William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Unbidden, and not now to be controlled,

  Rushed to the cliff, and having reached it, stood.

  At once the shock unseated him; he flew

  Sheer o’er the craggy barrier, and, immersed

  Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not,

  The death he had deserved, and died alone.

  So God wrought double justice; made the fool

  The victim of his own tremendous choice,

  And taught a brute the way to safe revenge.

  I would not enter on my list of friends

  (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,

  Yet wanting sensibility) the man

  Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.

  An inadvertent step may crush the snail

  That crawls at evening in the public path;

  But he that has humanity, forewarned,

  Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

  The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,

  And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes

  A visitor unwelcome into scenes

  Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,

  The chamber, or refectory, may die.

  A necessary act incurs no blame.

  Not so when, held within their proper bounds

  And guiltless of offence, they range the air,

  Or take their pastime in the spacious field.

  There they are privileged; and he that hunts

  Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,

  Disturbs the economy of Nature’s realm,

  Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.

  The sum is this: if man’s convenience, health,

  Or safety interfere, his rights and claims

  Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.

  Else they are all — the meanest things that are —

  As free to live and to enjoy that life,

  As God was free to form them at the first,

  Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all.

  Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons

  To love it too. The spring-time of our years

  Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most

  By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand

  To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots,

  If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth,

  Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.

  Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule

  And righteous limitation of its act,

  By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man;

  And he that shows none, being ripe in years,

  And conscious of the outrage he commits,

  Shall seek it and not find it in his turn.

  Distinguished much by reason, and still more

  By our capacity of grace divine,

  From creatures that exist but for our sake,

  Which having served us, perish, we are held

  Accountable, and God, some future day,

  Will reckon with us roundly for the abuse

  Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust.

  Superior as we are, they yet depend

  Not more on human help, than we on theirs.

  Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given

  In aid of our defects. In some are found

  Such teachable and apprehensive parts,

  That man’s attainments in his own concerns,

  Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs,

  Are ofttimes vanquished and thrown far behind.

  Some show that nice sagacity of smell,

  And read with such discernment, in the port

  And figure of the man, his secret aim,

  That oft we owe our safety to a skill

  We could not teach, and must despair to learn.

  But learn we might, if not too proud to stoop

  To quadruped instructors, many a good

  And useful quality, and virtue too,

  Rarely exemplified among ourselves;

  Attachment never to be weaned, or changed

  By any change of fortune, proof alike

  Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;

  Fidelity, that neither bribe nor threat

  Can move or warp; and gratitude for small

  And trivial favours, lasting as the life,

  And glistening even in the dying eye.

  Man praises man. Desert in arts or arms

  Wins public honour; and ten thousand sit

  Patiently present at a sacred song,

  Commemoration-mad; content to hear

  (Oh wonderful effect of music’s power!)

  Messiah’s eulogy, for Handel’s sake.

  But less, methinks, than sacrilege might serve —

  (For was it less? What heathen would have dared

  To strip Jove’s statue of his oaken wreath

  And hang it up in honour of a man?)

  Much less might serve, when all that we design

  Is but to gratify an itching ear,

  And give the day to a musician’s praise.

  Remember Handel! who, that was not born

  Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets,

  Or can, the more than Homer of his age?

  Yes — we remember him; and, while we praise

  A talent so divine, remember too

  That His most holy Book from whom it came

  Was never meant, was never used before

  To buckram out the memory of a man.

  But hush! — the muse perhaps is too severe,

  And with a gravity beyond the size

  And measure of the offence, rebukes a deed

  Less impious than absurd, and owing more

  To want of judgment than to wrong design.

  So in the chapel of old Ely House,

  When wandering Charles, who meant to be the third,

  Had fled from William, and the news was fresh,

  The simple clerk, but loyal, did announce,

  And eke did rear right merrily, two staves,

  Sung to the praise and glory of King George.

  — Man praises man; and Garrick’s memory next,

  When time has somewhat mellowed it, and made

  The idol of our worship while he lived

  The god of our idolatry once more,

  Shall have its altar; and the world shall go

  In pilgrimage to bow before his shrine.

  The theatre, too small, shall suffocate

  Its squeezed contents, and more than it admits

  Shall sigh at their exclusion, and return

  Ungratified. For there some noble lord

  Shall stuff his shoulders with King Richard’s bunch,

  Or wrap himself in Hamlet’s inky cloak,

  And strut, and storm, and straddle, stamp, and stare,

  To show the world how Garrick did not act,

  For Garrick was a worshipper himself;

  He drew the liturgy, and framed the rites

  And solemn ceremonial of the day,

  And called the world to worship on the banks

  Of Avon famed in song. Ah! pleasant proof

  That piety has still in human hearts

  Some place, a spark or two not yet extinct.

  The mulberry-tree was hung with blooming wreaths,

  The mulberry-tree stood centre of the dance,

  The mulberry-tree was hymned with dulcet airs,

  And from his touchwood trunk the mulberry-tree

  Supplied such relics as devotion holds

  Still sacred, and preserves with pious care.

  So ’twas a hallowed time: decorum reigned,

  And mirth without offence. No few returned

  Doubtless much edified, and all refreshed.

  — Man praises man. The rabble all alive,

  From tippling benches, cellars, stalls, and styes,

  Swarm in the streets. The statesman of the day,

  A
pompous and slow-moving pageant, comes;

  Some shout him, and some hang upon his car

  To gaze in his eyes and bless him. Maidens wave

  Their kerchiefs, and old women weep for joy

  While others not so satisfied unhorse

  The gilded equipage, and, turning loose

  His steeds, usurp a place they well deserve.

  Why? what has charmed them? Hath he saved the state?

  No. Doth he purpose its salvation? No.

  Enchanting novelty, that moon at full

  That finds out every crevice of the head

  That is not sound and perfect, hath in theirs

  Wrought this disturbance. But the wane is near,

  And his own cattle must suffice him soon.

  Thus idly do we waste the breath of praise,

  And dedicate a tribute, in its use

  And just direction sacred, to a thing

  Doomed to the dust, or lodged already there.

  Encomium in old time was poet’s work;

  But, poets having lavishly long since

  Exhausted all materials of the art,

  The task now falls into the public hand;

  And I, contented with a humble theme,

  Have poured my stream of panegyric down

  The vale of Nature, where it creeps and winds

  Among her lovely works, with a secure

  And unambitious course, reflecting clear

  If not the virtues yet the worth of brutes.

  And I am recompensed, and deem the toil

  Of poetry not lost, if verse of mine

  May stand between an animal and woe,

  And teach one tyrant pity for his drudge.

  The groans of Nature in this nether world,

  Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end.

  Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung,

  Whose fire was kindled at the prophets’ lamp,

  The time of rest, the promised Sabbath, comes.

  Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh

  Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course

  Over a sinful world; and what remains

  Of this tempestuous state of human things,

  Is merely as the working of a sea

  Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest.

  For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds

  The dust that waits upon His sultry march,

  When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot,

  Shall visit earth in mercy; shall descend

  Propitious, in His chariot paved with love,

  And what His storms have blasted and defaced

  For man’s revolt, shall with a smile repair.

  Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet

  Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch;

  Nor can the wonders it records be sung

  To meaner music, and not suffer loss.

  But when a poet, or when one like me,

  Happy to rove among poetic flowers,

  Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last

  On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair,

  Such is the impulse and the spur he feels

  To give it praise proportioned to its worth,

  That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems

  The labour, were a task more arduous still.

  Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true,

  Scenes of accomplished bliss! which who can see,

  Though but in distant prospect, and not feel

  His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy?

  Rivers of gladness water all the earth,

  And clothe all climes with beauty; the reproach

  Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field

  Laughs with abundance, and the land once lean,

  Or fertile only in its own disgrace,

  Exults to see its thistly curse repealed.

  The various seasons woven into one,

  And that one season an eternal spring,

  The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence,

  For there is none to covet, all are full.

  The lion and the libbard and the bear

  Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon

  Together, or all gambol in the shade

  Of the same grove, and drink one common stream.

  Antipathies are none. No foe to man

  Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees,

  And smiles to see, her infant’s playful hand

  Stretched forth to dally with the crested worm,

  To stroke his azure neck, or to receive

  The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue.

  All creatures worship man, and all mankind

  One Lord, one Father. Error has no place;

  That creeping pestilence is driven away,

  The breath of heaven has chased it. In the heart

  No passion touches a discordant string,

  But all is harmony and love. Disease

  Is not. The pure and uncontaminated blood

  Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age.

  One song employs all nations; and all cry,

  “Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!”

  The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks

  Shout to each other, and the mountain-tops

  From distant mountains catch the flying joy,

  Till nation after nation taught the strain,

  Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.

  Behold the measure of the promise filled,

  See Salem built, the labour of a God!

  Bright as a sun the sacred city shines;

  All kingdoms and all princes of the earth

  Flock to that light; the glory of all lands

  Flows into her, unbounded is her joy

  And endless her increase. Thy rams are there,

  Nebaioth,* and the flocks of Kedar there;

  The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind,

  And Saba’s spicy groves pay tribute there.

  Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls,

  And in her streets, and in her spacious courts

  Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there

  Kneels with the native of the farthest West,

  And AEthiopia spreads abroad the hand,

  And worships. Her report has travelled forth

  Into all lands. From every clime they come

  To see thy beauty and to share thy joy,

  O Sion! an assembly such as earth

  Saw never; such as heaven stoops down to see.

  * Nebaioth and Kedar, the sons of Ishmael, and progenitors of the Arabs, in the prophetic scripture here alluded to may be reasonably considered as representatives of the Gentiles at large. — C.

  Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once

  Perfect, and all must be at length restored.

  So God has greatly purposed; who would else

  In His dishonoured works Himself endure

  Dishonour, and be wronged without redress.

  Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world,

  Ye slow-revolving seasons! We would see

  (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet)

  A world that does not dread and hate His laws,

  And suffer for its crime: would learn how fair

  The creature is that God pronounces good,

  How pleasant in itself what pleases Him.

  Here every drop of honey hides a sting;

  Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers,

  And even the joy, that haply some poor heart

  Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is,

  Is sullied in the stream; taking a taint

  From touch of human lips, at best impure.

  Oh for a world in principle as chaste

  As this is gross and selfish! over which

  Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway,

  That govern all things here, shoul
dering aside

  The meek and modest Truth, and forcing her

  To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife

  In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men,

  Where violence shall never lift the sword,

  Nor cunning justify the proud man’s wrong,

  Leaving the poor no remedy but tears;

  Where he that fills an office, shall esteem

  The occasion it presents of doing good

  More than the perquisite; where laws shall speak

  Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts,

  And equity, not jealous more to guard

  A worthless form, than to decide aright;

  Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse,

  Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace)

  With lean performance ape the work of love.

  Come then, and added to Thy many crowns

  Receive yet one, the crown of all the earth,

  Thou who alone art worthy! it was Thine

  By ancient covenant, ere nature’s birth,

  And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since,

  And overpaid its value with Thy blood.

  Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts

  Thy title is engraven with a pen

  Dipt in the fountain of eternal love.

  Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and Thy delay

  Gives courage to their foes, who, could they see

  The dawn of Thy last advent, long-desired,

  Would creep into the bowels of the hills,

  And flee for safety to the falling rocks.

  The very spirit of the world is tired

  Of its own taunting question, asked so long,

  “Where is the promise of your Lord’s approach?”

  The infidel has shot his bolts away,

  Till, his exhausted quiver yielding none,

  He gleans the blunted shafts that have recoiled,

  And aims them at the shield of truth again.

  The veil is rent, rent too by priestly hands,

  That hides divinity from mortal eyes;

  And all the mysteries to faith proposed,

  Insulted and traduced, are cast aside,

  As useless, to the moles and to the bats.

  They now are deemed the faithful and are praised,

  Who, constant only in rejecting Thee,

  Deny Thy Godhead with a martyr’s zeal,

  And quit their office for their error’s sake.

  Blind and in love with darkness! yet even these

  Worthy, compared with sycophants, who kneel,

  Thy Name adoring, and then preach Thee man!

  So fares Thy Church. But how Thy Church may fare,

  The world takes little thought; who will may preach,

  And what they will. All pastors are alike

  To wandering sheep resolved to follow none.