William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

That, for my venerable Father’s sake

  All meaner themes renounced, my Muse, on wings

  Of Duty borne, might reach a loftier strain.

  For thee, my Father! howsoe’er it please,

  She frames this slender work, nor know I aught,

  That may thy gifts more suitably requite;

  Though to requite them suitably would ask

  Returns much nobler, and surpassing far

  The meagre stores of verbal gratitude.

  But, such as I possess, I send thee all.

  This page presents thee in their full amount

  With thy son’s treasures, and the sum is nought;

  Naught, save the riches that from airy dreams

  In secret grottos and in laurel bow’rs,

  I have, by golden Clio’s gift, acquir’d.

  Verse is a work divine; despise not thou

  Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more)

  Man’s heav’nly source, and which, retaining still

  Some scintillations of Promethean fire,

  Bespeaks him animated from above.

  The Gods love verse; the infernal Pow’rs themselves

  Confess the influence of verse, which stirs

  The lowest Deep, and binds in triple chains

  Of adamant both Pluto and the shades.

  In verse the Delphic priestess, and the pale

  Tremulous Sybil make the Future known,

  And He who sacrifices, on the shrine

  Hangs verse, both when he smites the threat’ning bull,

  And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide

  To scrutinize the Fates envelop’d there.

  We too, ourselves, what time we seek again

  Our native skies, and one eternal Now

  Shall be the only measure of our Being,

  Crown’d all with gold, and chanting to the lyre

  Harmonious verse, shall range the courts above,

  And make the starry firmament resound.

  And, even now, the fiery Spirit pure

  That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself,

  Their mazy dance with melody of verse

  Unutt’rable, immortal, hearing which

  Huge Ophiuchus holds his hiss suppress’d,

  Orion, soften’d, drops his ardent blade,

  And Atlas stands unconscious of his load.

  Verse graced of old the feasts of kings, ere yet

  Luxurious dainties destin’d to the gulph

  Immense of gluttony were known, and ere

  Lyaeus deluged yet the temp’rate board.

  Then sat the bard a customary guest

  To share the banquet, and, his length of locks

  With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse

  The characters of Heroes and their deeds

  To imitation, sang of Chaos old,

  Of Nature’s birth, of Gods that crept in search

  Of acorns fall’n, and of the thunderbolt

  Not yet produc’d from Aetna’s fiery cave.

  And what avails, at last, tune without voice,

  Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps

  The rural dance, but such was ne’er the song

  Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood still to hear

  And the oaks follow’d. Not by chords alone

  Well-touch’d, but by resistless accents more

  To sympathetic tears the Ghosts themselves

  He mov’d: these praises to his verse he owes.

  Nor Thou persist, I pray thee, still to slight

  The sacred Nine, and to imagine vain

  And useless, Pow’rs by whom inspir’d, thyself

  Art skillfill to associate verse with airs

  Harmonious, and to give the human voice

  A thousand modulations, heir by right

  Indisputable of Arion’s fame.

  Now say, what wonder is it, if a son

  Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoin’d

  In close affinity, we sympathize

  In social arts and kindred studies sweet?

  Such distribution of himself to us

  Was Phoebus’ choice; thou hast thy gift, and I

  Mine also, and between us we receive,

  Father and son, the whole inspiring God.

  No. Howsoe’er the semblance thou assume

  Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse,

  My Father! for thou never bad’st me tread

  The beaten path and broad that leads right on

  To opulence, nor did’st condemn thy son

  To the insipid clamours of the bar,

  To laws voluminous and ill observ’d,

  But, wishing to enrich me more, to fill

  My mind with treasure, led’st me far away

  From city-din to deep retreats, to banks

  And streams Aonian, and, with free consent

  Didst place me happy at Apollo’s side.

  I speak not now, on more important themes

  Intent, of common benefits, and such

  As Nature bids, but of thy larger gifts

  My Father! who, when I had open’d once

  The stores of Roman rhetoric, and learn’d

  The full-ton’d language, of the eloquent Greeks,

  Whose lofty music grac’d the lips of Jove,

  Thyself did’st counsel me to add the flow’rs

  That Gallia boasts, those too with which the smooth

  Italian his degentrate speech adorns,

  That witnesses his mixture with the Goth,

  And Palestine’s prophetic songs divine.

  To sum the whole, whate’er the Heav’n contains,

  The Earth beneath it, and the Air between,

  The Rivers and the restless deep, may all

  Prove intellectual gain to me, my wish

  Concurring with thy will; Science herself,

  All cloud removed, inclines her beauteous head

  And offers me the lip, if, dull of heart,

  I shrink not and decline her gracious boon.

  Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds

  That covet it; what could my Father more,

  What more could Jove himself, unless he gave

  His own abode, the heav’n in which he reigns?

  More eligible gifts than these were not

  Apollo’s to his son, had they been safe

  As they were insecure, who made the boy

  The world’s vice-luminary, bade him rule

  The radiant chariot of the day, and bind

  To his young brows his own all dazzling-wreath.

  I therefore, although last and least, my place

  Among the Learned in the laurel-grove

  Will hold, and where the conqu’ror’s ivy twines,

  Henceforth exempt from th’unletter’d throng

  Profane, nor even to be seen by such.

  Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint away,

  And Envy, with thy ‘jealous leer malign’

  Nor let the monster Calumny shoot forth

  Her venom’d tongue at me. Detested foes!

  Ye all are impotent against my peace,

  For I am privileged, and bear my breast

  Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound.

  But thou my Father! since to render thanks

  Equivalent, and to requite by deeds

  Thy liberality, exceeds my power,

  Sufffice it, that I thus record thy gifts,

  And bear them treasur’d in a grateful mind!

  Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth,

  My voluntary numbers, if ye dare

  To hope longevity, and to survive

  Your master’s funeral pile, not soon absorb’d

  In the oblivious Lethaean gulph

  Shall to Futurity perhaps convey

  This theme, and by these praises of my sire

  Improve the Fathers of a distant age.

  TO GIOVANNI SALZILLI, A ROMAN POET, IN HIS ILLNESS.
>
  (Translated From Milton)

  My halting Muse, that dragg’st by choice along

  Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song!

  And lik’st that pace expressive of thy cares

  Not less than Diopeia’s sprightlier airs

  When in the dance she beats with measur’d tread

  Heav’n’s floor in front of Juno’s golden bed,

  Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine

  Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.

  Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o’er

  From his own nest on Albion’s stormy shore

  Where Eurus, fiercest of th’Aeolian band,

  Sweeps with ungovern’d rage the blasted land,

  Of late to more serene Ausonia came

  To view her cities of illustrious name,

  To prove, himself a witness of the truth,

  How wise her elders, and how learn’d her Youth.

  Much good, Salsillus! and a body free

  From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,

  Who now endur’st the languor, and the pains

  That bile inflicts diffus’d through all thy veins,

  Relentless malady! not mov’d to spare

  By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air!

  Health, Hebe’s sister, sent us from the skies,

  And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,

  Pythius, or Paean, or what name divine

  Soe’er thou chuse, haste, heal a priest of thine!

  Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt

  With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt!

  If aught salubrious in your confines grow,

  Strive which shall soonest heal your poet’s woe,

  That, render’d to the Muse he loves, again

  He may enchant the meadows with his strain.

  Numa, reclin’d in everlasting ease

  Amid the shade of dark embow’ring trees,

  Viewing with eyes of unabated fire

  His loved Aegeria, shall that strain admire:

  So sooth’d, the tumid Tiber shall revere

  The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,

  Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,

  And guide them harmless till they meet the main.

  TO GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, MARQUIS OF VILLA.

  (Translated From Milton)

  These verses also to thy praise the Nine

  Oh Manso! happy in that theme design,

  For, Gallus and Maecenas gone, they see

  None such besides, or whom they love as Thee,

  And, if my verse may give the meed of fame,

  Thine too shall prove an everlasting name.

  Already such, it shines in Tasso’s page

  (For thou wast Tasso’s friend) from age to age,

  And, next, the Muse consign’d, not unaware

  How high the charge, Marini to thy care,

  Who, singing, to the nymphs, Adonis’ praise,

  Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays.

  To thee alone the Poet would entrust

  His latest vows, to thee alone his dust,

  And Thou with punctual piety hast paid

  In labour’d brass thy tribute to his shade.

  Nor this contented thee-but lest the grave

  Should aught absorb of their’s, which thou could’st save,

  All future ages thou has deign’d to teach

  The life, lot, genius, character of each,

  Eloquent as the Carian sage, who, true

  To his great theme, the Life of Homer drew.

  I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come

  Chill’d by rude blasts that freeze my Northern home,

  Thee dear to Clio confident proclaim,

  And Thine, for Phoebus’ sake, a deathless name.

  Nor Thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye

  A Muse scarce rear’d beneath our sullen sky,

  Who fears not, indiscrete as she is young,

  To seek in Latium hearers of her song.

  We too, where Thames with his unsullied waves

  The tresses of the blue-hair’d Ocean laves,

  Hear oft by night, or, slumb’ring, seem to hear

  O’er his wide stream, the swan’s voice warbling clear,

  And we could boast a Tityrus of yore,

  Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.

  Yes, dreary as we own our Northern clime,

  E’en we to Phoebus raise the polish’d rhyme,

  We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus has receiv’d,

  (If legends old may claim to be believ’d)

  No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear,

  The burnish’d apple, ruddiest of the year,

  The fragrant crocus, and, to grace his fane,

  Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train-

  Druids, our native bards in ancient time,

  Who Gods and Heroes prais’d in hallow’d rhyme.

  Hence, often as the maids of Greece surround

  Apollo’s shrine with hymns of festive sound,

  They name the virgins who arriv’d of yore

  With British off’rings on the Delian shore,

  Loxo, from Giant Corineus sprung,

  Upis, on whose blest lips the Future hung,

  And Hecaerge with the golden hair,

  All deck’d with Pic’ish hues, and all with bosoms bare.

  Thou therefore, happy Sage, whatever clime

  Shall ring with Tasso’s praise in after-time,

  Or with Marini’s, shalt be known their friend,

  And with an equal flight to fame ascend.

  The world shall hear how Phoebus and the Nine

  Were inmates, once, and willing guests of thine.

  Yet Phoebus, when of old constrain’d to roam

  The earth, an exile from his heav’nly home,

  Enter’d, no willing guest, Admetus’ door,

  Though Hercules had enter’d there before.

  But gentle Chiron’s cave was near, a scene

  Of rural peace, clothed with perpetual green,

  And thither, oft as respite he requir’d

  From rustic clamours loud, the God retir’d.

  There, many a time, on Peneus’ bank reclin’d

  At some oak’s root, with ivy thick entwin’d,

  Won by his hospitable friend’s desire

  He sooth’d his pains of exile with the lyre.

  Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus’ shore,

  Nor Oeta felt his load of forests more,

  The upland elms descended to the plain,

  And soften’d lynxes wonder’d at the strain.

  Well may we think, O dear to all above!

  Thy birth distinguish’d by the smile of Jove,

  And that Apollo shed his kindliest pow’r,

  And Maia’s son, on that propitious hour,

  Since only minds so born can comprehend

  A poet’s worth, or yield that worth a friend.

  Hence, on thy yet unfaded cheek appears

  The ling’ring freshness of thy greener years,

  Hence, in thy front, and features, we admire

  Nature unwither’d, and a mind entire.

  Oh might so true a friend to me belong,

  So skill’d to grace the votaries of song,

  Should I recall hereafter into rhyme

  The kings, and heroes of my native clime,

  Arthur the chief, who even now prepares,

  In subterraneous being, future wars,

  With all his martial Knights, to be restor’d

  Each to his seat around the fed’ral board,

  And Oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse

  Our Saxon plund’rers in triumphant verse!

  Then, after all, when, with the Past content,

  A life I finish, not in silence spent,

  Should he, kind mourner, o’er my deathbed bend

  I shall but
need to say— ‘Be yet my friend!’

  He, faithful to my dust, with kind concern

  Shal1 place it gently in a modest urn;

  He too, perhaps, shall bid the marble breathe

  To honour me, and with the graceful wreath

  Or of Parnassus or the Paphian isle

  Shall bind my brows — but I shall rest the while.

  Then also, if the fruits of Faith endure,

  And Virtue’s promis’d recompense be sure,

  Borne to those seats, to which the blest aspire

  By purity of soul, and virtuous fire,

  These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey

  With eyes illumin’d by celestial day,

  And, ev’ry cloud from my pure spirit driv’n,

  Joy in the bright beatitude of Heav’n!

  ON THE DEATH OF DAMON.

  (Translated From Milton)

  Ye Nymphs of Himera (for ye have shed

  Erewhile for Daphnis and for Hylas dead,

  And over Bion’s long-lamented bier,

  The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear)

  Now, through the villas laved by Thames rehearse

  The woes of Thyrsis in Sicilian verse,

  What sighs he heav’d, and how with groans profound

  He made the woods and hollow rocks resound

  Young Damon dead; nor even ceased to pour

  His lonely sorrows at the midnight hour.

  The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear,

  And golden harvest twice enrich’d the year,

  Since Damon’s lips had gasp’d for vital air

  The last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there;

  For he, enamour’d of the Muse, remain’d

  In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain’d,

  But, stored at length with all he wish’d to learn,

  For his flock’s sake now hasted to return,

  And when the shepherd had resumed his seat

  At the elm’s root within his old retreat,

  Then ’twas his lot, then, all his loss to know,

  And, from his burthen’d heart, he vented thus his woe.

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due

  To other cares than those of feeding you.

  Alas! what Deities shall I suppose

  In heav’n or earth concern’d for human woes,

  Since, Oh my Damon! their severe decree

  So soon condemns me to regret of Thee!

  Depart’st thou thus, thy virtues unrepaid

  With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade?

  Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls,

  And sep’rates sordid from illustrious souls,

  Drive far the rabble, and to Thee assign

  A happier lot with spirits worthy thine!

  Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts are due