theme:

  The theme though humble, yet august and proud

  The occasion — for the Fair commands the song.

  Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,

  Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.

  As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,

  Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:

  The hardy chief upon the rugged rock

  Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank

  Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,

  Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.

  Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next

  The birthday of invention; weak at first,

  Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.

  Joint-stools were then created; on three legs

  Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm

  A massy slab, in fashion square or round.

  On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,

  And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;

  And such in ancient halls and mansions drear

  May still be seen, but perforated sore

  And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,

  By worms voracious eating through and through.

  At length a generation more refined

  Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,

  Gave them a twisted form vermicular,

  And o’er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuffed,

  Induced a splendid cover green and blue,

  Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought

  And woven close, or needlework sublime.

  There might ye see the peony spread wide,

  The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,

  Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,

  And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

  Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright

  With Nature’s varnish; severed into stripes

  That interlaced each other, these supplied,

  Of texture firm, a lattice-work that braced

  The new machine, and it became a chair.

  But restless was the chair; the back erect

  Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;

  The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part

  That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,

  Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.

  These for the rich: the rest, whom fate had placed

  In modest mediocrity, content

  With base materials, sat on well-tanned hides

  Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,

  With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,

  Or scarlet crewel in the cushion fixed:

  If cushion might be called, what harder seemed

  Than the firm oak of which t
he frame was formed.

  No want of timber then was felt or feared

  In Albion’s happy isle. The lumber stood

  Ponderous, and fixed by its own massy weight.

  But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,

  An alderman of Cripplegate contrived,

  And some ascribe the invention to a priest

  Burly and big, and studious of his ease.

  But rude at first, and not with easy slope

  Receding wide, they pressed against the ribs,

  And bruised the side, and elevated high

  Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.

  Long time elapsed or e’er our rugged sires

  Complained, though incommodiously pent in,

  And ill at ease behind. The ladies first

  Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.

  Ingenious fancy, never better pleased

  Than when employed to accommodate the fair,

  Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised

  The soft settee; one elbow at each end,

  And in the midst an elbow, it received,

  United yet divided, twain at once.

  So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;

  And so two citizens who take the air,

  Close packed and smiling in a chaise and one.

  But relaxation of the languid frame

  By soft recumbency of outstretched limbs,

  Was bliss reserved for happier days; so slow

  The growth of what is excellent, so hard

  To attain perfection in this nether world.

  Thus first necessity invented stools,

  Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,

  And luxury the accomplished Sofa last.

  The nurse sleeps sweetly, hired to watch the sick,

  Whom snoring she disturbs. As sweetly he

  Who quits the coach-box at the midnight hour

  To sleep within the carriage more secure,

  His legs depending at the open door.

  Sweet sleep enjoys the curate in his desk,

  The tedious rector drawling o’er his head,

  And sweet the clerk below; but neither sleep

  Of lazy nurse, who snores the sick man dead,

  Nor his who quits the box at midnight hour

  To slumber in the carriage more secure,

  Nor sleep enjoyed by curate in his desk,

  Nor yet the dozings of the clerk are sweet,

  Compared with the repose the Sofa yields.

  Oh, may I live exempted (while I live

  Guiltless of pampered appetite obscene)

  From pangs arthritic that infest the toe

  Of libertine excess. The Sofa suits

  The gouty limb, ’tis true; but gouty limb,

  Though on a Sofa, may I never feel:

  For I have loved the rural walk through lanes

  Of grassy swarth, close cropped by nibbling sheep,

  And skirted thick with intertexture firm

  Of thorny boughs: have loved the rural walk

  O’er hills, through valleys, and by river’s brink,

  E’er since a truant boy I passed my bounds

  To enjoy a ramble on the banks of Thames.

  And still remember, nor without regret

  Of hours that sorrow since has much endeared,

  How oft, my slice of pocket store consumed,

  Still hungering penniless and far from home,

  I fed on scarlet hips and stony haws,

  Or blushing crabs, or berries that emboss

  The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.

  Hard fare! but such as boyish appetite

  Disdains not, nor the palate undepraved

  By culinary arts unsavoury deems.

  No Sofa then awaited my return,

  No Sofa then I needed. Youth repairs

  His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil

  Incurring short fatigue; and though our years,

  As life declines, speed rapidly away,

  And not a year but pilfers as he goes

  Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep,

  A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees

  Their length and colour from the locks they spare;

  The elastic spring of an unwearied foot

  That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence,

  That play of lungs inhaling and again

  Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes

  Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me,

  Mine have not pilfered yet; nor yet impaired

  My relish of fair prospect; scenes that soothed

  Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find

  Still soothing and of power to charm me still.

  And witness, dear companion of my walks,

  Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive

  Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love,

  Confirmed by long experience of thy worth

  And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire —

  Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long.

  Thou know’st my praise of Nature most sincere,

  And that my raptures are not conjured up

  To serve occasions of poetic pomp,

  But genuine, and art partner of them all.

  How oft upon yon eminence, our pace

  Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne

  The ruffling wind scarce conscious that it blew,

  While admiration feeding at the eye,

  And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene!

  Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned

  The distant plough slow-moving, and beside

  His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,

  The sturdy swain diminished to a boy!

  Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain

  Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o’er,

  Conducts the eye along his sinuous course

  Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank

  Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms

  That screen the herdsman’s solitary hut;

  While far beyond and overthwart the stream

  That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale,

  The sloping land recedes into the clouds;

  Displaying on its varied side the grace

  Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,

  Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells

  Just undulates upon the listening ear;

  Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.

  Scenes must be beautiful which daily viewed

  Please daily, and whose novelty survives

  Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years:

  Praise justly due to those that I describe.

  Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds

  Exhilarate the spirit, and restore

  The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds,

  That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood

  Of ancient growth, make music not unlike

  The dash of ocean on his winding shore,

  And lull the spirit while they fill the mind,

  Unnumbered branches waving in the blast,

  And all their leaves fast fluttering, all at once.

  Nor less composure waits upon the roar

  Of distant floods, or on the softer voice

  Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip

  Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall

  Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length

  In matted grass, that with a livelier green

  Betrays the secret of their silent course.

  Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds,

  But animated Nature sweeter still

  To soothe and satisfy the human ear.

  Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one

  The livelong night: nor these alone whose notes

  Nice-f
ingered art must emulate in vain,

  But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

  In still repeated circles, screaming loud,

  The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl

  That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.

  Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh,

  Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,

  And only there, please highly for their sake.

  Peace to the artist, whose ingenious thought

  Devised the weather-house, that useful toy!

  Fearless of humid air and gathering rains

  Forth steps the man — an emblem of myself!

  More delicate his timorous mate retires.

  When Winter soaks the fields, and female feet,

  Too weak to struggle with tenacious clay,

  Or ford the rivulets, are best at home,

  The task of new discoveries falls on me.

  At such a season and with such a charge

  Once went I forth, and found, till then unknown,

  A cottage, whither oft we since repair:

  ’Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close

  Environed with a ring of branching elms

  That overhang the thatch, itself unseen

  Peeps at the vale below; so thick beset

  With foliage of such dark redundant growth,

  I called the low-roofed lodge the PEASANT’S NEST.

  And hidden as it is, and far remote

  From such unpleasing sounds as haunt the ear

  In village or in town, the bay of curs

  Incessant, clinking hammers, grinding wheels,

  And infants clamorous whether pleased or pained,

  Oft have I wished the peaceful covert mine.

  Here, I have said, at least I should possess

  The poet’s treasure, silence, and indulge

  The dreams of fancy, tranquil and secure.

  Vain thought! the dweller in that still retreat

  Dearly obtains the refuge it affords.

  Its elevated site forbids the wretch

  To drink sweet waters of the crystal well;

  He dips his bowl into the weedy ditch,

  And heavy-laden brings his beverage home,

  Far-fetched and little worth: nor seldom waits

  Dependent on the baker’s punctual call,

  To hear his creaking panniers at the door,