It goes to London with a swifter pace,
Would better suit the carriage of your gift.
Returning downward with a pace as swift; 20
And therefore recommends it with this aim —
To save at least three days, — the price the same;
For though it will not carry or convey
For less than twelve pence, send whate’er you may,
For oysters bred upon the salt sea shore,
Pack’d in a barrel, they will charge no more.
News have I none that I can deign to write,
Save that it rain’d prodigiously last night:
And that ourselves were, at the seventh hour,
Caught in the first beginning of the show’r; 30
But walking, running, and with much ado,
Got home — just time enough to be wet through.
Yet both are well, and, wond’rous to be told,
Soused as we were, we yet have caught no cold;
And wishing just the same good hap to you,
We say, good Madam, and good Sir, Adieu!
LET BANISTER NOW LEND HIS AID
[Written in letter to Newton, Feb., 1782. Published by Southey, 1836.]
Let Banister now lend his aid
To furnish shoes for the Baker,
Who has put down a pump, with a lamp on its head,
For the use of the said Shoe-maker.
AGAINST INTERESTED LOVE
[Written 1782. Published from the copy among the Ash MSS. in Unpublished Poems of Cowper, 1900.]
Who does not blush when charged with selfish views?
Man boasts for man a principle of Love,
But each with God a diff’rent course pursues,
Short interest is the spring by which they move.
Oh blindness of our mean and stupid race!
The selfish and the sordid we despise,
And yet the Love of God incurs disgrace,
While Love to man is sounded to the skies. 8
How speaks the world? in Friendship’s sacred cause
A gen’rous service is its own reward —
A maxim all have stamp’d with their applause.
FRAGMENT: HE CAME TO HIM IN THE EXTASY OF PRAY’R
[Written (?). Published first here from the copy among the Ash MSS.]
HE came to him in the extasy of pray’r,
And pour’d his spirit in an angel, when
He led him by the hand into a room,
A sacred room, and made him sit and hear
How wonderful the lot design’d for him. 5
ONE PARSON, ONE POET, ONE BELMAN, ONE CRIER
[Written in letter to Unwin, Jan. 3, 1784. Published by Southey, 1836.]
ONE parson, one poet, one belman, one crier,
And the poor poet is our only ‘squire.
LINES WRITTEN ON A PAGE OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW, WHICH HAD SPOKEN OF MR. NEWTON’S OPINIONS AS CANT
[Written 1784. Published in The Record, Feb., 1867.]
These critics, who to faith no quarter grant,
But call it mere hypocrisy and cant
To make a just acknowledgment of praise,
And thanks to God for governing our ways,
Approve Confucius more, and Zoroaster,
Than Christ’s own servant, or that servant’s Master. 6
IMPROMPTU ON WRITING A LETTER WITHOUT HAVING ANYTHING TO SAY
[Written in letter to Unwin, 1786 (?) (MS. in British Museum). Published by Hayley, 1804.]
So have I seen the maids in vain
Tumble and teaze a tangled skein;
They bite the lip, they scratch the head,
And cry “the deuce is in the thread,”
They torture it, and jerk it round,
Till the right end at last is found,
Then wind and wind and wind away,
And what was work is changed to play. 8
LINES AFTER THE MANNER OF HOMER, DESCRIPTIVE OF THE OPENING OF A HAMPER
[Written in letter to Rose, Oct. 4, 1789. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
THE straw-stuff’d hamper with his ruthless steel
He open’d, cutting sheer th’ inserted cords
Which bound the lid and lip secure. Forth came
The rustling package first, bright straw of wheat,
Or oats, or barley; next a bottle green,
Throat-full, clear spirits the contents, distill’d
Drop after drop odorous, by the art
Of the fair mother of his friend — the Rose. 8
IT IS A MAXIM OF MUCH WEIGHT
[Written in letter to Bagot, Feb. 26, 1791. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
IT is a maxim of much weight,
Worth conning o’er and o’er —
He, who has Homer to translate,
Had need do nothing more.
LINES WRITTEN FOR INSERTION IN A COLLECTION OF HANDWRITINGS
AND SIGNATURES MADE BY MISS PATTY, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE
[Written March 6, 1792. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
IN vain to live from age to age
While modem bards endeavour,
I write my name in Patty’s page
And gain my point for ever.
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO STOLE A PEN FROM THE PRINCE OF WALES’S STANDISH
[Written in letter to Mrs. King, March 8, 1792. Published by Southey, 1836. There is a copy among the Ash MSS.]
Sweet nymph, who art, it seems, accused
Of stealing George’s pen,
Use it thyself, and having used,
E’en give it him again.
The Plume of his that has one scrap
Of thy good sense express’d,
Will be a Feather in his cap
Worth more than all his Crest. 8
ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION OF HOMER
[Written in letter to Hill, April 15, 1792. Published by Johnson, 1824.]
Cowper had sinn’d with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer. 8
AWAY GOES SUSSEX WILLIAM WITH HIS PACK
[Written in letter to Hayley, May 9, 1792. Published by T. Wright in Letters of Cowper, 1904.]
Away goes Sussex William with his pack
Of Buckingamian acres at his back,
And, as he trudges off with Weston, feels
The gentle Ouse cascading at his heels;
Then, Buckshire William lifting in his turn,
Beneath one arm Ouse gathers and his urn,
Beneath the other Eartham and her swain,
And hack to Weston, Weston bears again. 8
TO SIR JOHN FENN
[Written in letter to Johnson, May 20, 1792. Published from the copy among the Ash MSS. in Unpublished Poems of Cowper, 1900.]
Two omens seem propitious to my fame,
Your spouse embalms my verse, and you my name;
A name, which, all self-flatt’ry far apart,
Belongs to one who ven’rates in his heart
The wise and good, and therefore, of the few
Known by those titles, Sir, both yours and you. 6
ON THURLOW
[Written in letter to Hayley, July 4, 1792. Published by T. Wright in Letters of Cowper, 1904.]
THE Chancellor once was a tree full of fruit,
A tree in the summer and fann’d by the south,
He was great at the top and moist at the root,
And the good things he bore would drop into your mouth.
But since that his Lordship has quitted his place,
Steriles numerandus est arbores inter,
And now to solicit his favour and grace
Is searching your boughs for plums in the winter.
ON HIS PORTRAIT
[W
ritten in letter to Hayley, July 15, 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
ABBOT is painting me so true,
That (trust me) you would stare,
And hardly know, at the first view,
If I were here, or there.
ON HIS APPROACHING VISIT TO HAYLEY
[Written in letter to Hayley, July 29, 1792. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Through floods and flames to your retreat
I win my desp’rate way,
And when we meet, if e’er we meet,
Will echo your huzza!
ON HAYLEY’S PORTRAIT
[Written in letter to Hayley, Nov. 25, 1792. Published by T. Wright in Letters of Cowper, 1904.]
Achilles and Hector and Homer and all
When your face appears shall come down from the wall,
And mine, theme of many an angry remark
Shall then hide its pick-pocket looks in the dark.
ON RECEIVING HAYLEY’S PICTURE
[Written Dec. (?), 1792. Published by Johnson, 1815. There is a copy among the Ash MSS.]
IN language warm as could be breath’d or penn’d,
Thy picture speaks th’ original my friend;
Not by those looks that indicate thy mind —
They only speak thee friend of all mankind:
Expression here more soothing still I see,
That friend of all a partial friend to me. 6
THANKS FOR A GIFT OF PHEASANTS
[Written in letter to Johnson, Jan. 31, 1793. Published by Johnson, 1824.]
In Copeman’s ear this truth let Echo tell, —
“Immortal bards like mortal pheasants well
And when his clerkship’s out, I wish him herds
Of golden clients for his golden birds.
MY PENS ARE ALL SPLIT, AND MY INK-GLASS IS DRY
[Written in letter to Lady Hesketh, Feb. 10, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
MY pens are all split, and my ink-glass is dry;
Neither wit, common sense, nor ideas have I.
AN EPIGRAM IS BUT A FEEBLE THING
[Written in letter to Lady Hesketh, March, 1793. Published in Unpublished Poems of Cowper, 1900.]
AN epigram is but a feeble thing
With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.
AH BROTHER POET! SEND ME OF YOUR SHADE
[Written in letter to Hayley, July 7, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
Ah brother Poet! send me of your shade,
And bid the zephyrs hasten to my aid!
Or, like a worm unearth’d at noon, I go
Dispatch’d by sunshine, to the shades below.
EPIGRAMS ON HIS GARDEN SHED
[Written July 24 and Aug. 15, 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
I
Beware of building! I intended
Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended.
II
Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint
Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint,
That building and building a man may be driven
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in.
ON A LETTER OF MISS FANSHAWE
[Written in letter to Lady Hesketh, Aug. 29,1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
HER pen drops eloquence as sweet
As any muse’s tongue can speak;
Nor need a scribe like her regret
Her want of Latin or of Greek.
TO GRAVINA, ON HIS TRANSLATING THE AUTHOR’S SONG ON A ROSE INTO ITALIAN VERSE
[Written Aug., 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
MY Rose, Gravina, blooms anew,
And, steep’d not now in rain,
But in Castalian streams by you,
Will never fade again.
ON FLAXMAN’S PENELOPE
[Written Sept., 1793. Published by Hayley, 1803.]
The suitors sinn’d, but with a fair excuse,
Whom all this elegance might well seduce;
Nor can our censure on the husband fall,
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all.
ON RECEIVING HEYNE’S VIRGIL FROM HAYLEY
[Written Oct., 1793. Published by Johnson, 1815.]
I should have deem’d it once an effort vain
To sweeten more sweet Maro’s matchless strain,
But from that error now behold me free,
Since I receiv’d him as a gift from Thee.
EXPOSTULATION
Hast thou admitted with a blind, fond trust,
The lie that burn’d thy father’s bones to dust,
That first adjudg’d them heretics, then sent
Their souls to Heav’n, and curs’d them as they went?
The lie that Scripture strips of its disguise,
And execrates above all other lies,
The lie that claps a lock on mercy’s plan,
And gives the key to you infirm old man,
Who once insconc’d in apostolic chair
Is deified, and sits omniscient there;
The lie that knows no kindred, owns no friend
But him that makes its progress his chief end,
That having spilt much blood, makes that a boast,
And canonizes him that sheds the most?
Away with charity that sooths a lie,
And thrusts the truth with scorn and anger by;
Shame on the candour and the gracious smile
Bestow’d on them that light the martyrs pile,
While insolent disdain in frowns express’d,
Attends the tenets that endur’d that test:
Grant them the rights of men, and while they cease
To vex the peace of others, grant them peace,
But trusting bigots whose false zeal has made
Treach’ry their duty, thou art self-betray’d.
BENEFACTIONS
A POEM IN SHENSTONE’S MANNER
ADDRESSED TO MY DEAR COZ, APRIL 14, 1788.
THIS cap that so stately appears
With ribbon-bound tassel on high,
Which seems by the crest that it rears
Ambitious of brushing the sky;
This cap to my Harriet I owe;
She gave it, and gave me beside
A ribbon, worn out long ago,
With which in its youth it was tied.
This chair that I press at my ease,
With tresses of steeds that were black
Well cover’d, and wadded to please
The sitter, both bottom and back;
Thick-studded with bordering nails,
Smooth-headed and gilded and bright,
As Vesper, who when the day fails,
Adorns the dark forehead of Night:
These carpets, so soft to the foot,
Caledonia’s traffic and pride,
(Oh spare them, ye Knights of the Boot,
Dirt-splash’d in a cross-country ride!)
This table and mirror within,
Secure from collision and dust,
At which I oft shave cheek and chin,
And periwig nicely adjust:
This moveable structure of shelves,
Contrived both for splendour and use,
And charged with octavoes and twelves,
The gayest I had to produce;
Where flaming in scarlet and gold
My poems enchanted I view,
And hope in due time to behold
My Iliad and Odyssey too:
This china that decks the alcove,
Which mortals have named a beaufette,
But what the Gods call it above
Has ne’er been revealed to us yet:
These curtains that keep the room warm
Or cool, as the season demands;
Those stoves which for figure and form
Seem the labour of Mulciber’s hands:
That range, from which many a mess
Comes smoking the stomach to cheer;
That tub, — (you might bathe in
a less,)
Where malt is transform’d into beer:
These painted and unpainted chairs,
Those cushion’d, these curiously framed;
Yon bedding and bed above stairs,
With other things not to be named:
These items endear my abode,
Disposing me oft to reflect
By whom they were kindly bestowed,
Whom here I impatient expect.
But, hush! She a parent attends,
Whose dial-hand points to eleven,
Who, oldest and dearest of friends,
Waits only a passage to Heaven.
Then willingly want her awhile,
And, sweeping the chords of your lyre,
The gloom of her absence beguile
As now, with poetical fire.
’Tis yours, for true glory athirst,
In high-flying ditty to rise
On feathers renown’d from the first
For bearing a goose to the skies.
THE POEM TO LADY HESKETH
from Wm Cowper of Olney, on her
great Friendship in visiting him at that place, &
Removing him from thence to a neat & comfortable
William Cowper- Collected Poetical Works Page 80
