William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Of his low mansion, old Evander rose.

  His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,

  And his good sword well girded to his side,

  A panther’s skin dependent from his left,

  And over his right shoulder thrown aslant,

  Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow’d him,

  His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

  THE SALAD BY VIRGIL

  The winter night now well nigh worn away,

  The wakeful cock proclaimed approaching day,

  When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm

  Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm,

  Yawned, stretched his limbs, and anxious to provide

  Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied,

  By slow degrees his tattered bed forsook,

  And poking in the dark, explored the nook

  Where embers slept with ashes heaped around,

  And with burnt fingers’-ends the treasure found.

  It chanced that from a brand beneath his nose

  Sure proof of latent fire, some smoke arose;

  When trimming with a pin the incrusted tow,

  And stooping it towards the coals below,

  He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite

  The lingering flame, and gains at length a light.

  With prudent heed he spreads his hand before

  The quivering lamp, and opes his granary door.

  Small was his stock, but taking for the day,

  A measured stint of twice eight pounds away,

  With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand,

  Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand:

  Then baring both his arms, a sleeveless coat

  He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat;

  And with a rubber, for that use designed

  Cleansing his mill within, begins to grind;

  Each hand has its employ; labouring amain,

  This turns the winch, while that supplies the grain.

  The stone revolving rapidly, now glows,

  And the bruised corn a mealy current flows;

  While he, to make his heavy labour light,

  Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right;

  And chants with rudest accent, to beguile

  His ceaseless toil, as rude a strain the while.

  And now, ‘Dame Cybale, come forth!’ he cries;

  But Cybale, still slumbering, nought replies.

  From Afric she, the swain’s sole serving maid,

  Whose face and form alike her birth betrayed;

  With woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin,

  Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin,

  Legs slender, broad and most misshapen feet,

  Chapped into chinks, and parched with solar heat,

  Such, summoned oft, she came; at his command

  Fresh fuel heaped, the sleeping embers fanned,

  And made in haste her simmering skillet steam,

  Replenished newly from the neighbouring stream.

  The labours of the mill performed, a sieve

  The mingled flour and bran must next receive,

  Which shaken oft, shoots Ceres through refined,

  And better dressed, her husks all left behind.

  This done, at once, his future plain repast,

  Unleavened, on a shaven board he cast,

  The tepid lymph, first largely soaked it all,

  Then gathered it with both hands to a ball,

  And spreading it again with both hands wide,

  With sprinkled salt the stiffened mass supplied;

  At length, the stubborn substance, duly wrought,

  Takes from his palms impressed the shape it ought,

  Becomes an orb, and quartered into shares,

  The faithful mark of just division bears.

  Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space,

  For Cybale before had swept the place,

  And there, with tiles and embers overspread,

  She leaves it — reeking in its sultry bed.

  Nor Similus, while Vulcan thus, alone,

  His part performed, proves heedless of his own,

  But sedulous, not merely to subdue

  His hunger, but to please his palate too,

  Prepares more savoury food. His chimney-side

  Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried,

  And hooked behind him; but sufficient store

  Of bundled anise, and a cheese it bore;

  A broad round cheese, which, through its centre strung

  With a tough broom-twig, in the corner hung;

  The prudent hero therefore with address,

  And quick despatch, now seeks another mess.

  Close to his cottage lay a garden-ground,

  With reeds and osiers sparely girt around;

  Small was the spot, but liberal to produce,

  Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant’s use;

  And sometimes even the rich would borrow thence,

  Although its tillage was his sole expense.

  For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceased,

  Home-bound by weather or some stated feast,

  His debt of culture here he duly paid,

  And only left the plough to wield the spade.

  He knew to give each plant the soil it needs,

  To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds;

  And could with ease compel the wanton rill

  To turn, and wind, obedient to his will.

  There flourished star-wort, and the branching beet,

  The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet,

  The skirret, and the leek’s aspiring kind,

  The noxious poppy — quencher of the mind!

  Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board,

  The lettuce, and the long huge-bellied gourd;

  But these (for none his appetite controlled

  With stricter sway) the thrifty rustic sold;

  With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind apart,

  He bore them ever to the public mart;

  Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load,

  Of each well earned, he took his homeward road,

  Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome,

  His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home.

  There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red,

  Or the curled endive’s bitter leaf, he fed;

  On scallions sliced, or with a sensual gust

  On rockets — foul provocatives of lust;

  Nor even shunned, with smarting gums, to press

  Nasturtium, pungent face-distorting mess!

  Some such regale now also in his thought,

  With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought;

  There delving with his hands, he first displaced

  Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast;

  The tender tops of parsley next he culls,

  Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls,

  And Coriander last to these succeeds,

  That hands on slightest threads her trembling seeds.

  Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands

  The mortar at his sable servant’s hands;

  When stripping all his garlick first, he tore

  The exterior coats, and cast them on the floor,

  Then cast away with like contempt the skin,

  Flimsier concealment of the cloves within.

  These searched, and perfect found, he one by one

  Rinsed and disposed within the hollow stone;

  Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese,

  With his injected herbs he covered these,

  And tucking with his left his tunic tight,

  The garlick bruising first he soon expressed,

  And mixed the various juices of the rest.

  He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below

  Lost in each other their own powers forego,

  Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white.
<
br />   His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent;

  He cursed full oft his dinner for its scent,

  Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke

  The trickling tears, cried— ‘Vengeance on the smoke!’

  The work proceeds: not roughly turns he now

  The pestle, but in circles smoothe and slow;

  With cautious hand that grudges what it spills,

  Some drops of olive-oil he next instils;

  Then vinegar with caution scarcely less;

  And gathering to a ball the medley mess,

  Last, with two fingers frugally applied,

  Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar’s side:

  And thus complete in figure and in kind,

  Obtains at length the Salad he designed.

  And now black Cybale before him stands,

  The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands;

  He glad receives it, chasing far away

  All fears of famine for the passing day;

  His legs enclosed in buskins, and his head

  In its tough casque of leather, forth he led,

  And yoked his steers, a dull obedient pair,

  Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share.

  OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. ELEGY XII.

  You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,

  And save from withering my poetic powers;

  Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow

  From the free mind, not fettered down by woe.

  Restless amidst unceasing tempests tossed,

  Whoe’er has cause for sorrow, I have most.

  Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain;

  Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,

  Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?

  Does grief or study most befit the mind

  To this remote, this barbarous nook confined?

  Could you impart to my unshaken breast

  The fortitude by Socrates possessed,

  Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,

  For what is human strength to wrath divine?

  Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,

  My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.

  Could I forget my country, thee and all,

  And e’en the offence to which I owe my fall,

  Yet fear alone would freeze the poet’s vein,

  While hostile troops swarm o’er the dreary plain.

  Add that the fatal rust of long disuse

  Unfits me for the service of the Muse.

  Thistles and weeds are all we can expect

  From the best soil impoverished by neglect;

  Unexercised, and to his stall confined,

  The fleetest racer would be left behind:

  The best built bark that cleaves the watery way,

  Laid useless by, would moulder and decay, —

  No hope remains that time shall me restore,

  Mean as I was, to what I was before.

  Think how a series of desponding cares

  Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.

  How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,

  My verse constrained to move with measured feet,

  Reluctant and laborious limps along,

  And proves itself a wretched exile’s song.

  What is it tunes the most melodious lays?

  ’Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,

  A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,

  While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.

  But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?

  No, rather let the world forget my name.

  Is it because that world approved my strain,

  You prompt me to the same pursuit again?

  No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,

  I charge my hopeless ruin on the Muse,

  And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,

  The victim of my own pernicious art;

  Fool that I was to be so warned in vain,

  And shipwrecked once, to tempt the deep again!

  Ill fares the bard in this unlettered land,

  None to consult, and none to understand.

  The purest verse has no admirers here,

  Their own rude language only suits their ear.

  Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,

  I learn it, and almost unlearn my own; —

  Yet to say truth, even here the Muse disdains

  Confinement, and attempts her former strains,

  But finds the strong desire is not the power,

  And what her taste condemns, the flames devour

  A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,

  And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;

  But oh the cruel art, that could undo

  Its votary thus! would that could perish too!

  Translations from Vincent Bourne

  CONTENTS

  THE GLOWWORM.

  THE JACKDAW.

  THE CRICKET.

  THE PARROT.

  ON THE PICTURE OF A SLEEPING CHILD.

  THE THRACIAN.

  RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

  A MANUAL, MORE ANCIENT THAN THE ART OF PRINTING, AND NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY CATALOGUE.

  AN ENIGMA.

  SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

  FAMILIARITY DANGEROUS.

  INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

  STRADA’S NIGHTINGALE.

  ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1728.

  THE CAUSE WON.

  THE SILKWORM.

  THE INNOCENT THIEF.

  DENNER’S OLD WOMAN.

  THE TEARS OF A PAINTER.

  THE MAZE.

  NO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUFFERER.

  THE SNAIL.

  THE CANTAB.

  THE GLOWWORM.

  Beneath the hedge, or near the stream,

  A worm is known to stray,

  That shows by night a lucid beam,

  Which disappears by day.

  Disputes have been, and still prevail,

  From whence his rays proceed;

  Some give that honour to his tail,

  And others to his head.

  But this is sure — the hand of night

  That kindles up the skies,

  Gives him a modicum of light

  Proportion’d to his size.

  Perhaps indulgent Nature meant,

  By such a lamp bestow’d,

  To bid the traveller, as he went,

  Be careful where he trod:

  Nor crush a worm, whose useful light

  Might serve, however small,

  To show a stumbling stone by night,

  And save him from a fall.

  Whate’er she meant, this truth divine

  Is legible and plain,

  ’Tis power almighty bids him shine,

  Nor bids him shine in vain.

  Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme

  Teach humbler thoughts to you,

  Since such a reptile has its gem,

  And boasts its splendour too.

  THE JACKDAW.

  There is a bird who, by his coat

  And by the hoarseness of his note,

  Might be supposed a crow;

  A great frequenter of the church,

  Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch,

  And dormitory too.

  Above the steeple shines a plate,

  That turns and turns, to indicate

  From what point blows the weather.

  Look up — your brains begin to swim, —

  ’Tis in the clouds — that pleases him,

  He chooses it the rather.

  Fond of the speculative height,

  Thither he wings his airy flight,

  And thence securely sees

  The bustle and the rareeshow,

  That occupy mankind below,

  Secure and
at his ease.

  You think, no doubt, he sits and muses

  On future broken bones and bruises,

  If he should chance to fall.

  No; not a single thought like that

  Employs his philosophic pate,

  Or troubles it at all.

  He sees that this great roundabout,

  The world, with all its motley rout,

  Church, army, physic, law,

  Its customs and its businesses,

  Is no concern at all of his,

  And says — what says he? — Caw.

  Thrice happy bird! I too have seen

  Much of the vanities of men;

  And, sick of having seen ‘em,

  Would cheerfully these limbs resign

  For such a pair of wings as thine

  And such a head between ‘em.

  THE CRICKET.

  Little inmate, full of mirth,

  Chirping on my kitchen hearth,

  Wheresoe’er be thine abode,

  Always harbinger of good,

  Pay me for thy warm retreat

  With a song more soft and sweet;

  In return thou shalt receive

  Such a strain as I can give.

  Thus thy praise shall be express’d,

  Inoffensive, welcome guest!

  While the rat is on the scout,

  And the mouse with curious snout,

  With what vermin else infest

  Every dish, and spoil the best;

  Frisking thus before the fire,

  Thou hast all thine heart’s desire.

  Though in voice and shape they be

  Form’d as if akin to thee,

  Thou surpassest, happier far,

  Happiest grasshoppers that are;

  Theirs is but a summer’s song,

  Thine endures the winter long,

  Unimpair’d, and shrill, and clear,

  Melody throughout the year.

  Neither night nor dawn of day

  Puts a period to thy play:

  Sing, then — and extend thy span

  Far beyond the date of man.

  Wretched man, whose years are spent

  In repining discontent,

  Lives not, aged though he be,

  Half a span, compared with thee.

  THE PARROT.

  In painted plumes superbly dress’d,

  A native of the gorgeous east,

  By many a billow toss’d;

  Poll gains at length the British shore,

  Part of the captain’s precious store,