William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

Nor suffer yet high-crested Pride,

  When wealth flows in with ev’ry tide,

  To gain admittance there; 18

  To rescue from the tyrant’s sword

  Th’ oppress’d; unseen, and unimplor’d,

  To cheer the face of woe;

  From lawless insult to defend

  An orphan’s right, a fallen friend,

  And a forgiven foe; 24

  These, these distinguish from the crowd,

  And these alone, the great and good,

  The guardians of mankind:

  Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,

  Oh with what matchless speed they leave

  The multitude behind! 30

  Then ask ye from what source on earth

  Virtues like these derive their birth?

  Deriv’d from Heaven alone,

  Full on that favour’d breast they shine

  Where faith and resignation join

  To call the blessing down. 36

  Such is that heart: — but while the muse

  Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,

  Her feebler spirits faint;

  She cannot reach, and shall not wrong

  That subject for an angel’s song,

  The hero, and the saint! 42

  ON THE DEATH OF SIR W. RUSSELL

  [Written in a letter to Harriet Cowper, afterwards Lady Hesketh, 1757. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

  Doom’d as I am in solitude to waste

  The present moments, and regret the past;

  Depriv’d of ev’ry joy I valued most,

  My friend tom from me, and my mistress lost;

  Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,

  The dull effect of humour, or of spleen!

  Still, still I mourn, with each returning day,

  Him snatch’d by fate, in early youth away,

  And her — through tedious years of doubt and pain,

  Fix’d in her choice, and faithful — but in vain. 10

  O prone to pity, gen’rous, and sincere,

  Whose eye ne’er yet refus’d the wretch a tear;

  Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows,

  Nor thinks a lover’s are but fancied woes;

  See me — ere yet my destin’d course half done,

  Cast forth a wand’rer on a wild unknown!

  See me neglected on the world’s rude coast,

  Each dear companion of my voyage lost!

  Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow,

  And ready tears wait only leave to flow! 20

  Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free,

  All that delights the happy — palls with me!

  ADDRESSED TO MISS MACARTNEY ON READING THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE

  [Written 1762. Published by Johnson, 1815.]

  And dwells there in a female heart,

  By bounteous heav’n design’d

  The choicest raptures to impart,

  To feel the most refin’d —

  Dwells there a wish in such a breast

  Its nature to forego,

  To smother in ignoble rest

  At once both bliss and woe? 8

  Far be the thought, and far the strain,

  Which breathes the low desire,

  How sweet soe’er the verse complain,

  Tho’ Phoebus string the lyre.

  Come then fair maid (in nature wise)

  Who, knowing them, can tell

  From gen’rous sympathy what joys

  The glowing bosom swell: 16

  In justice to the various pow’rs

  Of pleasing, which you share,

  Join me, amid your silent hours,

  To form the better pray’r.

  With lenient balm may Ob’ron hence

  To fairy-land be driv’n;

  With ev’ry herb that blunts the sense

  Mankind receiv’d from heav’n. 24

  “Oh! if my Sov’reign Author please,

  Far be it from my fate,

  To live, unblest, in torpid ease,

  And slumber on in state;

  Each tender tie of life defied,

  Whence social pleasures spring,

  Unmov’d with all the world beside,

  A solitary thing.” — 32

  Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,

  Thus braves the whirling blast,

  Eternal winter doom’d to know,

  No genial spring to taste.

  In vain warm suns their influence shed,

  The zephyrs sport in vain,

  He rears unchang’d his barren head,

  Whilst beauty decks the plain. 40

  What though, in scaly armour drest,

  Indifference may repel

  The shafts of woe — in such a breast

  No joy can ever dwell-.

  ’Tis woven in the world’s great plan,

  And fix’d by heav’n’s decree,

  That all the true delights of man

  Should spring from Sympathy. 48

  ’Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws

  Of nature we retain,

  Our self-approving bosom draws

  A pleasure from its pain.

  Thus grief itself has comforts dear,

  The sordid never know;

  And ecstasy attends the tear,

  When virtue bids it flow. 56

  For, when it streams from that pure source,

  No bribes the heart can win,

  To check, or alter from its course,

  The luxury within.

  Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,

  Who, if from labour eas’d,

  Extend no care beyond themselves,

  Unpleasing and unpleas’d. 64

  Let no low thought suggest the pray’r,

  Oh! grant, kind heav’n, to me,

  Long as I draw ethereal air,

  Sweet Sensibility.

  Where’er the heav’nly nymph is seen,

  With lustre-beaming eye,

  A train, attendant on their queen,

  (Her rosy chorus) fly. 72

  The jocund Loves in Hymen’s band,

  With torches ever bright,

  And gen’rous Friendship hand in hand,

  With Pity’s wat’ry sight;

  The gentler Virtues too are join’d,

  In youth immortal warm,

  The soft relations which, combin’d,

  Give life her ev’ry charm. 80

  The Arts come smiling in the close,

  And lend celestial fire,

  The marble breathes, the canvas glows,

  The Muses sweep the lyre.

  “Still may my melting bosom cleave

  To suff’rings not my own;

  And still the sigh responsive heave,

  Where’er is heard a groan. 88

  So Pity shall take Virtue’s part,

  Her natural ally,

  And fashioning my soften’d heart,

  Prepare it for the sky.”

  This artless vow may heav’n receive,

  And you, fond maid, approve:

  So may your guiding angel give

  Whate’er you wish or love. 96

  So may the rosy-finger’d hours

  Lead on the various year,

  And ev’ry joy, which now is yours,

  Extend a larger sphere:

  And suns to come, as round they wheel,

  Your golden moments bless,

  With all a tender heart can feel,

  Or lively fancy guess. 104

  AN ODE SECUNDUM ARTEM

  [Written 1763 (?). Published in the St. James’ Magazine, edited by Robert Lloyd, Nov., 1763. First claimed, on somewhat doubtful evidence, as probably Cowper’s by Southey.]

  I

  SHALL I begin with Ah, or Oh?

  Be sad? Oh! yes. Be glad? Ah! no.

  Light subjects suit not grave Pindaric ode,

  Which walks in metre down the Strophic road.

  But let the sober matr
on wear

  Her own mechanic sober air:

  Ah me! ill suits, alas! the sprightly jig,

  Long robes of ermine, or Sir Cloudsley’s wig.

  Come, placid DULLNESS, gently come,

  And all my faculties benumb, 10

  Let thought turn exile, while the vacant mind

  To trickie words and pretty phrase confin’d,

  Pumping for trim description’s art,

  To win the ear, neglects the heart.

  So shall thy sister TASTE’S peculiar sons,

  Lineal Descendants from the GOTHS and HUNS,

  Struck with the true and grand sublime

  Of rythm converted into Rime,

  Court the quaint Muse; and con her lessons o’er,

  When sleep the sluggish waves by Granta’s shore:

  There shall each poet pare and trim, 21

  Stretch, cramp, or lop the verse’s limb,

  While rebel WIT beholds them with disdain,

  And Fancy flies aloft, nor heeds their servile chain.

  II

  Oh Fancy, bright aerial maid!

  Where have thy vagrant footsteps stray’d?

  For ah! I miss thee midst thy wonted haunt,

  Since silent now th’ enthusiastic chaunt,

  Which erst like frenzy roll’d along,

  Driv’n by th’ impetuous tide of song, 30

  Rushing secure where native genius bore,

  Not Cautious Coasting by the Shelving Shore.

  Hail to the sons of modern Rime,

  Mechanic dealers in sublime,

  Whose lady Muse full wantonly is dress’d,

  In light expressions quaint, and tinsel vest,

  Where swelling epithets are laid

  (Art’s ineffectual parade)

  As varnish on the cheek of Harlot light;

  The rest thin sown with profit or delight, 40

  But ill compares with antient song,

  Where Genius pour’d its flood along;

  Yet such is Art’s presumptuous idle claim,

  She marshals out the way to modern fame;

  From Grecian fables’ pompous lore,

  Description’s studied, glittering store,

  Smooth, Soothing Sounds, and sweet alternate rime,

  Clinking like change of bells, in tingle tangle chime.

  III

  The lark shall soar in ev’ry Ode,

  With flow’rs of light description strew’d, 50

  And sweetly, warbling Philomel, shall flow

  Thy Soothing Sadness in mechanic woe.

  Trim Epithets shall spread their gloss,

  While ev’ry Cell’s o’ergrown with moss:

  Here Oaks shall rise in chains of ivy bound,

  There Smould’ring Stones o’er-spread the rugged ground.

  Here forests brown, and azure hills,

  There babbling fonts, and prattling rills;

  Here some gay river floats in crisped streams,

  While the bright Sun now gilds his morning beams,

  Or sinking to his Thetis’ breast, 61

  Drives in description down the west.

  — Oh let me boast, with pride becoming skill,

  I crown the summit of Parnassus’ Hill:

  While Taste with Genius shall dispense,

  And sound shall triumph over sense;

  O’er the gay mead with curious steps I’ll stray;

  And, like the Bee, steal all its sweets away,

  Extract its beauty, and its pow’r,

  From every new poetic flow’r, 70

  Whose sweets collected may a wreath compose,

  To bind the Poet’s brow, or please the Critic’s nose.

  LINES WRITTEN DURING A PERIOD OF INSANITY

  [Written 1763. Published in the Autobiography, 1816.]

  Hatred and vengeance, my eternal portion,

  Scarce can endure delay of execution,

  Wait, with impatient readiness, to seize my

  Soul in a moment.

  Damn’d below Judas: more abhorr’d than he was,

  Who for a few pence sold his holy Master.

  Twice betrayed Jesus me, the last delinquent,

  Deems the profanest. 8

  Man disavows, and Deity disowns me:

  Hell might afford my miseries a shelter;

  Therefore hell keeps her ever hungry mouths all

  Bolted against me.

  Hard lot! encompass’d with a thousand dangers;

  Weary, faint, trembling with a thousand terrors;

  I’m called, if vanquish’d, to receive a sentence

  Worse than Abiram’s. 16

  Him the vindictive rod of angry justice

  Sent quick and howling to the centre headlong;

  J, fed with judgment, in a fleshly tomb, am

  Buried above ground.

  A SONG OF MERCY AND JUDGMENT

  [Written 1764. Published, from the copy among the Ash MSS., in The Universal Review, 1890.]

  Lord, I love the habitation

  Where the Saviour’s honour dwells;

  At the sound of thy salvation

  With delight my bosom swells.

  Grace Divine, how sweet the sound,

  Sweet the grace that I have found. 6

  Me thro’ waves of deep affliction,

  Dearest Saviour! thou hast brought,

  Fiery deeps of sharp conviction

  Hard to bear and passing thought.

  Sweet the sound of Grace Divine,

  Sweet the grace which makes me thine. 12

  From the cheerful beams of morning

  Sad I turn’d mine eyes away:

  And the shades of night returning

  Fill’d my soul with new dismay. 16

  Grace Divine, &c.

  Food I loath’d nor ever tasted

  But by violence constrain’d.

  Strength decay’d and body wasted,

  Spoke the terrors I sustain’d. 20

  Sweet the sound, &c.

  Bound and watch’d, lest life abhorring

  I should my own death procure,

  For to me the Pit of Roaring

  Seem’d more easy to endure. 24

  Grace Divine, &c.

  Fear of Thee, with gloomy sadness,

  Overwhelm’d thy guilty worm,

  Till reduc’d to moping madness

  Reason sank beneath the storm. 28

  Sweet the sound, &c.

  Then what soul-distressing noises

  Seem’d to reach me from below,

  Visionary scenes and voices,

  Flames of Hell and screams of woe, 32

  Grace Divine, &c.

  But at length a word of Healing

  Sweeter than an angel’s note,

  From the Saviour’s lips distilling

  Chas’d despair and chang’d my lot. 36

  Sweet the sound, &c.

  ’Twas a word well tim’d and suited

  To the need of such an hour,

  Sweet to one like me polluted,

  Spoke in love and seal’d with pow’r. 40

  Grace Divine, &c.

  I, He said, have seen thee grieving,

  Lov’d thee as I pass’d thee by;

  Be not faithless, but believing,

  Look, and live, and never die.”

  Sweet the sound, &c.

  Take the Bloody Seal I give thee,

  Deep impress’d upon thy soul;

  God, thy God, will now receive thee,

  Faith hath sav’d thee, thou art whole. 48

  Grace Divine, &c.

  All at once my chains were broken,

  From my feet my fetters fell,

  And that word in pity spoken,

  Snatch’d me from the gates of Hell. 52

  Grace Divine, &c.

  Since that hour, in hope of glory,

  With thy foll’wers I am found,

  And relate the wond’rous story

  To thy list’ning saints around. 56

  Swee
t the sound of Grace Divine,

  Sweet the grace which makes me thine.

  ODE TO PEACE

  [Written 1773 (?). Published 1782. There is a copy among the Ash MSS.]

  Come, peace of mind, delightful guest!

  Return and make thy downy nest

  Once more in this sad heart! —

  Nor riches I, nor pow’r, pursue,

  Nor hold forbidden joys in view;

  We therefore need not part. 6

  Where wilt thou dwell if not with me,

  From av’rice and ambition free,

  And pleasure’s fatal wiles?

  For whom, alas! dost thou prepare

  The sweets that I was wont to share,

  The banquet of thy smiles? 12

  The great, the gay, shall they partake

  The heav’n that thou alone canst make?

  And wilt thou quit the stream

  That murmurs through the dewy mead,

  The grove and the sequester’d shed,

  To he a guest with them? 18

  For thee I panted, thee I priz’d,

  For thee I gladly sacrific’d

  Whate’er I lov’d before;

  And shall I see thee start away,

  And, helpless, hopeless, hear thee say —

  Farewell! we meet no more? 24

  THE SHRUBBERY, WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION

  [Written 1773. Published 1782.]

  OH, happy shades — to me unblest!

  Friendly to peace, but not to me!

  How ill the scene that offers rest,

  And heart that cannot rest, agree!

  This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

  Those alders quiv’ring to the breeze,

  Might sooth a soul less hurt than mine,

  And please, if any thing could please. 8

  But fix’d unalterable care

  Foregoes not what she feels within,

  Shows the same sadness ev’ry where,