William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,

  Not slothful; happy to deceive the time,

  Not waste it; and aware that human life

  Is but a loan to be repaid with use,

  When He shall call His debtors to account,

  From whom are all our blessings; business finds

  Even here: while sedulous I seek to improve,

  At least neglect not, or leave unemployed,

  The mind He gave me; driving it, though slack

  Too oft, and much impeded in its work

  By causes not to be divulged in vain,

  To its just point — the service of mankind.

  He that attends to his interior self,

  That has a heart and keeps it; has a mind

  That hungers and supplies it; and who seeks

  A social, not a dissipated life,

  Has business; feels himself engaged to achieve

  No unimportant, though a silent task.

  A life all turbulence and noise may seem,

  To him that leads it, wise and to be praised;

  But wisdom is a pearl with most success

  Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.

  He that is ever occupied in storms,

  Or dives not for it or brings up instead,

  Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

  The morning finds the self-sequestered man

  Fresh for his task, intend what task he may.

  Whether inclement seasons recommend

  His warm but simple home, where he enjoys,

  With her who shares his pleasures and his heart,

  Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph

  Which neatly she prepares; then to his book

  Well chosen, and not sullenly perused

  In selfish silence, but imparted oft

  As aught occurs that she may smile to hear,

  Or turn to nourishment digested well.

  Or if the garden with its many cares,

  All well repaid, demand him, he attends

  The welcome call, conscious how much the hand

  Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye,

  Oft loitering lazily if not o’erseen,

  Or misapplying his unskilful strength.

  Nor does he govern only or direct,

  But much performs himself; no works indeed

  That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil,

  Servile employ — but such as may amuse,

  Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.

  Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees

  That meet, no barren interval between,

  With pleasure more than even their fruits afford,

  Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.

  These, therefore, are his own peculiar charge,

  No meaner hand may discipline the shoots,

  None but his steel approach them. What is weak,

  Distempered, or has lost prolific powers,

  Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand

  Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the soft

  And succulent that feeds its giant growth,

  But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs

  Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick

  With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left

  That may disgrace his art, or disappoint

  Large expectation, he disposes neat

  At measured distances, that air and sun

  Admitted freely may afford their aid,

  And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.

  Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence,

  And hence even Winter fills his withered hand

  With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own,

  Fair recompense of labour well bestowed

  And wise precaution, which a clime so rude

  Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the child

  Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods

  Discovering much the temper of her sire.

  For oft, as if in her the stream of mild

  Maternal nature had reversed its course,

  She brings her infants forth with many smiles,

  But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.

  He therefore, timely warned, himself supplies

  Her want of care, screening and keeping warm

  The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep

  His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft

  As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,

  The fence withdrawn, he gives them ev’ry beam,

  And spreads his hopes before the blaze of day.

  To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd,

  So grateful to the palate, and when rare

  So coveted, else base and disesteemed —

  Food for the vulgar merely — is an art

  That toiling ages have but just matured,

  And at this moment unessayed in song.

  Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since,

  Their eulogy; those sang the Mantuan bard,

  And these the Grecian in ennobling strains;

  And in thy numbers, Philips, shines for aye

  The solitary Shilling. Pardon then,

  Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame!

  The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers

  Presuming an attempt not less sublime,

  Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste

  Of critic appetite, no sordid fare,

  A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce.

  The stable yields a stercoraceous heap

  Impregnated with quick fermenting salts,

  And potent to resist the freezing blast.

  For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf

  Deciduous, and when now November dark

  Checks vegetation in the torpid plant

  Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins.

  Warily therefore, and with prudent heed

  He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds

  The agglomerated pile, his frame may front

  The sun’s meridian disk, and at the back

  Enjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge

  Impervious to the wind. First he bids spread

  Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe

  The ascending damps; then leisurely impose,

  And lightly, shaking it with agile hand

  From the full fork, the saturated straw.

  What longest binds the closest, forms secure

  The shapely side, that as it rises takes

  By just degrees an overhanging breadth,

  Sheltering the base with its projected eaves.

  The uplifted frame compact at every joint,

  And overlaid with clear translucent glass,

  He settles next upon the sloping mount,

  Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure

  From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls.

  He shuts it close, and the first labour ends.

  Thrice must the voluble and restless earth

  Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth

  Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass

  Diffused, attain the surface. When, behold!

  A pestilent and most corrosive steam,

  Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast,

  And fast condensed upon the dewy sash,

  Asks egress; which obtained, the overcharged

  And drenched conservatory breathes abroad,

  In volumes wheeling slow, the vapour dank,

  And purified, rejoices to have lost

  Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage

  The impatient fervour which it first conceives

  Within its reeking bosom, threatening death

  To his young hopes, requires discreet delay.

  Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft

  The way to glory by miscarriage foul,r />
  Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch

  The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat,

  Friendly to vital motion, may afford

  Soft fermentation, and invite the seed.

  The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth

  And glossy, he commits to pots of size

  Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared

  And fruitful soil, that has been treasured long,

  And drunk no moisture from the dripping clouds:

  These on the warm and genial earth that hides

  The smoking manure, and o’erspreads it all,

  He places lightly, and, as time subdues

  The rage of fermentation, plunges deep

  In the soft medium, till they stand immersed.

  Then rise the tender germs upstarting quick

  And spreading wide their spongy lobes; at first

  Pale, wan, and livid; but assuming soon,

  If fanned by balmy and nutritious air

  Strained through the friendly mats, a vivid green.

  Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves,

  Cautious he pinches from the second stalk

  A pimple, that portends a future sprout,

  And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed

  The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish,

  Prolific all, and harbingers of more.

  The crowded roots demand enlargement now

  And transplantation in an ampler space.

  Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply

  Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers,

  Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.

  These have their sexes, and when summer shines

  The bee transports the fertilising meal

  From flower to flower, and even the breathing air

  Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use.

  Not so when winter scowls. Assistant art

  Then acts in nature’s office, brings to pass

  The glad espousals and insures the crop.

  Grudge not, ye rich (since luxury must have

  His dainties, and the world’s more numerous half

  Lives by contriving delicates for you),

  Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,

  The vigilance, the labour, and the skill

  That day and night are exercised, and hang

  Upon the ticklish balance of suspense,

  That ye may garnish your profuse regales

  With summer fruits, brought forth by wintry suns.

  Ten thousand dangers lie in wait to thwart

  The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam,

  Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies

  Minute as dust and numberless, oft work

  Dire disappointment that admits no cure,

  And which no care can obviate. It were long,

  Too long to tell the expedients and the shifts

  Which he, that fights a season so severe,

  Devises, while he guards his tender trust,

  And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise

  Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song

  Cold as its theme, and, like its theme, the fruit

  Of too much labour, worthless when produced.

  Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too.

  Unconscious of a less propitious clime

  There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,

  While the winds whistle and the snows descend.

  The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf

  Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast

  Of Portugal and Western India there,

  The ruddier orange and the paler lime,

  Peep through their polished foliage at the storm,

  And seem to smile at what they need not fear.

  The amomum there with intermingling flowers

  And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts

  Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau,

  Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long,

  All plants, of every leaf, that can endure

  The winter’s frown if screened from his shrewd bite,

  Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,

  Levantine regions these; the Azores send

  Their jessamine; her jessamine remote

  Caffraria: foreigners from many lands,

  They form one social shade, as if convened

  By magic summons of the Orphean lyre.

  Yet such arrangement, rarely brought to pass

  But by a master’s hand, disposing well

  The gay diversities of leaf and flower,

  Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms,

  And dress the regular yet various scene.

  Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van

  The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still

  Sublime above the rest, the statelier stand.

  So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome,

  A noble show, while Roscius trod the stage;

  And so, while Garrick, as renowned as he,

  The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose

  Some note of Nature’s music from his lips,

  And covetous of Shakespeare’s beauty, seen

  In every flash of his far-beaming eye.

  Nor taste alone and well-contrived display

  Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grace

  Of their complete effect. Much yet remains

  Unsung, and many cares are yet behind

  And more laborious; cares on which depends

  Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored.

  The soil must be renewed, which often washed

  Loses its treasure of salubrious salts,

  And disappoints the roots; the slender roots,

  Close interwoven where they meet the vase,

  Must smooth be shorn away; the sapless branch

  Must fly before the knife; the withered leaf

  Must be detached, and where it strews the floor

  Swept with a woman’s neatness, breeding else

  Contagion, and disseminating death.

  Discharge but these kind offices (and who

  Would spare, that loves them, offices like these?)

  Well they reward the toil. The sight is pleased,

  The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf,

  Each opening blossom, freely breathes abroad

  Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.

  So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,

  All healthful, are the employs of rural life,

  Reiterated as the wheel of time

  Runs round, still ending, and beginning still.

  Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll

  That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears

  A flowery island from the dark green lawn

  Emerging, must be deemed a labour due

  To no mean hand, and asks the touch of taste.

  Here also grateful mixture of well-matched

  And sorted hues (each giving each relief,

  And by contrasted beauty shining more)

  Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,

  May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home,

  But elegance, chief grace the garden shows

  And most attractive, is the fair result

  Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.

  Without it, all is Gothic as the scene

  To which the insipid citizen resorts,

  Near yonder heath; where industry misspent,

  But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task,

  Has made a heaven on earth; with suns and moons

  Of close-rammed stones has charged the encumbered soil,

  And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.

  He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed

  Sightly and in just order, ere he gives

  T
he beds the trusted treasure of their seeds,

  Forecasts the future whole; that when the scene

  Shall break into its preconceived display,

  Each for itself, and all as with one voice

  Conspiring, may attest his bright design.

  Nor even then, dismissing as performed

  His pleasant work, may he suppose it done.

  Few self-supported flowers endure the wind

  Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid

  Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied

  Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age,

  For interest sake, the living to the dead.

  Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused

  And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair;

  Like virtue, thriving most where little seen.

  Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub

  With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,

  Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon

  And fragrant chaplet, recompensing well

  The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.

  All hate the rank society of weeds,

  Noisome, and very greedy to exhaust

  The impoverished earth; an overbearing race,

  That, like the multitude made faction-mad,

  Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.

  Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world,

  Which he, thus occupied, enjoys! Retreat

  Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore

  Lost innocence, or cancel follies past;

  But it has peace, and much secures the mind

  From all assaults of evil; proving still

  A faithful barrier, not o’erleaped with ease

  By vicious custom raging uncontrolled

  Abroad and desolating public life.

  When fierce temptation, seconded within

  By traitor appetite, and armed with darts

  Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast,

  To combat may be glorious, and success

  Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe.

  Had I the choice of sublunary good,

  What could I wish that I possess not here?

  Health, leisure; means to improve it, friendship, peace,

  No loose or wanton though a wandering muse,

  And constant occupation without care.

  Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss;

  Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds

  And profligate abusers of a world

  Created fair so much in vain for them,

  Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,

  Allured by my report; but sure no less

  That self-condemned they must neglect the prize,

  And what they will not taste, must yet approve.

  What we admire we praise; and when we praise