William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Two gods divide them all, Pleasure and Gain;

  For these they live, they sacrifice to these,

  And in their service wage perpetual war

  With conscience and with Thee. Lust in their hearts,

  And mischief in their hands, they roam the earth

  To prey upon each other; stubborn, fierce,

  High-minded, foaming out their own disgrace.

  Thy prophets speak of such; and noting down

  The features of the last degenerate times,

  Exhibit every lineament of these.

  Come then, and added to Thy many crowns

  Receive yet one as radiant as the rest,

  Due to Thy last and most effectual work,

  Thy Word fulfilled, the conquest of a world.

  He is the happy man, whose life even now

  Shows somewhat of that happier life to come;

  Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state,

  Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose,

  Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit

  Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith,

  Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one

  Content indeed to sojourn while he must

  Below the skies, but having there his home.

  The world o’erlooks him in her busy search

  Of objects more illustrious in her view;

  And occupied as earnestly as she,

  Though more sublimely, he o’erlooks the world.

  She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not;

  He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain.

  He cannot skim the ground like summer birds

  Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems

  Her honours, her emoluments, her joys;

  Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,

  Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth

  She makes familiar with a heaven unseen,

  And shows him glories yet to be revealed.

  Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,

  And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams

  Oft water fairest meadows; and the bird

  That flutters least is longest on the wing.

  Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised,

  Or what achievements of immortal fame

  He purposes, and he shall answer — None.

  His warfare is within. There unfatigued

  His fervent spirit labours. There he fights,

  And there obtains fresh triumphs o’er himself,

  And never-withering wreaths, compared with which

  The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds.

  Perhaps the self-approving haughty world,

  That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks,

  Scarce deigns to notice him, or if she see,

  Deems him a cipher in the works of God,

  Receives advantage from his noiseless hours

  Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes

  Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring

  And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes

  When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint

  Walks forth to meditate at eventide,

  And think on her who thinks not for herself.

  Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns

  Of little worth, and idler in the best,

  If, author of no mischief and some good,

  He seeks his proper happiness by means

  That may advance, but cannot hinder thine.

  Nor, though he tread the secret path of life,

  Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease,

  Account him an encumbrance on the state,

  Receiving benefits, and rendering none.

  His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere

  Shine with his fair example, and though small

  His influence, if that influence all be spent

  In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife,

  In aiding helpless indigence, in works

  From which at least a grateful few derive

  Some taste of comfort in a world of woe,

  Then let the supercilious great confess

  He serves his country; recompenses well

  The state beneath the shadow of whose vine

  He sits secure, and in the scale of life

  Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place.

  The man whose virtues are more felt than seen,

  Must drop, indeed, the hope of public praise;

  But he may boast, what few that win it can,

  That if his country stand not by his skill,

  At least his follies have not wrought her fall.

  Polite refinement offers him in vain

  Her golden tube, through which a sensual world

  Draws gross impurity, and likes it well,

  The neat conveyance hiding all the offence.

  Not that he peevishly rejects a mode

  Because that world adopts it. If it bear

  The stamp and clear impression of good sense,

  And be not costly more than of true worth,

  He puts it on, and for decorum sake

  Can wear it e’en as gracefully as she.

  She judges of refinement by the eye,

  He by the test of conscience, and a heart

  Not soon deceived; aware that what is base

  No polish can make sterling, and that vice,

  Though well-perfumed and elegantly dressed,

  Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers,

  Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far

  For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.

  So life glides smoothly and by stealth away,

  More golden than that age of fabled gold

  Renowned in ancient song; not vexed with care,

  Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved

  Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.

  So glide my life away! and so at last,

  My share of duties decently fulfilled,

  May some disease, not tardy to perform

  Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke,

  Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat

  Beneath the turf that I have often trod.

  It shall not grieve me, then, that once, when called

  To dress a Sofa with the flowers of verse,

  I played awhile, obedient to the fair,

  With that light task, but soon to please her more,

  Whom flowers alone I knew would little please,

  Let fall the unfinished wreath, and roved for fruit;

  Roved far and gathered much; some harsh, ’tis true,

  Picked from the thorns and briars of reproof,

  But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some

  To palates that can taste immortal truth;

  Insipid else, and sure to be despised.

  But all is in His hand whose praise I seek,

  In vain the poet sings, and the world hears,

  If He regard not, though divine the theme.

  ’Tis not in artful measures, in the chime

  And idle tinkling of a minstrel’s lyre,

  To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart;

  Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,

  Whose approbation — prosper even mine.

  AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ.

  [Written Nov., 1784. Published 1785.]

  Dear Joseph — five and twenty years ago —

  Alas, how time escapes!— ’tis even so —

  With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,

  And always friendly, we were wont to cheat

  A tedious hour — and now we never meet!

  As some grave gentleman in Terence says,

  (’Twas therefore much the same in ancient days)

  Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings —

  Strange fluctuation of all human things!

  True
. Changes will befall, and friends may part,

  But distance only cannot change the heart: 11

  And, were I call’d to prove th’ assertion true,

  One proof should serve — a reference to you.

  Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life,

  Though nothing have occurr’d to kindle strife,

  We find the friends we fancied we had won,

  Though num’rous once, reduc’d to few or none?

  Can gold grow worthless that has stood the touch?

  No — gold they seem’d, but they were never such.

  Horatio’s servant once, with how and cringe, 20

  Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge,

  Dreading a negative, and overaw’d

  Lest he should trespass, begg’d to go abroad.

  Go, fellow! — whither? — turning short about —

  Nay — stay at home — you’re always going out.

  ’Tis but a step, sir, just at the street’s end. —

  For what? — An please you, sir, to see a friend.

  A friend! Horatio cry’d, and seem’d to start —

  Yea, marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. —

  And fetch my cloak: for, though the night be raw, 30

  I’ll see him too — the first I ever saw.

  I knew the man, and knew his nature mild,

  And was his plaything often when a child;

  But somewhat at that moment pinch’d him close,

  Else he was seldom bitter or morose.

  Perhaps, his confidence just then betray’d,

  His grief might prompt him with the speech he made;

  Perhaps ’twas mere good-humour gave it birth,

  The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth.

  Howe’er it was, his language, in my mind, 40

  Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind.

  But, not to moralize too much, and strain

  To prove an evil of which all complain,

  (I hate long arguments, verbosely spun)

  One story more, dear Hill, and I have done.

  Once on a time an emp’ror, a wise man —

  No matter where, in China or Japan,

  Decreed that whosoever should offend

  Against the well-known duties of a friend,

  Convicted once, should ever after wear 50

  But half a coat, and show his bosom bare.

  The punishment importing this, no doubt,

  That all was naught within, and all found out.

  Oh, happy Britain! we have not to fear

  Such hard and arbitrary measure here;

  Else, could a law like that which I relate

  Once have the sanction of our triple state,

  Some few that I have known in days of old,

  Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold;

  While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow,

  Might traverse England safely to and fro, 61

  An honest man, close-button’d to the chin,

  Broad-cloth without, and a warm heart within.

  TIROCINIUM: A REVIEW FOR SCHOOLS

  TIROCINIUM.

  It is not from his form, in which we trace

  Strength join’d with beauty, dignity with grace,

  That man, the master of this globe, derives

  His right of empire over all that lives.

  That form, indeed, the associate of a mind

  Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind,

  That form, the labour of Almighty skill,

  Framed for the service of a freeborn will,

  Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control,

  But borrows all its grandeur from the soul.

  Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne,

  An intellectual kingdom, all her own.

  For her the memory fills her ample page

  With truths pour’d down from every distant age;

  For her amasses an unbounded store,

  The wisdom of great nations, now no more;

  Though laden, not encumber’d with her spoil;

  Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil;

  When copiously supplied, then most enlarged;

  Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged.

  For her the Fancy, roving unconfined,

  The present muse of every pensive mind,

  Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue

  To Nature’s scenes than Nature ever knew.

  At her command winds rise and waters roar,

  Again she lays them slumbering on the shore;

  With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies,

  Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.

  For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife

  That Grace and Nature have to wage through life,

  Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,

  Appointed sage preceptor to the Will,

  Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice,

  Guides the decision of a doubtful choice.

  Why did the fiat of a God give birth

  To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth?

  And, when descending he resigns the skies,

  Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise,

  Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves,

  And owns her power on every shore he laves?

  Why do the seasons still enrich the year,

  Fruitful and young as in their first career?

  Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees,

  Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze:

  Summer in haste the thriving charge receives

  Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves,

  Till Autumn’s fiercer heats and plenteous dews

  Dye them at last in all their glowing hues. —

  ‘Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste,

  Power misemploy’d, munificence misplaced,

  Had not its Author dignified the plan,

  And crown’d it with the majesty of man.

  Thus form’d, thus placed, intelligent, and taught,

  Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought,

  The wildest scorner of his Maker’s laws

  Finds in a sober moment time to pause,

  To press the important question on his heart,

  “Why form’d at all, and wherefore as thou art?”

  If man be what he seems, this hour a slave,

  The next mere dust and ashes in the grave;

  Endued with reason only to descry

  His crimes and follies with an aching eye;

  With passions, just that he may prove, with pain,

  The force he spends against their fury vain;

  And if, soon after having burnt, by turns,

  With every lust with which frail Nature burns,

  His being end where death dissolves the bond,

  The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond;

  Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth,

  Stands self-impeach’d the creature of least worth,

  And, useless while he lives, and when he dies,

  Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies.

  Truths that the learn’d pursue with eager thought

  Are not important always as dear-bought,

  Proving at last, though told in pompous strains,

  A childish waste of philosophic pains;

  But truths on which depends our main concern,

  That ’tis our shame and misery not to learn,

  Shine by the side of every path we tread

  With such a lustre, he that runs may read.

  ’Tis true that, if to trifle life away

  Down to the sunset of their latest day,

  Then perish on futurity’s wide shore

  Like fleeting exhalations, found no more,

  Were all that Heaven required of human kind,

  And all the plan their destiny design’d,

  What none could rever
ence all might justly blame,

  And man would breathe but for his Maker’s shame.

  But reason heard, and nature well perused,

  At once the dreaming mind is disabused.

  If all we find possessing earth, sea, air,

  Reflect His attributes who placed them there,

  Fulfil the purpose, and appear design’d

  Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind,

  ’Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest

  With kingship and dominion o’er the rest,

  Received his nobler nature, and was made

  Fit for the power in which he stands array’d;

  That first, or last, hereafter, if not here,

  He too might make his author’s wisdom clear,

  Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb,

  Suffer his justice in a world to come.

  This once believed, ‘twere logic misapplied

  To prove a consequence by none denied,

  That we are bound to cast the minds of youth

  Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth,

  That taught of God they may indeed be wise,

  Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies.

  In early days the conscience has in most

  A quickness, which in later life is lost:

  Preserved from guilt by salutary fears,

  Or guilty, soon relenting into tears.

  Too careless often, as our years proceed,

  What friends we sort with, or what books we read,

  Our parents yet exert a prudent care

  To feed our infant minds with proper fare;

  And wisely store the nursery by degrees

  With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease.

  Neatly secured from being soil’d or torn

  Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn,

  A book (to please us at a tender age

  ’Tis call’d a book, though but a single page)

  Presents the prayer the Saviour deign’d to teach,

  Which children use, and parsons — when they preach.

  Lisping our syllables, we scramble next

  Through moral narrative, or sacred text;

  And learn with wonder how this world began,

  Who made, who marr’d, and who has ransom’d man:

  Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain,

  The wisest heads might agitate in vain.

  O thou, whom, borne on fancy’s eager wing

  Back to the season of life’s happy spring,

  I pleased remember, and, while memory yet

  Holds fast her office here, can ne’er forget;

  Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale

  Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail;

  Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style,