William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue 51

  Their only crime, vicinity to you!

  The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,

  Through the ripe harvest lies their destin’d road;

  At ev’ry step beneath their feet they tread

  The life of multitudes, a nation’s bread!

  Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress

  Before them, and behind a wilderness.

  Famine, and pestilence, her first-born son,

  Attend to finish what the sword begun; 60

  And echoing praises such as fiends might earn,

  And folly pays, resound at your return;

  A calm succeeds — but plenty, with her train

  Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again,

  And years of pining indigence must show

  What scourges are the gods that rule below.

  Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees,

  (Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)

  Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,

  Gleans up the refuse of the gen’ral spoil, 70

  Rebuilds the tow’rs that smok’d upon the plain,

  And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

  Increasing commerce and reviving art

  Renew the quarrel on the conq’rors’ part;

  And the sad lesson must he learn’d once more,

  That wealth within is ruin at the door.

  What are ye, monarchs, laurel’d heroes, say —

  But Ætnas of the suff’ring world ye sway?

  Sweet nature, stripp’d of her embroider’d robe,

  Deplores the wasted regions of her globe; 80

  And stands a witness at truth’s awful bar,

  To prove you, there, destroyers as ye are.

  Oh, place me in some heav’n-protected isle,

  Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile;

  Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

  No crested warrior dips his plume in blood;

  Where pow’r secures what industry has won;

  Where to succeed is not to be undone;

  A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,

  In Britain’s isle, beneath a George’s reign! 90

  AN EPISTLE TO A PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE

  [Written in the summer of 1781. Published 1800 (vol. I. Appendix), and, clearly from the same MS. (now in the British Museum), by Bull, in 1801. A slightly different version was published by Hayley in 1803, said by him to be “from a copy corrected by the author.”]

  Madam, a stranger’s purpose in these lays

  Is to congratulate, and not to praise.

  To give the creature her Creator’s due

  Were sin in me, and an offence to you.

  From man to man, or ev’n to woman paid,

  Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,

  A coin by craft for folly’s use design’d,

  Spurious, and only current with the blind.

  The path of sorrow, and that path alone,

  Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown; 10

  No trav’ller ever reach’d that blest abode

  Who found not thorns and briars in his road.

  The world may dance along the flow’ry plain,

  Cheer’d as they go by many a sprightly strain.

  Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,

  With unshod feet they yet securely tread,

  Admonish’d, scorn the caution and the friend,

  Bent upon pleasure, heedless of its end.

  But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,

  How slow to learn the dictates of his love, 20

  That hard by nature and of stubborn will,

  A life of ease would make them harder still,

  In pity to the sinners he design’d

  To rescue from the ruins of mankind,

  Call’d for a cloud to darken all their years,

  And said, “go spend them in the vale of tears.”

  Oh balmy gales of soul-reviving air,

  Oh salutary streams that murmur there,

  These flowing from the fount of grace above,

  Those breath’d from lips of everlasting love! 30

  The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys,

  And sudden sorrow nips their springing joys,

  An envious world will interpose its frown

  To mar delights superior to its own,

  And many a pang, experienc’d still within,

  Reminds them of their hated inmate, sin;

  But ills of ev’ry shape and ev’ry name,

  Transform’d to blessings, miss their cruel aim,

  And ev’ry moment’s calm, that sooths the breast.

  Is giv’n in earnest of eternal rest. 40

  Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast

  Far from the flock, and in a distant waste!

  No shepherd’s tents within thy view appear,

  But the chief Shepherd is for ever near;

  Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain

  Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;

  Thy tears all issue from a source divine,

  And ev’ry drop bespeaks a Saviour thine —

  ’Twas thus in Gideon’s fleece the dews were found,

  And drought on all the drooping herbs around. 50

  TO THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN

  [Written 1781. Published 1782. There is a MS. copy in the British Museum.]

  Unwin, I should but ill repay

  The kindness of a friend,

  Whose worth deserves as warm a lay

  As ever friendship penn’d,

  Thy name omitted in a page

  That would reclaim a vicious age. 6

  An union form’d, as mine with thee,

  Not rashly, or in sport,

  May he as fervent in degree,

  And faithful in its sort,

  And may as rich in comfort prove,

  As that of true fraternal love. 12

  The hud inserted in the rind,

  The bud of peach or rose,

  Adorns, though diff’ring in its kind,

  The stock whereon it grows,

  With flow’r as sweet, or fruit as fair,

  As if produc’d by nature there. 18

  Not rich, I render what I may —

  I seize thy name in haste,

  And place it in this first assay,

  Lest this should prove the last.

  ’Tis where it should be — in a plan

  That holds in view the good of man. 24

  The poet’s lyre, to fix his fame,

  Should be the poet’s heart;

  Affection lights a brighter flame

  Than ever blaz’d by art.

  No muses on these lines attend,

  I sink the poet in the friend. 30

  FRIENDSHIP

  [Written Nov., 1781. Published 1800 (vol. I. Appendix), and by Bull in 1801. There is a MS. copy in the British Museum, whose variant readings are given below. Hayley published a version with many important differences in 1803; this is printed entire among the notes at the end of the volume.]

  What virtue or what mental grace,

  But men unqualified and base

  Will boast it their possession?

  Profusion apes the noble part

  Of liberality of heart,

  And dullness of discretion. 6

  If ev’ry polish’d gem we find,

  Illuminating heart or mind,

  Provoke to imitation;

  No wonder friendship does the same,

  That jewel of the purest flame,

  Or rather constellation. 12

  No knave but boldly will pretend

  The requisites that form a friend,

  A real and a sound one,

  Nor any fool he would deceive,

  But proves as ready to believe,

  And dreams that he has found one. 18

  Candid and generous
and just,

  Boys care but little whom they trust,

  An error soon corrected —

  For who but learns in riper years,

  That man, when smoothest he appears,

  Is most to be suspected? 24

  But here again a danger lies,

  Lest, having misapplied our eyes,

  And taken trash for treasure,

  We should unwarily conclude

  Friendship a false ideal good,

  A mere Utopian pleasure. 30

  An acquisition rather rare

  Is yet no subject of despair;

  Nor is it wise complaining,

  If either on forbidden ground,

  Or where it was not to be found,

  We sought without attaining. 36

  No friendship will abide the test,

  That stands on sordid interest,

  Or mean self-love erected;

  Nor such as may awhile subsist

  Between the sot and sensualist,

  For vicious ends connected. 42

  Who seeks a friend, should come dispos’d

  T’ exhibit in full bloom disclos’d

  The graces and the beauties

  That form the character he seeks,

  For ’tis an union that bespeaks

  Reciprocated duties. 48

  Mutual attention is implied,

  And equal truth on either side,

  And constantly supported;

  ’Tis senseless arrogance t’ accuse

  Another of sinister views,

  Our own as much distorted. 54

  But will sincerity suffice?

  It is indeed above all price,

  And must be made the basis;

  But ev’ry virtue of the soul

  Must constitute the charming whole,

  All shining in their places. 60

  A fretful temper will divide

  The closest knot that may be tied,

  By ceaseless sharp corrosion;

  A temper passionate and fierce

  May suddenly your joys disperse

  At one immense explosion. 66

  In vain the talkative unite

  In hopes of permanent delight —

  The secret just committed,

  Forgetting its important weight,

  They drop through mere desire to prate,

  And by themselves outwitted. 72

  How bright soe’er the prospect seems,

  All thoughts of friendship are but dreams

  If envy chance to creep in;

  An envious man, if you succeed,

  May prove a dangerous foe indeed,

  But not a friend worth keeping. 78

  As envy pines at good possess’d,

  So jealousy looks forth distress’d

  On good that seems approaching,

  And if success his steps attend,

  Discerns a rival in a friend,

  And hates him for encroaching. 84

  Hence authors of illustrious name,

  Unless belied by common fame,

  Are sadly prone to quarrel,

  To deem the wit a friend displays

  A tax upon their own just praise,

  And pluck each other’s laurel. 90

  A man renown’d for repartee

  Will seldom scruple to make free

  With friendship’s finest feeling,

  Will thrust a dagger at your breast,

  And say he wounded you in jest,

  By way of balm for healing. 96

  Whoever keeps an open ear

  For tattlers, will be sure to hear

  The trumpet of contention;

  Aspersion is the babbler’s trade,

  To listen is to lend him aid,

  And rush into dissension. 102

  A friendship, that in frequent fits

  Of controversial rage emits

  The sparks of disputation,

  Like Hand-in-Hand insurance plates

  Most unavoidably creates

  The thought of conflagration. 108

  Some fickle creatures boast a soul

  True as a needle to the pole,

  Their humour yet so various —

  They manifest their whole life through

  The needle’s deviations too,

  Their love is so precarious. 114

  The great and small but rarely meet

  On terms of amity complete,

  Plebeians must surrender

  And yield so much to noble folk,

  It is combining fire with smoke,

  Obscurity with splendour. 120

  Some are so placid and serene

  (As Irish bogs are always green)

  They sleep secure from waking;

  And are indeed a bog, that bears

  Your unparticipated cares

  Unmov’d and without quaking. 126

  Courtier and patriot cannot mix

  Their het’rogeneous politics

  Without an effervescence,

  Like that of salts with lemon juice,

  Which does not yet like that produce

  A friendly coalescence. 132

  Religion should extinguish strife,

  And make a calm of human life;

  But friends that chance to differ

  On points, which God has left at large,

  How fiercely will they meet and charge,

  No combatants are stiffer! 138

  To prove at last my main intent

  Needs no expence of argument,

  No cutting and contriving —

  Seeking a real friend we seem

  T’ adopt the chymists’ golden dream,

  With still less hope of thriving. !”

  Sometimes the fault is all our own,

  Some blemish in due time made known

  By trespass or omission;

  Sometimes occasion brings to light

  Our friend’s defect long hid from sight

  And even from suspicion. 150

  Then judge yourself, and prove your man

  As circumspectly as you can,

  And having made election,

  Beware, no negligence of yours,

  Such as a friend but ill endures,

  Enfeeble his affection. 156

  That secrets are a sacred trust,

  That friends should be sincere and just,

  That constancy befits them,

  Are observations on the case,

  That savour much of common place,

  And all the world admits them. 162

  But ’tis not timber, lead, and stone,

  An architect requires alone

  To finish a fine building —

  The palace were but half complete,

  If he could possibly forget

  The carving and the gilding. 168

  The man that hails you Tom or Jack,

  And proves by thumps upon your back

  How he esteems your merit,

  Is such a friend, that one had need

  Be very much his friend indeed

  To pardon or to bear it. 174

  As similarity of mind,

  Or something not to be defin’d,

  First fixes our attention;

  So manners decent and polite,

  The same we practis’d at first sight,

  Must save it from declension. 180

  Some act upon this prudent plan,

  “Say little and hear all you can:”

  Safe policy, but hateful —

  So barren sands imbibe the show’r,

  But render neither fruit nor flow’r,

  Unpleasant and ungrateful. 186

  The man I trust, if shy to me,

  Shall find me as reserv’d as he;

  No subterfuge or pleading

  Shall win my confidence again,

  I will by no means entertain

  A spy on my proceeding. 192

  These samples — for alas! at last

  These are but samples, and a taste

&nbs
p; Of evils yet unmention’d —

  May prove the task a task indeed,

  In which ’tis much if we succeed

  However well-intention’d. 198

  Pursue the search, and you will find

  Good sense and knowledge of mankind

  To be at least expedient,

  And after summing all the rest,

  Religion ruling in the breast

  A principal ingredient. 204

  The noblest Friendship ever shewn

  The Saviour’s history makes known,

  Though some have turn’d and turn’d it;

  And whether being craz’d or blind,

  Or seeking with a bias’d mind,

  Have not, it seems, discern’d it. 210

  Oh Friendship! if my soul forego

  Thy dear delights while here below;

  To mortify and grieve me,

  May I myself at last appear

  Unworthy, base, and insincere,

  Or may my friend deceive me! 216

  A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTEN

  [Written Dec. 17, 1781. Published by Hayley, 1803.]

  DEAR Anna — between friend and friend,

  Prose answers every common end;

  Serves, in a plain and homely way,

  T’ express th’ occurrence of the day;

  Our health, the weather, and the news;

  What walks we take, what books we choose;

  And all the floating thoughts we find

  Upon the surface of the mind.

  But when a Poet takes the pen,

  Far more alive than other men, 10

  He feels a gentle tingling come

  Down to his finger and his thumb,

  Deriv’d from nature’s noblest part,

  The centre of a glowing heart!

  And this is what the world, who knows

  No flights above the pitch of prose,

  His more sublime vagaries slighting,

  Denominates an itch for writing.

  No wonder I, who scribble rhyme,

  To catch the triflers of the time, 20

  And tell them truths divine and clear,

  Which, couch’d in prose, they will not hear;

  Who labour hard to allure and draw

  The loiterers I never saw,