William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works

by William Cowper

  Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul; 30

  The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow,

  And casks not wine alone, but verse, bestow.

  Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend

  Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend.

  What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet,

  In which these triple powers so kindly meet.

  The lute now also sounds, with gold inwrought,

  And touch’d with flying Fingers nicely taught,

  In tap’stried halls high-roof’d the sprightly lyre

  Directs the dancers of the virgin choir. 40

  If dull repletion fright the Muse away,

  Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay;

  And, trust me, while the iv’ry keys resound,

  Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around,

  Apollo’s influence, like ethereal flame

  Shall animate at once thy glowing frame,

  And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast,

  By love and music’s blended pow’rs possest.

  For num’rous pow’rs light Elegy befriend,

  Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend; 50

  Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve,

  And with his blushing Mother, gentle Love.

  Hence, to such bards we grant the copious use

  Of banquets, and the vine’s delicious juice.

  But they who Demigods and Heroes praise

  And feats perform’d in Jove’s more youthful days,

  Who now the counsels of high heav’n explore,

  Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar,

  Simply let these, like him of Samos live,

  Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give; 60

  In beechen goblets let their bev’rage shine,

  Cool from the chrystal spring, their sober wine!

  Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure

  From stain licentious, and in manners pure,

  Pure as the priest’s, when robed in white he stands

  The fresh lustration ready in his hands.

  Thus Linus liv’d, and thus, as poets write,

  Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight,

  Thus exil’d Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace,

  Melodious tamer of the savage race! 70

  Thus train’d by temp’rance, Homer led, of yore,

  His chief of Ithaca from shore to shore,

  Through magic Circe’s monster-peopled reign,

  And shoals insidious with the siren train;

  And through the realms, where griesly spectres dwell,

  Whose tribes he fetter’d in a gory spell;

  For these are sacred bards, and, from above,

  Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove.

  Would’st thou (perhaps ’tis hardly worth thine ear)

  Would’st thou be told my occupation here? 80

  The promised King of peace employs my pen,

  Th’eternal cov’nant made for guilty men,

  The new-born Deity with infant cries

  Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies;

  The hymning Angels, and the herald star

  That led the Wise who sought him from afar,

  And idols on their own unhallow’d floor

  Dash’d at his birth, to be revered no more!

  This theme0 on reeds of Albion I rehearse;

  The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse; 90

  Verse that, reserv’d in secret, shall attend

  Thy candid voice, my Critic and my Friend!

  ELEGY VI

  Anno Aetates undevigesimo.

  As yet a stranger to the gentle fires

  That Amathusia’s smiling Queen inspires,

  Not seldom I derided Cupid’s darts,

  And scorn’d his claim to rule all human hearts.

  Go, child, I said, transfix the tim’rous dove,

  An easy conquest suits an infant Love;

  Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be

  Sufficient triumph to a Chief like thee;

  Why aim thy idle arms at human kind?

  Thy shafts prevail not ‘gainst the noble mind. 10

  The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire,

  (None kindles sooner) burn’d with double fire.

  It was the Spring, and newly risen day

  Peep’d o’er the hamlets on the First of May;

  My eyes too tender for the blaze of light,

  Still sought the shelter of retiring night,

  When Love approach’d, in painted plumes arrayed;

  Th’insidious god his rattling darts betray’d,

  Nor less his infant features, and the sly

  Sweet intimations of his threat’ning eye. 20

  Such the Sigeian boy is seen above,

  Filling the goblet for imperial Jove;

  Such he, on whom the nymphs bestow’d their charms,

  Hylas, who perish’d in a Naiad’s arms.

  Angry he seem’d, yet graceful in his ire,

  And added threats, not destitute of fire.

  “My power,” he said, “by others pain alone,

  ‘Twere best to learn; now learn it by thy own!

  With those, who feel my power, that pow’r attest!

  And in thy anguish be my sway confest! 30

  I vanquish’d Phoebus, though returning vain

  From his new triumph o’er the Python slain,

  And, when he thinks on Daphne, even He

  Will yield the prize of archery to me.

  A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped,

  Behind him kill’d, and conquer’d as he fled,

  Less true th’expert Cydonian, and less true

  The youth, whose shaft his latent Procris slew.

  Vanquish’d by me see huge Orion bend,

  By me Alcides, and Alcides’s friend.0 40

  At me should Jove himself a bolt design,

  His bosom first should bleed transfix’d by mine.

  But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain,

  Nor shall it teach thee with a trivial pain,

  Thy Muse, vain youth! shall not thy peace ensure,

  Nor Phoebus’ serpent yield thy wound a cure. 1

  He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air,

  Sought the warm bosom of the Cyprian fair.

  That thus a child should bluster in my ear

  Provok’d my laughter more than mov’d my fear. 50

  I shun’d not, therefore, public haunts, but stray’d

  Careless in city, or suburban shade,

  And passing and repassing nymphs that mov’d

  With grace divine, beheld where’er I rov’d.

  Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze,

  As beauty gave new force to Phoebus’ rays.

  By no grave scruples check’d I freely eyed

  The dang’rous show, rash youth my only guide,

  And many a look of many a Fair unknown

  Met full, unable to control my own. 60

  But one I mark’d (then peace forsook my breast)

  One — Oh how far superior to the rest!

  What lovely features! Such the Cyprian Queen

  Herself might wish, and Juno wish her mien.

  The very nymph was she, whom when I dar’d

  His arrows, Love had even then prepar’d.

  Nor was himself remote, nor unsupplied

  With torch well-trimm’d and quiver at his side;

  Now to her lips he clung, her eye-lids now,

  Then settled on her cheeks or on her brow. 70

  And with a thousand wounds from ev’ry part

  Pierced and transpierced my undefended heart.

  A fever, new to me, of fierce desire

  Now seiz’d my soul, and I was all on fire,

  But she, the while, whom only I adore,

  Was gone, and vanish’d to appear no more.

  In silent s
adness I pursue my way,

  I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay,

  And while I follow her in thought, bemoan

  With tears my soul’s delight so quickly flown. 80

  When Jove had hurl’d him to the Lemnian coast 2

  So Vulcan sorrow’d for Olympus lost,

  And so Oeclides, sinking into night,

  From the deep gulph look’d up to distant light. 3

  Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain

  Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?

  Oh could I once, once more, behold the Fair,

  Speak to her, tell her of the pangs I bear,

  Perhaps she is not adamant, would show

  Perhaps some pity at my tale of woe. 90

  Oh inauspicious flame— ’tis mine to prove

  A matchless instance of disastrous love.

  Ah spare me, gentle Pow’r! — If such thou be

  Let not thy deeds, and nature disagree.

  Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts:

  Now own thee sov’reign of all human hearts.

  Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine

  With vow and sacrifice, save only thine.

  Remove! no — grant me still this raging woe!

  Sweet is the wretchedness, that lovers know: 100

  But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see

  One destined mine) at once both her and me.

  Such were the trophies, that in earlier days,

  By vanity seduced I toil’d to raise,

  Studious yet indolent, and urg’d by youth,

  That worst of teachers, from the ways of Truth;

  Till learning taught me, in his shady bow’r,

  To quit love’s servile yoke, and spurn his pow’r.

  Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest,

  A frost continual settled on my breast, 110

  Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see,

  And Venus dreads a Diomede5 in me.

  Epigrams

  CONTENTS

  ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS

  TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME

  TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME II

  THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. A FABLE

  TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL’S PICTURE

  ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS

  PRAISE in old times the sage Prometheus won,

  Who stole aethereal radiance from the sun;

  But greater he, whose bold invention strove

  To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove.

  TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME

  (Translated From Milton)

  Another Leonora once inspir’d

  Tasso, with fatal love to frenzy fir’d,

  But how much happier, liv’d he now, were he,

  Pierced with whatever pangs for love of Thee!

  Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine,

  With Adriana’s lute of sound divine,

  Fiercer than Pentheus’ tho’ his eye might roll,

  Or idiot apathy benumb his soul,

  You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer

  His senses wandering in a blind career;

  And sweetly breathing thro’ his wounded breast,

  Charm, with soul-soothing song, his thoughts to rest.

  TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME II

  (Translated From Milton)

  Naples, too credulous, ah! boast no more

  The sweet-voiced Siren buried on thy shore,

  That, when Parthenope deceas’d, she gave

  Her sacred dust to a Chalcidic grave,

  For still she lives, but has exchanged the hoarse

  Pausilipo for Tiber’s placid course,

  Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains,

  Of magic song both Gods and Men detains.

  THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. A FABLE

  (Translated From Milton)

  A Peasant to his lord yearly court,

  Presenting pippins of so rich a sort

  That he, displeased to have a part alone,

  Removed the tree, that all might be his own.

  The tree, too old to travel, though before

  So fruitful, withered, and would yield no more.

  The squire, perceiving all his labour void,

  Cursed his own pains, so foolishly employed,

  And ‘Oh,’ he cried, ‘that I had lived content

  With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant!

  My avarice has expensive proved to me,

  Has cost me both my pippins and my tree.’

  TO CHRISTINA, QUEEN OF SWEDEN, WITH CROMWELL’S PICTURE

  Christina, maiden of heroic mien!

  Star of the North! of northern stars the queen!

  Behold, what wrinkles I have earn’d, and how

  The iron cask still chafes my vet’ran brow,

  While following fate’s dark footsteps, I fulfill

  The dictates of a hardy people’s will.

  But soften’d, in thy sight, my looks appear,

  Not to all Queens or Kings alike severe.

  Italian Poems

  CONTENTS

  FAIR LADY

  AS ON A HILL-TOP RUDE

  CANZONE

  TO CHARLES DIODATI

  LADY! IT CANNOT BE, BUT THAT THINE EYES

  ENAMOUR’D, ARTLESS, YOUNG, ON FOREIGN GROUND

  FAIR LADY

  Fair Lady, whose harmonious name the Rheno

  Through all his grassy vale delights to hear,

  Base were, indeed, the wretch, who could forbear

  To love a spirit elegant as thine,

  That manifests a sweetness all divine,

  Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare,

  And graces, which Love’s bow and arrows are,

  Temp’ring thy virtues to a softer shine.

  When gracefully thou speak’st, or singest gay

  Such strains as might the senseless forest move,

  Ah then — turn each his eyes and ears away,

  Who feels himself unworthy of thy love!

  Grace can alone preserve him, e’er the dart

  Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

  AS ON A HILL-TOP RUDE

  As on a hill-top rude, when closing day

  Imbrowns the scene, some past’ral maiden fair

  Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,

  That scarcely can its tender bud display

  Borne from its native genial airs away,

  So, on my tongue these accents new and rare

  Are flow’rs exotic, which Love waters there,

  While thus, o sweetly scornful! I essay

  Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown,

  And Thames exchange for Arno’s fair domain;

  So Love has will’d, and oftimes Love has shown

  That what He wills he never wills in vain.

  Oh that this hard and steril breast might be

  To Him who plants from heav’n, a soil as free.

  CANZONE

  They mock my toil — the nymphs and am’rous swains —

  And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,

  Love-songs in language that thou little know’st?

  How dar’st thou risque to sing these foreign strains?

  Say truly. Find’st not oft thy purpose cross’d,

  And that thy fairest flow’rs, Here, fade and die?

  Then with pretence of admiration high —

  Thee other shores expect, and other tides,

  Rivers on whose grassy sides

  Her deathless laurel-leaf with which to bind

  Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;

  Why then this burthen, better far declin’d?

  Speak, Canzone! for me. — The Fair One said who guides

  My willing heart, and all my Fancy’s flights,

  ‘This is the language in which Love delights.’

  TO CHARLES DIODATI

  Charles — and I say it
wond’ring — thou must know

  That I who once assum’d a scornful air,

  And scoff’d at love, am fallen in his snare

  (Full many an upright man has fallen so)

  Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow

  Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare

  The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair;

  A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show

  The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;

  Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,

  And song, whose fascinating pow’r might bind,

  And from her sphere draw down the lab’ring Moon,

  With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill

  My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

  LADY! IT CANNOT BE, BUT THAT THINE EYES

  Lady! It cannot be, but that thine eyes

  Must be my sun, such radiance they display

  And strike me ev’n as Phoebus him, whose way

  Through torrid Libya’s sandy desert lies.

  Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise

  Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they,

  New as to me they are, I cannot say,

  But deem them, in the Lover’s language — sighs.

  Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,

  Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend

  To soften thine, they coldness soon congeals.

  While others to my tearful eyes ascend,

  Whence my sad nights in show’rs are ever drown’d,

  ‘Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.

  ENAMOUR’D, ARTLESS, YOUNG, ON FOREIGN GROUND

  Enamour’d, artless, young, on foreign ground,

  Uncertain whither from myself to fly,

  To thee, dear Lady, with an humble sigh

  Let me devote my heart, which I have found

  By certain proofs not few, intrepid, sound,

  Good, and addicted to conceptions high:

  When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,

  It rests in adamant self-wrapt around,

  As safe from envy, and from outrage rude,

  From hopes and fears, that vulgar minds abuse,

  As fond of genius, and fix’d fortitude,

  Of the resounding lyre, and every Muse.