And some memorial none where once they grew.
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 130
Proof not contemptible of what she can,
Even where death predominates. The spring
Thee finds not less alive to her sweet force
Than yonder upstarts of the neighbour wood,
So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv’d
Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well qualified by age
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice
May be expected from thee, seated here
On thy distorted root, with hearers none 140
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform
Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may.
Thou, like myself, hast stage by stage attain’d
Life’s wintry bourn; thou, after many years,
I after few; but few or many prove
A span in retrospect; for I can touch
With my least finger’s end my own decease
And with extended thumb my natal hour,
And hadst thou also skill in measurement 150
As I, the past would seem as short to thee.
Evil and few — said Jacob — at an age
Thrice mine, and few and evil, I may think
The Prediluvian race, whose buxom youth
Endured two centuries, accounted theirs.
“Shortliv’d as foliage is the race of man.
The wind shakes down the leaves, the budding grove
Soon teems with others, and in spring they grow.
So pass mankind. One generation meets
Its destin’d period, and a new succeeds.” 160
Such was the tender but undue complaint
Of the Mæonian in old time; for who
Would drawl out centuries in tedious strife
Severe with mental and corporeal ill
And would not rather chuse a shorter race
To glory, a few decads here below?
One man alone, the Father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gaz’d,
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw
On all around him; learn’d not by degrees, 170
Nor owed articulation to his ear;
But, moulded by his Maker into Man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey’d
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign’d
To each his name significant, and, fill’d
With love and wisdom, render’d hack to heav’n
In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excus’d the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charg’d his hand 180
With the thought-tracing quill, or task’d his mind
With problems; history, not wanted yet,
Lean’d on her elbow, watching Time, whose course,
Eventful, should supply her with a theme.
* * * * * * * *
TO THE NIGHTINGALE WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW-YEAR’S DAY, 1792
[Written Jan., 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Whence is it, that amaz’d I hear
From yonder wither’d spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shewn,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone? 8
Sing’st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practis’d in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or sing’st thou rather under force
Of some divine command,
Commission’d to presage a course
Of happier days at hand? 16
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only need’st to sing.
To make ev’n January charm,
And ev’ry season Spring. 24
EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST A FAVOURITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS
[Written March, 1792. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
THESE are not dew-drops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed
For absent Robin, who, she fears
With too much cause, is dead.
One morn he came not to her hand
As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch’d, to stand
Picking his breakfast-crumb. 8
Alarm’d she call’d him, and perplext
She sought him, but in vain,
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.
She therefore rais’d him here a tomb,
Though where he fell, or how,
None knows, so secret was his doom,
Nor where he moulders now. 16
Had half a score of coxcombs died
In social Robin’s stead,
Poor Sally’s tears had soon been dried,
Or haply never shed.
But Bob was neither rudely bold
Nor spiritlessly tame,
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold,
But always in a flame. 24
SONNET TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE ESQ.
[Written April, 1792. Printed in The Northampton Mercury in April 1792; published by Hayley, 1803.]
THY country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,
Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call’d
Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th’ enthrall’d
From exile, public sale, and slav’ry’s chain.
Friend of the poor, the wrong’d, the fetter-gall’d,
Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain!
Thou hast achiev’d a part; hast gain’d the ear
Of Britain’s senate to thy glorious cause;
Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho’ cold caution pause
And weave delay, the better hour is near, 10
That shall remunerate thy toils severe
By peace for Afric, fenc’d with British laws.
Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love
From all the just on earth, and all the blest above!
TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ. BY AN OLD SCHOOL FELLOW OF HIS AT WESTMINSTER
[Written May, 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
HASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of a mind,
While young, humane, conversable, and kind,
Nor can I well believe thee, gentle THEN,
Now grown a villain, and the WORST of men.
But rather some suspect, who have oppress’d
And worried thee, as not themselves the BEST. 6
TO DR. AUSTIN, OF CECIL STREET, LONDON
[Written May, 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
AUSTIN! accept a grateful verse from me!
The poet’s treasure! no inglorious fee!
Lov’d by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind
Pleasing requital in a verse may find;
Verse oft has dash’d the scythe of Time aside,
Immortalizing names which else had died:
And oh! could I command the glitt’ring wealth.
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health;
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,
Were in the power of verse like mine to give, 10
I would not recompense his art with less,
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.
Friend of my friend! I love thee, though unknown,
And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
[Written June 2, 1792. Published by Johnson, 1815. T
here is a copy among the Ash MSS.]
HAYLEY, thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary and me for her dear sake distress’d,
Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedless now of new engagements grown;
For threescore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purpos’d ne’er to go in quest
Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But thou hast won me; nor is God my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, 10
Sent thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My brother, by whose sympathy I know
Thy true deserts infallibly to scan,
Not more t’ admire the Bard than love the Man.
CATHARINA THE SECOND PART ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.
[Written June, 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803. There is a copy among the Ash MSS.]
BELIEVE it or not, as you choose,
The doctrine is certainly true
That the future is known to the Muse,
And poets are oracles too.
I did but express a desire
To see Catharina at home
At the side of my friend George’s fire,
And lo! she is actually come. 8
Such prophecy some may despise,
But the wish of a poet and friend
Perhaps is approv’d in the skies,
And therefore attains to its end.
’Twas a wish that flew ardently forth
From a bosom effectually warm’d
With the talents, the graces, and worth
Of the person for whom it was form’d. 16
Maria would leave us, I knew,
To the grief and regret of us all;
But less to our grief, could we view
Catharina the Queen of the Hall.
And therefore I wish’d as I did,
And therefore this union of hands
Not a whisper was heard to forbid,
But all cry Amen to the bands. 24
Since, therefore, I seem to incur
No danger of wishing in vain
When making good wishes for her,
I will e’en to my wishes again —
With one I have made her a wife,
And now I will try with another,
Which I cannot suppress for my life —
How soon I can make her a mother. 32
LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN AUTHOR OF THE BOTANIC GARDEN
[Written June, 1792; for the first version of the poem see notes. Published 1800.]
Two poets, (poets by report
Not oft so well agree)
Sweet Harmonist of Flora’s court!
Conspire to honour thee.
They best can judge a poet’s worth,
Who oft themselves have known
The pangs of a poetic birth
By labours of their own. 8
We, therefore, pleas’d, extol thy song,
Though various, yet complete,
Rich in embellishment, as strong,
And learn’d, as it is sweet.
No envy mingles with our praise,
Though could our hearts repine
At any poet’s happier lays,
They would, they must, at thine. 16
But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship’s closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin’s wit
With an unjaundic’d eye;
And deem the bard, whoe’er he be,
And howsoever known,
Who would not twine a wreath for thee,
Unworthy of his own. 24
EPITAPH ON FOP A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON
[Written Aug., 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,
Here moulders one, whose bones some honour claim;
No sycophant, although of spaniel race!
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase!
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice!
Your haunts no longer echo to his voice.
This record of his fate exulting view,
He died worn out with vain pursuit of you.
“Yes!” the indignant shade of Fop replies,
“And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies.” 10
TO GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS, DRAWN AT EARTHAM
IN THE SIXTY-FIRST YEAR OF MY AGE, AND IN THE MONTHS OF AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER, 1792
[Written Oct., 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Romney! expert infallibly to trace,
On chart or canvas, not the form alone,
And ‘semblance, but, however faintly shown,
The mind’s impression too on ev’ry face,
With strokes that time ought never to erase:
Thou hast so pencil’d mine, that though I own
The subject worthless, I have never known
The artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark, that symptoms none of woe
In thy incomparable work appear: 10
Well! I am satisfied it should be so,
Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow could’st thou see
When I was Hayley’s guest, and sat to thee?
AN EPITAPH
[Written 1792. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
Here lies one, who never drew
Blood himself, yet many slew;
Gave the gun its aim, and figure
Made in field, yet ne’er pull’d trigger.
Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey’d;
At his signified desire,
Would advance, present, and fire —
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at sight of him; 10
And to all this fame he rose
Only following his nose.
Neptune was he call’d, not he
Who controls the boist’rous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow’d land;
And, your wonder vain to shorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.
EPITAPH ON MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY
[Written April, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
TEARS flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,
Till all who know him follow to the skies.
Tears therefore fall where CHESTER’S ashes sleep:
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, weep —
And justly — few shall ever him transcend
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend.
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN’S-BOWER DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT
[Written May (?), 1793. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
THRIVE gentle plant! and weave a bow’r
For Mary and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flow’r
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou cam’st from Eartham, and wilt shade
(If truly I divine)
Some future day th’ illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine. 8
Should Daphne show a jealous frown
And envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour’d brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing pow’r;
For why should not the Virgin’s Friend
Be crown’d with Virgin’s-bow’r? 16
TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE MADE BY HERSELF
[Written May, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
MY gentle Anne, whom heretofore,
When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee,
A kit
ten both in size and glee!
I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;
But not of love: — that gem’s too dear
For richest rogues to win it;
I, therefore, as a proof of love,
Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it. 12
INSCRIPTION FOR AN HERMITAGE IN THE AUTHOR’S GARDEN
[Written May, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
THIS cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,
Built as it has been in our waning years,
A rest afforded to our weary feet,
Preliminary to — the last retreat. 4
INSCRIPTION FOR A MOSS-HOUSE IN THE SHRUBBERY AT WESTON
[Written 1793(?). Published in Cowper illustrated, 1804.]
HERE, free from riot’s hated noise,
Be mine, ye calmer, purer joys,
A book or friend bestows;
Far from the storms that shake the great,
Contentment’s gale shall fan my seat,
And sweeten my repose. 6
SONNET TO MRS. UNWIN
[Written May, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings;
Such aid from Heaven as some have feign’d they drew!
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new,
And undebas’d by praise of meaner things!
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth, with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true, —
Verse, that immortalizes whom it sings!
But thou hast little need: there is a book,
By seraphs writ with beams of heav’nly light, 10
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