My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron’d, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise — 110
The son of parents pass’d into the skies.
And now, farewell — time, unrevok’d, has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish’d is done.
By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,
I seem t’ have liv’d my childhood o’er again;
To have renew’d the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic shew of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 120
Thyself remov’d, thy power to sooth me left.
INSCRIPTION FOR A STONE ERECTED AT THE SOWING OF A GROVE OF OAKS AT CHILLINGTON, THE. SEAT OF T. GIFFORD, ESQ., 1790
[Written June, 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
OTHER stones the sera tell,
When some feeble mortal fell:
I stand here to date the birth
Of these hardy sons of earth.
Which shall longest brave the sky,
Storm and frost? these oaks or I?
Pass an age or two away,
I must moulder and decay,
But the years that crumble me
Shall invigorate the tree, 10
Spread the branch, dilate its size,
Lift its summit to the skies.
Cherish honour, virtue, truth!
So shalt thou prolong thy youth;
Wanting these, however fast
Man be fixt, and form’d to last,
He is lifeless even now,
Stone at heart, and cannot grow.
ANOTHER FOR A STONE ERECTED ON A SIMILAR OCCASION AT THE SAME PLACE IN THE FOLLOWING YEAR
[Written 1790. Published by Hayley, 1806.]
Reader! behold a monument
That asks no sigh or tear,
Though it perpetuate th’ event
Of a great burial here. 4
TO MRS. KING ON HER KIND PRESENT TO THE AUTHOR; A PATCH-WORK COUNTERPANE OF HER OWN MAKING
[Written Aug., 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
THE Bard, if e’er he feel at all,
Must sure be quicken’d by a call
Both on his heart and head.
To pay with tuneful thanks the care,
And kindness of a Lady fair,
Who deigns to deck his bed. 6
A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida’s barren top sublime,
(As Homer’s Epic shows)
Composed of sweetest vernal flow’rs,
Without the aid of sun or show’rs,
For Jove and Juno rose. 12
Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that, which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain;
Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank, with daisies pied,
‘Till rous’d to toil again. 18
What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groan’d for me:
Should ev’ry maiden come
To scramble for the patch, that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some. 24
And O! what havoc would ensue!
This bright display of ev’ry hue
All in a moment fled!
As if a storm should strip the bow’rs,
Of all their tendrils, leaves and flowr’s,
Each pocketing a shred. 30
Thanks then to ev’ry gentle fair
Who will not come to peck me bare
As bird of borrow’d feather;
And thanks to one, above them all,
The gentle Fair of Pertenhall,
Who put THE WHOLE TOGETHER! 36
STANZAS ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE REMAINS OF THE GREAT MILTON
[Written Aug. (?), 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptur’d stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle, or with bays
Parnassian, on my brow.
But I, before that season come,
Escap’d from ev’ry care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there. 8
So sang in Roman tone and style
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain’d to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dar’d profane
His dread sepulchral rest? 16
Ill fare the hands that heav’d the stones
Where Milton’s ashes lay!
That trembled not to grasp his bones,
And steal his dust away!
Oh! ill-requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead. 24
IN MEMORY OF THE LATE JOHN THORNTON, ESQ.
[Written Nov., 1790. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
POETS attempt the noblest task they can,
Praising the Author of all good in man,
And next commemorating worthies lost,
The dead, in whom that good abounded most.
Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more
Fam’d for thy probity, from shore to shore;
Thee, THORNTON, worthy in some page to shine
As honest, and more eloquent than mine,
I mourn; or since thrice happy thou must be,
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee; 10
Thee to deplore were grief mispent indeed;
It were to weep, that goodness has its meed,
That there is bliss prepar’d in yonder sky,
And glory for the virtuous, when they die.
What pleasure can the miser’s fondled hoard,
Or spendthrift’s prodigal excess afford,
Sweet, as the privilege of healing woe
Suffer’d by virtue combating below?
That privilege was thine; Heav’n gave thee means
To illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 20
Till thy appearance chas’d the gloom, forlorn
As midnight, and despairing of a morn.
Thou hadst an industry in doing good,
Restless as his, who toils and sweats for food.
Av’rice in thee was the desire of wealth
By rust unperishable, or by stealth.
And if the genuine worth of gold depend
On application to its noblest end,
Thine had a value in the scales of Heaven,
Surpassing all that mine or mint have given: 30
And tho’ God made thee of a nature prone
To distribution boundless of thy own,
And still, by motives of religious force,
Impell’d thee more to that heroic course;
Yet was thy liberality discreet;
Nice in its choice, and of a temp’rate heat;
And, though in act unwearied, secret still,
As, in some solitude, the summer rill
Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green,
And cheers the drooping flow’rs — unheard, unseen.
Such was thy Charity; no sudden start, 41
After long sleep of passion in the heart,
But steadfast principle, and in its kind
Of close alliance with th’ eternal mind;
Trac’d easily to its true source above,
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature, Love.
Thy bounties all were Christian, and I make
This record of thee for the Gospel’s sake;
That the incredulous themselves may see
Its use and pow�
��r exemplified in thee. 50
THE MORALIZER CORRECTED A TALE
[Written (?). Published 1795.]
A hermit (or if ‘chance you hold
That title now too trite and old),
A man, once young, who lived retired
As hermit could have well desired,
His hours of study clos’d at last,
And finish’d his concise repast,
Stoppled his cruse, replac’d his book
Within its customary nook,
And, staff in hand, set forth to share
The sober cordial of sweet air, 10
Like Isaac, with, a mind applied
To serious thought at evening-tide.
Autumnal rains had made it chill,
And from the trees that fringed his hill
Shades slanting at the close of day
Chill’d more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank’s still sunny side,
And right toward the favour’d place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reach’d it when the sun was set.
Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate’er occurs —
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man’s pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it deck’d with ev’ry hue
That can seduce him not to spare
His pow’rs of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour, to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long, approach life’s evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades;
And, earn’d too late, it wants the grace
That first engag’d him in the chase.
True, answer’d an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior’s side —
But whether all the time it cost
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that which call’d his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate’er th’ event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there, he wins a curse;
But he, whom e’en in life’s last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid, at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well design’d;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.
THE NEEDLESS ALARM
A TALE
[Written (?). Published 1795.]
THERE is a field through which I often pass,
Thick overspread with moss and silky grass,
Adjoining close to Kilwick’s echoing wood,
Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood,
Reserv’d to solace many a neighh’ring squire,
That he may follow them through brake and briar,
Contusion hazarding of neck or spine,
Which rural gentlemen call sport divine.
A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal’d,
Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; 10
Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head,
But now wear crests of oven-wood instead;
And where the land slopes to its wat’ry bourn,
Wide yawns a gulph beside a ragged thorn;
Bricks line the sides, but shiver’d long ago,
And horrid brambles intertwine below;
A hollow scoop’d, I judge in ancient time,
For baking earth, or burning rock to lime.
Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red,
With which the fieldfare, wint’ry guest, is fed; 20
Nor autumn yet had brush’d from ev’ry spray,
With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away;
But corn was hous’d, and beans were in the stack,
Now, therefore, issued forth the spotted pack,
With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and throats
With a whole gamut fill’d of heav’nly notes,
For which, alas! my destiny severe,
Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear.
The sun, accomplishing his early march,
His lamp now planted on heav’n’s topmost arch, 30
When, exercise and air my only aim,
And heedless whither, to that field I came,
Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound
Told hill and dale that Reynard’s track was found,
Or with the high-rais’d horn’s melodious clang
All Kilwick and all Dingle-derry rang.
Sheep graz’d the field; some with soft bosom press’d
The herb as soft, while nibbling stray’d the rest;
Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,
Struggling, detain’d in many a petty nook. 40
All seem’d so peaceful, that from them convey’d
To me, their peace by kind contagion spread.
But when the huntsman, with distended cheek,
‘Gan make his instrument of music speak,
And from within the wood that crash was heard,
Though not a hound from whom it hurst appear’d,
The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that graz’d,
All huddling into phalanx, stood and gaz’d,
Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,
Then cours’d the field around, and cours’d it round again; 50
But, recollecting with a sudden thought,
That flight in circles urg’d advanc’d them nought,
They gather’d close around the old pit’s brink,
And thought again — but knew not what to think.
The man to solitude accustom’d long
Perceives in ev’ry thing that lives a tongue;
Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees,
Have speech for him, and understood with ease;
After long drought, when rains abundant fall,
He hears the herbs and flow’rs rejoicing all; 60
Knows what the freshness of their hue implies,
How glad they catch the largess of the skies;
But, with precision nicer still, the mind
He scans of ev’ry loco-motive kind;
Birds of all feather, beasts of ev’ry name,
That serve mankind, or shim them, wild or tame;
The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears
Have, all, articulation in his ears;
He spells them true by intuition’s light,
And needs no glossary to set him right. 70
This truth premis’d was needful as a text,
To win due credence to what follows next.
Awhile they mus’d; surveying ev’ry face,
Thou hadst suppos’d them of superior race;
Their periwigs of wool, and fears combin’d,
Stamp’d on each countenance such marks of mind
That sage they seem’d, as lawyers o’er a doubt,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,
Sure ne’er to want them, mathematic truths; 80
When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers, sad, address’d:
Friends! we have liv’d too long. I never heard
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear’d.
Could I believe, that winds for ages pent
In earth’s dark womb have found at last a vent,
&
nbsp; And from their prison-house below arise,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much compos’d, nor should appear
For such a cause to feel the slightest fear. 90
Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll’d
All night, me resting quiet in the fold.
Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone;
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray’d,
And being lost, perhaps, and wand’ring wide,
Might be suppos’d to clamour for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,
That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? 100
Daemons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw’d
And fang’d with brass the daemons are abroad;
I hold it, therefore, wisest and most fit,
That, life to save, we leap into the pit.
Him answer’d then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe.
How? leap into the pit our life to save?
To save our life leap all into the grave?
For can we find it less? Contemplate first
The depth how awful! falling there we burst; 110
Or should the brambles, interpos’d, our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small;
For with a race like theirs no chance I see
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple’s bray,
Or be it not, or be it whose it may,
And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues
Of daemons utter’d, from whatever lungs,
Sounds are but sounds, and till the cause appear.
We have at least commodious standing here; 120
Come, fiend, come, fury, giant, monster, blast
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last.
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,
For Reynard, close attended at his heels,
By panting dog, tir’d man, and spatter’d horse,
Through mere good fortune, took a diff’rent course.
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road
Following that led me to my own abode,
Much wonder’d that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound, 130
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 53
