William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works
Page 52
Of grandeur that ensures respect;
But she is something more than Queen, 70
Who is belov’d where never seen.
ON THE QUEEN’S VISIT TO LONDON THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789
[Written March, 1789. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
When long sequester’d from his throne
George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,
Entitled here to reign!
Then Loyalty, with all her lamps
New trimm’d, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness, and the damps,
Set London in a glow. 8
’Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares,
Which form’d the chief display,
These most resembling cluster’d stars,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of Heaven. 16
So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves on high,
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
T’ express unwieldy joy.
Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join’d,
And all the banners been unfurl’d
That heralds e’er design’d, 24
For no such sight had England’s Queen
Forsaken her retreat,
Where George recover’d made a scene
Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love
Was lov’d by all beside. 32
Darkness the skies had mantled o’er
In aid of her design —
Darkness O Queen! ne’er called before
To veil a deed of thine!
On borrow’d wheels away she flies,
Resolv’d to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes
That night, except her own. 40
Arriv’d, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known’ their sov’reign come.
Pleas’d she beheld aloft pourtray’d
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health, and heav’nly aid,
And George the theme of all. 48
Unlike the ænigmatic line,
So difficult to spell!
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine,
The night his city fell.
Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear!
None else, except in pray’r for him,
George ever drew from her. 56
It was a scene in ev’ry part
Like that in fable feign’d,
And seem’d by some magician’s art
Created, and sustain’d.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone! 64
That cordial thought her spirit cheer’d,
And through the cumb’rous throng,
Not else unworthy to be fear’d,
Convey’d her calm along.
So, ancient poets say, serene
The sea-maid rides the waves,
And fearless of the billowy scene,
Her peaceful bosom laves. 72
With more than astronomic eyes
She view’d the sparkling show;
One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.
Yet let the glories of a night
Like that, once seen, suffice!
Heav’n grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price! 80
ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING IN THE YEAR 1789
[Written 1789. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
O sov’reign of an isle renown’d
For undisputed sway
Wherever o’er you gulph profound
Her navies wing their way,
With juster claim she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength,
Which strength restor’d to Thee. 8
CATHARINA ADDRESSED TO MISS STAPLETON
[Written May 1789. Published 1795.]
She came — she is gone — we have met —
And meet perhaps never again;
The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain.
Catharina has fled like a dream —
(So vanishes pleasure, alas!)
But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass. 8
The last evening ramble we made,
Catharina, Maria, and I,
Our progress was often delay’d
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
We paus’d under many a tree,
And much she was charm’d with a tone
Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who had witness’d so lately her own. 16
My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine,
As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem’d
The work of my fancy the more,
And e’en to myself never seem’d
So tuneful a poet before. 24
Though the pleasures of London exceed
In number the days of the year,
Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here;
For the close-woven arches of limes,
On the hanks of our river, I know,
Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show. 32
So it is, when the mind is endued
With a well-judging taste from above,
Then, whether embellish’d or rude,
’Tis nature alone that we love.
The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
But groves, hills, and vallies, diffuse
A lasting, a sacred delight. 40
Since then in the rural recess
Catharina alone can rejoice,
May it still be her lot to possess
The scene of her sensible choice!
To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,
And by Philomel’s annual note
To measure the life that she leads. 48
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre.
To wing all her moments at home,
And with scenes that new rapture inspire
As oft as it suits her to roam,
She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here. 56
THE COCK-FIGHTER’S GARLAND
[Written May, 1789. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
MUSE — Hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring
For his sake, into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,
Nor place where he was born. 6
That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)
For proof to man, what man may prove,
If grace depart, and demons move
The source of guilt within. 12
This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styl’d)
Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, i
f gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,
If wealth can worth bestow. 18
In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose
Possess’d of ev’ry kind. 24
Methinks I see him powder’d red,
With bushy locks his well-dress’d head
Wing’d broad on either side,
The mossy rose-bud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As lux’ry could provide. 30
Can such be cruel? — Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;
A tyrant entertain’d
With barb’rous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight
‘Twixt birds to battle train’d. 36
One feather’d champion he possess’d,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e’er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race. 42
It chanc’d, at last, when on a day
He push’d him to the desp’rate fray,
His courage droop’d, he fled.
The master storm’d, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,
He doom’d his fav’rite dead. 48
He seiz’d him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch’d the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried —
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling, tied. 54
The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale
That can be, shall he, sunk —
Led by the suff’rer’s screams aright
His shock’d companions view the sight
And him with fury drunk. 60
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate:
He, deaf to pity’s call,
Whirl’d round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all. 66
But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he stretch’d his clam’rous throat
And heav’n and earth defied,
Big with the curse too closely pent
That struggled vainly for a vent
He totter’d, reel’d, and died. 72
’Tis not for us, with rash surmise,
To point the judgments of the skies,
But judgments plain as this,
That, sent for man’s instruction, bring
A written label on their wing,
’Tis hard to read amiss. 78
TO MRS. THROCKMORTON ON HER BEAUTIFUL TRANSCRIPT OF HORACE’S ODE AD LIBRUM SUUM
[Written Feb., 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
MARIA, could Horace have guess’d
What honour awaited his ode
To his own little volume address’d,
The honour which you have bestow’d,
Who have trac’d it in characters here,
So elegant, even, and neat;
He had laugh’d at the critical sneer,
Which he seems to have trembled to meet. 8
And sneer, if you please, he had said,
Hereafter a nymph shall arise,
Who shall give me, when you are all dead,
The glory your malice denies;
Shall dignity give to my lay,
Although but a mere bagatelle;
And even a poet shall say,
Nothing ever was written so well. 16
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER’S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN ANN BODHAM
[Written Feb., 1790. Published in pamphlet with Dog and Water-Lily, 1798; afterwards in Poems, 1798.]
OH that those lips had language! Life has pass’d
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same. 10
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!
Who bidd’st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief —
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she. 20
My mother! when I learn’d that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah that maternal smile! it answers — Yes.
I heard the bell toll’d on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs’ry window, drew 30
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev’d themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish’d, I long believ’d,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv’d;
By disappointment every day beguil’d, 40
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn’d at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplor’d thee, ne’er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs’ry floor;
And where the gard’ner Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 50
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,
’Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call’d the past’ral house our own.
Short-liv’d possession! but the record fair
That mem’ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac’d
A thousand other themes less deeply trac’d.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might’st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow’d
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow’d;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne’er roughen’d by those cataracts and brakes
That humour interpos’d too often makes;
All this still legible in mem’ry’s page,
And still to be so, to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, mak
es me glad to pay 70
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn’d in heav’n, though little notic’d here.
Could time, his flight revers’d, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flow’rs,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick’d them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Would’st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)
Could those few pleasant hours again appear, 80
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight
Seems so to he desir’d, perhaps I might. —
But no — what here we call our life is such,
So little to he lov’d, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast
(The storms all weather’d and the ocean cross’d)
Shoots into port at some well-haven’d isle, 90
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach’d the shore
“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,”
And thy lov’d consort on the dang’rous tide
Of life, long since, has anchor’d at thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100
Always from port withheld, always distress’d —
Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss’d,
Sails ript, seams op’ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current’s thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp’rous course.
But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.