William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  As idle as the chatt’ring of a daw;

  That lewd incontinence and lawless rape,

  Are marriage in its true and proper shape;

  That man by faith and truth is made a slave,

  The ring a bauble, and the priest a knave.

  Fair fall the deed! the Knight exulting cried,

  Now is the time to make the maid a bride!

  ’Twas on the noon of an autumnal day, 70

  October hight, but mild and fair as May,

  When scarlet fruits the russet hedge adorn,

  And floating films envelope ev’ry thorn,

  When gently, as in June, the rivers glide,

  And only miss the flow’rs that grac’d their side;

  The linnet twitter’d out his parting song,

  With many a chorister the woods among;

  On southern banks the ruminating sheep

  Lay snug and warm, ’twas summer’s farewel peep.

  Propitious to his fond intent, there grew 80

  An arbour near at hand of thickest yew,

  With many a boxen bush, close dipt between,

  And Philyrea of a gilded green.

  But what old Chaucer’s merry page befits,

  The chaster muse of modern days omits.

  Suffice it then in decent terms to say,

  She saw, — and turn’d her rosy cheek away.

  Small need of pray’r-book or of priest I ween,

  Where parties are agreed, retir’d the scene,

  Occasion prompt, and appetite so keen. 90

  Hypothesis (for with such magic pow’r

  Fancy endued her in her natal hour)

  From many a steaming lake and reeking bog,

  Bade rise in haste a dank and drizzling fog,

  That curtain’d round the scene where they repos’d,

  And wood and lawn in dusky folds inclos’d.

  Fear seiz’d the trembling sex; in every grove

  They wept the wrongs of honourable love.

  “In vain,” they cried, “are hymeneal rites,

  Vain our delusive hope of constant knights; 100

  The marriage bond has lost its pow’r to bind,

  And flutters loose, the sport of every wind;

  The bride, while yet her bride’s attire is on,

  Shall mourn her absent lord, for he is gone,

  Satiate of her, and weary of the same,

  To distant wilds in quest of other game.

  Ye fair Circassians! all your lutes employ,

  Seraglios sing, and harams dance for joy,

  For British nymphs, whose lords were lately true,

  Nymphs quite as fair, and happier once than you,

  Honour, esteem, and confidence forgot, 111

  Feel all the meanness of your slavish lot.

  O curst Hypothesis! your hellish arts

  Seduce our husbands, and estrange their hearts.

  Will none arise? no knight, who still retains

  The blood of ancient worthies in his veins,

  T’ assert the charter of the chaste and fair,

  Find out her treach’rous heart, and plant a dagger there!”

  A knight (can he that serves the Fair do less?)

  Starts at the call of beauty in distress; 120

  And he that does not, whatsoe’er occurs,

  Is recreant, and unworthy of his spurs ‘.

  Full many a champion, bent on hardy deed,

  Call’d for his arms, and for his princely steed.

  So swarm’d the Sabine youth, and grasp’d the shield,

  When Roman rapine, by no laws withheld,

  Lest Rome should end with her first founders’ lives,

  Made half their maids, sans ceremony, wives.

  But not the mitred few: the soul their charge,

  They left these bodily concerns at large; 130

  Forms or no forms, pluralities or pairs,

  Right reverend Sirs! was no concern of theirs.

  The rest, alert and active as became

  A courteous knighthood, caught the gen’rous flame;

  One was accoutred when the cry began,

  Knight of the silver moon, Sir Marmadan.

  Oft as his Patroness, who rules the night,

  Hangs out her lamp in you cærulean height,

  His vow was (and he well perform’d his vow)

  Arm’d at all points, with terror on his brow, 140

  To judge the land, to purge atrocious crimes,

  And quell the shapeless monsters of the times.

  For cedars fam’d, fair Lebanon supplied

  The well-pois’d lance that quiver’d at his side;

  Truth arm’d it with a point so keen, so just,

  No spell or charm was proof against the thrust.

  He couch’d it firm upon his puissant thigh,

  And darting through his helm an eagle’s eye,

  On all the wings of chivalry advanc’d

  To where the fond Sir Airy lay entranc’d. 150

  He dreamt not of a foe, or if his fear

  Foretold one, dreamt not of a foe so near.

  Far other dreams his fev’rish mind employ’d,

  Of rights restor’d, variety enjoy’d;

  Of virtue too well fenc’d to fear a flaw,

  Vice passing current by the stamp of law;

  Large population on a lib’ral plan,

  And woman trembling at the foot of man;

  How simple wedlock fornication works,

  And Christians marrying may convert the Turks.

  The trumpet now spoke Marmadan at hand, 161

  A trumpet that was heard through all the land.

  His high-bred steed expands his nostrils wide,

  And snorts aloud to cast the mist aside;

  But he, the virtues of his lance to show,

  Struck thrice the point upon his saddle-bow;

  Three sparks ensued that chas’d it all away,

  And set th’ unseemly pair in open day.

  To horse! he cried, or by this good right hand

  And better spear, I smite you where you stand. 170

  Sir Airy, not a whit dismay’d or scar’d,

  Buckled his helm, and to his steed repair’d;

  Whose bridle, while he cropp’d the grass below,

  Hung not far off upon a myrtle bough.

  He mounts at once, such confidence infus’d

  Th’ insidious witch that had his wits abus’d;

  And she, regardless of her softer kind,

  Seiz’d fast the saddle and sprang up behind.

  Oh shame to knighthood! his assailant cried;

  Oh shame! ten thousand echoing nymphs replied.

  Plac’d with advantage at his list’ning ear, 181

  She whisper’d still that he had nought to fear;

  That he was cas’d in such inchanted steel,

  So polish’d and compact from head to heel,

  Come ten, come twenty, should an army call

  Thee to the field, thou shouldst withstand them all.

  By Dian’s beams, Sir Marmadan exclaim’d,

  The guiltiest still are ever least asham’d!

  But guard thee well, expect no feign’d attack;

  And guard beside the sorc’ress at thy back. 190

  He spoke indignant, and his spurs applied,

  Though little need, to his good palfrey’s side;

  The barb sprang forward, and his lord, whose force

  Was equal to the swiftness of his horse,

  Rushed with a whirlwind’s fury on the foe,

  And, Phineas like, transfix’d them at a blow.

  Then sang the married and the maiden throng,

  Love grac’d the theme, and harmony the song;

  The Fauns and Satyrs, a lascivious race,

  Shriek’d at the sight, and, conscious, fled the place:

  And Hymen, trimming his dim torch anew, 201

  His snowy mantle o’er his shoulders threw;

 
He turn’d, and view’d it oft on ev’ry side,

  And redd’ning with a just and gen’rous pride,

  Bless’d the glad beams of that propitious day,

  The spot he loath’d so much for ever cleans’d away.

  TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON

  AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY

  [Written (?). Published 1782.]

  THE swallows in their torpid state

  Compose their useless wing,

  And bees in hives as idly wait

  The call of early spring.

  The keenest frost that binds the stream,

  The wildest wind that blows,

  Are neither felt nor fear’d by them,

  Secure of their repose. 8

  But man, all feeling and awake,

  The gloomy scene surveys;

  With present ills his heart must ache,

  And pant for brighter days.

  Old winter, halting o’er the mead,

  Bids me and Mary mourn;

  But lovely spring peeps o’er his head,

  And whispers your return. 16

  Then April, with her sister May,

  Shall chase him from the bow’rs;

  And weave fresh garlands ev’ry day,

  To crown the smiling hours.

  And, if a tear, that speaks regret

  Of happier times, appear,

  A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

  Shall shine, and dry the tear. 24

  THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT

  [Written (?). Published 1782.]

  AN Oyster, cast upon the shore,

  Was heard, though never heard before,

  Complaining in a speech well worded,

  And worthy thus to be recorded —

  Ah, hapless wretch! condemn’d to dwell

  For ever in my native shell;

  Ordain’d to move when others please,

  Not for my own content or ease;

  But toss’d and buffeted about,

  Now in the water and now out. 10

  ‘Twere better, to be born a stone,

  Of ruder shape, and feeling none,

  Than with a tenderness like mine,

  And sensibilities so fine!

  I envy that unfeeling shrub,

  Fast rooted against ev’ry rub.

  The plant he meant grew not far off,

  And felt the sneer with scorn enough;

  Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,

  And with asperity replied. 20

  (When, cry the botanists — and stare —

  Did plants call’d sensitive grow there?

  No matter when — a poet’s muse is

  To make them grow just where she chooses.)

  You, shapeless nothing in a dish —

  You that are but almost a fish —

  I scorn your coarse insinuation,

  And have most plentiful occasion

  To wish myself the rock I view,

  Or such another dolt as you: 30

  For many a grave and learned clerk,

  And many a gay unletter’d spark,

  With curious touch examines me,

  If I can feel as well as he;

  And, when I bend, retire, and shrink,

  Says — Well, ’tis more than one would think!

  Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon’t!)

  In being touch’d, and crying — Don’t!

  A poet, in his ev’ning walk,

  O’erheard and check’d this idle talk. 40

  And your fine sense, he said, and your’s,

  Whatever evil it endures,

  Deserves not, if so soon offended,

  Much to be pitied or commended.

  Disputes, though short, are far too long,

  Where both alike are in the wrong;

  Your feelings, in their full amount,

  Are all upon your own account.

  You, in your grotto-work enclos’d,

  Complain of being thus expos’d; 50

  Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,

  Save when the knife is at your throat,

  Wherever driv’n by wind or tide,

  Exempt from ev’ry ill beside.

  And, as for you, my Lady Squeamish,

  Who reckon ev’ry touch a blemish,

  If all the plants that can be found

  Embellishing the scene around

  Should droop and wither where they grow,

  You would not feel at all — not you. 60

  The noblest minds their virtue prove

  By pity, sympathy, and love;

  These, these are feelings truly fine,

  And prove their owner half divine.

  His censure reach’d them as he dealt it,

  And each by shrinking show’d he felt it.

  A CARD

  [Written Feb., 1781 (MS. in British Museum). Published by Southey, 1836.]

  POOR Vestris, griev’d beyond all measure,

  To have incurr’d so much displeasure,

  Although a Frenchman, disconcerted,

  And though lightheeled, yet heavy-hearted,

  Begs humbly to inform his friends

  Next first of April he intends

  To take a boat and row right down

  To Cuckold’s Point from Richmond town,

  And as he goes, alert and gay,

  Leap all the bridges in his way. 10

  The boat, borne downward with the tide,

  Shall catch him safe on t’other side.

  -He humbly hopes by this expedient

  To prove himself their most obedient,

  (Which shall be always his endeavour j

  And jump into the former favour.

  TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

  [Written 1781 (?) (MS. in British Museum). Published by Johnson, 1824.]

  DEAR President, whose art sublime

  Gives perpetuity to time,

  And bids transactions of a day

  That fleeting hours would waft away,

  To dark Futurity survive,

  And in unfading beauty live,

  You cannot with a grace decline

  A special mandate of the Nine —

  Yourself, whatever task you choose,

  So much indebted to the Muse. 10

  Thus say the sisterhood — We come —

  Fix well your pallet on your thumb,

  Prepare the pencil and the tints,

  We come to furnish you with hints.

  French disappointment, British glory

  Must be the subject of the story.

  First strike a curve, a graceful bow,

  Then slope it to a point below;

  Your outline easy, airy, light,

  Fill’d up becomes a paper kite. 20

  Let independence, sanguine, horrid,

  Blaze, like a meteor in the forehead;

  Beneath, (but lay aside your graces)

  Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,

  Each with a staring stedfast eye,

  Fixt on his great and good ally.

  France flies the kite— ’tis on the wing —

  Britannia’s lightning cuts the string,

  The wind that rais’d it, ere it ceases,

  Just rends it into thirteen pieces, 30

  Takes charge of ev’ry flutt’ring sheet,

  And lays them all at George’s feet.

  Iberia trembling from afar

  Renounces the confed’rate war:

  Her efforts and her arts o’ercome,

  France calls her shatter’d navies home:

  Repenting Holland learns to mourn

  The sacred treaties she has tom:

  Astonishment and awe profound

  Are stamp’d upon the nations round: 40

  Without one friend, above all foes,

  Britannia gives the world repose.

  HEROISM

  [Written 1781. Published 1782.]

  There was a time when Ætna’s silent fire

  Slept unperceiv’d, the mountain y
et entire;

  When, conscious of no danger from below,

  She tow’r’d a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.

  No thunders shook with deep intestine sound

  The blooming groves that girdled her around.

  Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines,

  (Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)

  The peasant’s hopes, and not in vain, assur’d,

  In peace upon her sloping sides matur’d. 10

  When on a day, like that of the last doom,

  A conflagration lab’ring in her womb,

  She teem’d and heav’d with an infernal birth,

  That shook the circling seas and solid earth.

  Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,

  And hang their horrors in the neighb’ring skies,

  While through the stygian veil that blots the day,

  In dazzling streaks, the vivid lightnings play.

  But, oh! what muse, and in what pow’rs of song,

  Can trace the torrent as it burns along? 20

  Havoc and devastation in the van,

  It marches o’er the prostrate works of man —

  Vines, olives, herbage, forests, disappear,

  And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

  Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,

  See it an uninform’d and idle mass;

  Without a soil t’ invite the tiller’s care,

  Or blade that might redeem it from despair.

  Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)

  Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. 30

  Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade,

  And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.

  Oh, bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats,

  Oh charming paradise of short-liv’d sweets!

  The self-same gale that wafts the fragrance round

  Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound;

  Again the mountain feels th’ imprison’d foe,

  Again pours ruin on the vale below.

  Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore,

  That only future ages can restore. 40

  Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws,

  Who write in blood the merits of your cause,

  Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence —

  Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;

  Behold in Ætna’s emblematic fires

  The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires!

  Fast by the stream that bounds your just domain,

  And tells you where ye have a right to reign,

  A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,

  Studious of peace, their neighbours’, and their own.