William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works
Page 40
From Fortune’s fickle pow’r;
Change as she list, she may increase,
But not abate my happiness,
Confirm’d by thee before. 18
Thus while I share her smiles with thee,
Welcome, my love, shall ever be
The favours she bestows;
Yet not on those I found my bliss,
But in the noble ecstasies
The faithful bosom knows. 24
And when she prunes her wings for flight,
And flutters nimbly from my sight,
Contented I resign
Whate’er she gave; thy love alone
I can securely call my own,
Happy while that is mine. 30
ODE SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND
[Written (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
Thou magic lyre, whose fascinating sound
Seduc’d the savage monsters from their cave,
Drew rocks and trees, and forms uncouth around,
And bade wild Hebrus hush his list’ning wave;
No more thy undulating warblings flow
O’er Thracian wilds of everlasting snow! 6
Awake to sweeter sounds, thou magic lyre,
And paint a lover’s bliss — a lover’s pain!
Far nobler triumphs now thy notes inspire, —
For see, Euridice attends thy strain;
Her smile, a prize beyond the conjuror’s aim —
Superior to the cancell’d breath of fame. 12
From her sweet brow to chase the gloom of care,
To check that tear that dims the beaming eye,
To bid her heart the rising sigh forbear,
And flush her orient cheek with brighter joy,
In that dear breast soft sympathy to move,
And touch the springs of rapture and of love! 18
Ah me! how long bewilder’d and astray,
Lost and benighted, did my footsteps rove,
Till, sent by heav’n to cheer my pathless way,
A star arose — the radiant star of love.
The God propitious join’d our willing hands,
And Hymen wreath’d us in his rosy bands. 24
Yet not the beaming eye, or placid brow,
Or golden tresses, hid the subtle dart;
To charms superior far than those I bow,
And nobler worth enslaves my vanquish’d heart;
The beauty, elegance, and grace combin’d, 29
Which beam transcendant from that angel mind;
While vulgar passions — meteors of a day,
Expire before the chilling blasts of age,
Our holy flame, with pure and steady ray,
Its glooms shall brighten, and its pangs assuage;
By Virtue (sacred vestal) fed, shall shine, 35
And warm our fainting souls with energy divine.
ON HER ENDEAVOURING TO CONCEAL HER GRIEF AT PARTING
[Written 1754 (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
Ah! wherefore should my weeping maid suppress
Those gentle signs of undissembled woe?
When from soft love proceeds the deep distress,
Ah! why forbid the willing tears to flow?
Since for my sake each dear translucent drop
Breaks forth, best witness of thy truth sincere,
My lips should drink the precious mixture up,
And, ere it falls, receive the trembling tear. 8
Trust me, these symptoms of thy faithful heart,
In absence, shall my dearest hopes sustain,
Delia! since such thy sorrow that we part,
Such when we meet thy joy shall be again.
Hard is that heart and unsubdued by love
That feels no pain, nor ever heaves a sigh,
Such hearts the fiercest passions only prove,
Or freeze in cold insensibility. 16
Oh! then indulge thy grief, nor fear to tell
The gentle source from whence thy sorrows flow!
Nor think it weakness when we love to feel,
Nor think it weakness what we feel to show.
BID ADIEU, MY SAD HEART
[Written at Berkhamstead 1754(?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
BID adieu, my sad heart, bid adieu to thy peace,
Thy pleasure is past, and thy sorrows increase;
See the shadows of ev’ning how far they extend,
And a long night is coming, that never may end;
For the sun is now set that enliven’d the scene,
And an age must be past ere it rises again. 6
Already depriv’d of its splendour and heat,
I feel thee more slowly, more heavily beat;
Perhaps overstrain’d with the quick pulse of pleasure,
Thou art glad of this respite to beat at thy leisure;
But the sigh of distress shall now weary thee more
Than the flutter and tumult of passion before. 12
The heart of a lover is never at rest,
With joy overwhelm’d, or with sorrow oppress’d:
When Delia is near, all is ecstasy then,
And I even forget I must lose her again:
When absent, as wretched as happy before,
Despairing I cry, I shall see her no more. 18
WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING HER AT NEW BURNS
[Written at Berkhamstead 1754 (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
How quick the change from joy to woe,
How chequer’d is our lot below!
Seldom we view the prospect fair;
Dark clouds of sorrow, pain, and care,
(Some pleasing intervals between,)
Scowl over more than half the scene.
Last week with Delia, gentle maid!
Far hence in happier fields I stray’d,
While on her dear enchanting tongue
Soft sounds of grateful welcome hung, 10
For absence had withheld it long.
Welcome my long-lost love, she said,
E’er since our adverse fates decreed
That we must part, and I must mourn
Till once more blest by thy return,
Love, on whose influence I relied
For all the transports I enjoy’d,
Has play’d the cruel tyrant’s part,
And turn’d tormentor to my heart;
But let me hold thee to my breast, 20
Dear partner of my joy and rest,
And not a pain, and not a fear,
Or anxious doubt, shall enter there. —
Happy, thought I, the favour’d youth,
Blest with such undissembled truth! —
Five suns successive rose and set,
And saw no monarch in his state,
Wrapt in the blaze of majesty,
So free from every care as I. —
Next day the scene was overcast, 30
Such day till then I never pass’d, —
For on that day, relentless fate!
Delia and I must separate.
Yet ere we look’d our last farewell,
From her dear lips this comfort fell
“Fear not that time, where’er we rove,
Or absence, shall abate my love.”
And can I doubt, my charming maid!
As unsincere what you have said?
Banish’d from thee to what I hate, 40
Dull neighbours and insipid chat,
No joy to cheer me, none in view,
But the dear hope of meeting you; —
And that through passion’s optic seen,
With ages interpos’d between, —
Blest with the kind support you give,
’Tis by your promis’d truth I live;
How deep my woes, how fierce my flame,
You best may tell, who feel the same.
R. S. S.
[Written 1755 (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
All-worshipp’d Gold! thou mighty mystery!
Say by what name shall I address thee rather,
Our blessing, or our bane? without thy aid,
The gen’rous pangs of pity but distress
The human heart, that fain would feel the bliss
Of blessing others; and, enslav’d by thee,
Far from relieving woes which others feel,
Misers oppress themselves. Our blessing then
With virtue when possess’d; without, our bane!
If in my bosom unperceiv’d there lurk 10
The deep-sown seeds of av’rice or ambition,
Blame me, ye great ones, (for I scorn your censure)
But let the gen’rous and the good commend me;
That to my Delia I direct them all,
The worthiest object of a virtuous love.
Oh! to some distant scene, a willing exile
From the wild uproar of this busy world,
Were it my fate with Delia to retire;
With her to wander through the sylvan shade,
Each morn, or o’er the moss-imbrowned turf, 20
Where, blest as the prime parents of mankind
In their own Eden, we would envy none;
But, greatly pitying whom the world calls happy,
Gently spin out the silken thread of life;
While from her lips attentive I receive
The tend’rest dictates of the purest flame,
And from her eyes (where soft complacence sits
Illumin’d with the radiant beams of sense)
Tranquillity beyond a monarch’s reach!
Forgive me, heav’n! this only avarice 30
My soul indulges; I confess the crime,
(If to esteem, to covet such perfection
Be criminal,) Oh grant me Delia! grant me wealth!
Wealth to alleviate, not increase my wants,
And grant me virtue, without which nor wealth
Nor Delia can avail to make me blest.
R. S. S. WRITTEN IN A FIT OF ILLNESS
[Written 1755 (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
IN these sad hours, a prey to ceaseless pain,
While feverish pulses leap in ev’ry vein,
When each faint breath the last short effort seems
Of life just parting from my feeble limbs;
How wild soe’er my wand’ring thoughts may be,
Still, gentle Delia, still they turn on thee!
At length if, slumb’ring to a short repose,
A sweet oblivion frees me from my woes,
Thy form appears, thy footsteps I pursue,
Through springy vales, and meadows wash’d in dew;
Thy arm supports me to the fountain’s brink, 11
Where, by some secret pow’r forbid to drink,
Gasping with thirst, I view the tempting flood
That flies my touch, or thickens into mud,
Till thine own hand immerg’d the goblet dips,
And bears it streaming to my burning lips;
There borne aloft on Fancy’s wing we fly,
Like souls embodied to their native sky;
Now ev’ry rock, each mountain, disappears,
And the round earth an even surface wears; 20
When lo! the force of some resistless weight
Bears me straight down from that pernicious height;
Parting, in vain our struggling arms we close;
Abhorred forms, dire phantoms interpose;
With trembling voice on thy lov’d name I call,
And gulphs yawn ready to receive my fall;
From these fallacious visions of distress
I wake; nor are my real sorrows less.
Thy absence, Delia! heightens every ill,
And gives e’en trivial pains the pow’r to kill. 30
Oh! wert thou near me; yet that wish forbear!
‘Twere vain, my love— ‘twere vain to wish thee near;
Thy tender heart would heave with anguish too,
And by partaking but increase my woe.
Alone I’ll grieve, till, gloomy sorrow past,
Health, like the cheerful day-spring, comes at last —
Comes fraught with bliss to banish ev’ry pain,
Hope, joy, and peace, and Delia in her train!
TO DELIA
[Written 1755. Published by Croft, 1825.]
ME to whatever state the Gods assign,
Believe, my love, whatever state be mine,
Ne’er shall my breast one anxious sorrow know,
Ne’er shall my heart confess a real woe;
If to thy share heav’n’s choicest blessings fall,
As thou hast virtue to deserve them all.
Yet vain, alas! that idle hope would be
That builds on happiness remote from thee.
Oh! may thy charms, whate’er our fate decrees,
Please, as they must, but let them only please — 10
Not like the sun with equal influence shine,
Nor warm with transport any heart but mine.
Ye who from wealth th’ ill-grounded title boast
To claim whatever beauty charms you most;
Ye sons of fortune, who consult alone
Her parents’ will, regardless of her own,
Know that a love like ours, a gen’rous flame,
No wealth can purchase, and no pow’r reclaim.
The soul’s affection can be only given
Free, unextorted, as the grace of heaven. 20
Is there whose faithful bosom can endure
Pangs fierce as mine, nor ever hope a cure?
Who sighs in absence of the dear-lov’d maid,
Nor summons once indiff’rence to his aid?
Who can, like me, the nice resentment prove,
The thousand soft disquietudes of love;
The trivial strifes that cause a real pain;
The real bliss when reconcil’d again?
Let him alone dispute the real prize,
And read his sentence in my Delia’s eyes; 30
There shall he read all gentleness and truth,
But not himself, the dear distinguish’d youth;
Pity for him perhaps they may express —
Pity, that will but heighten his distress.
But, wretched rival! he must sigh to see
The sprightlier rays of love directed all to me.
And thou, dear antidote of ev’ry pain
Which fortune can inflict, or love ordain,
Since early love has taught thee to despise
What the world’s worthless vot’ries only prize, 40
Believe, my love! no less the gen’rous God
Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode;
There has he driven each gross desire away,
Directing ev’ry wish and ev’ry thought to thee!
Then can I ever leave my Delia’s arms,
A slave, devoted to inferior charms?
Can e’er my soul her reason so disgrace?
For what blest minister of heav’nly race
Would quit that heav’n to find a happier place?
HOPE, LIKE THE SHORT-LIV’D RAY THAT GLEAMS AWHILE
[Written 1757 (?). Published by Croft, 1825.]
Hope, like the short-liv’d ray that gleams awhile
Through wintry skies upon the frozen waste,
Cheers e’en the face of misery to a smile;
But soon the momentary pleasure’s past!
How oft, my Delia! since our last farewell,
(Years that have roll’d since that distressful hour,)
Griev’d I have said, when most our hopes prevail
Our promis’d happiness is least secure. 8
Oft I have thought the scene of troubles closed,
And hop’d once more to gaze upon your charms;
As oft some dire mischance has interposed,
And snatch’d th’ expected blessing from my arms.
The seaman thus, his shatter’d vessel lost.
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Still vainly strives to shun the threat’ning death;
And while he thinks to gain the friendly coast,
And drops his feet, and feels the sands beneath: 16
Borne by the wave, steep-sloping from the shore,
Back to th’ inclement deep again he beats
The surge aside, and seems to tread secure;
And now the refluent wave his baffled toil defeats.
Had you, my love, forbade me to pursue
My fond attempt, disdainfully retired,
And with proud scorn compell’d me to subdue
Th’ ill-fated passion by yourself inspired; 24
Then haply to some distant spot removed,
Hopeless to gain, unwilling to molest
With fond entreaties whom I dearly loved,
Despair or absence had redeem’d my rest.
But now, sole partner in my Delia’s heart,
Yet doom’d far off in exile to complain,
Eternal absence cannot ease my smart,
And hope subsists but to prolong my pain. 32
Oh then! kind heav’n, be this my latest breath;
Here end my life, or make it worth my care;
Absence from whom we love is worse than death,
And frustrate hope severer than despair.
AN ODE ON READING MR. RICHARDSON’S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON
[Written 1753. Published complete by Croft, 1825; last four stanzas published by Hayley, 1803.]
Say, ye apostate and profane
Wretches who blush not to disdain
Allegiance to your God, —
Did e’er your idly-wasted love
Of virtue for her sake remove
And lift you from the crowd? 6
Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout, and they alone,
Are equal to the task:
The labours of th’ illustrious course
Far other than th’ unaided force
Of human vigour ask. 12
To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart too brave to feel
The tortures of despair;