English Poets of the Eighteenth Century · Chapter 69William Cowper
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From TABLE TALK
Pity Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring where'er she deigned to stray, And every muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely penned, But unattired in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undressed, Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, A wintry figure, like a withered thorn.
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped, Hackneyed and worn to the last flimsy thread; Satire has long since done his best, and curst And loathsome Ribaldry has done his worst; Fancy has sported all her powers away In tales, in trifles, and in children's play; And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, Touched with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre, And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music on his tongue, That He who died below, and reigns above, Inspires the song, and that his name is Love.
From CONVERSATION
Dubious is such a scrupulous good man,— Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can. He would not with a peremptory tone Assert the nose upon his face his own; With hesitation admirably slow, He humbly hopes—presumes—it may be so. His evidence, if he were called by law To swear to some enormity he saw, For want of prominence and just relief, Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. Through constant dread of giving truth offence, He ties up all his hearers in suspense; Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not; What he remembers seems to have forgot; His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall, Centering at last in having none at all. Yet though he tease and baulk your listening ear, He makes one useful point exceeding clear; Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme A sceptic in philosophy may seem, Reduced to practice, his beloved rule Would only prove him a consummate fool; Useless in him alike both brain and speech, Fate having placed all truth above his reach; His ambiguities his total sum, He might as well be blind and deaf and dumb.
Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay, Their want of light and intellect supplied By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride: Without the means of knowing right from wrong, They always are decisive, clear, and strong; Where others toil with philosophic force, Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course, Flings at your head conviction in the lump, And gains remote conclusions at a jump; Their own defect, invisible to them, Seen in another, they at once condemn, And, though self-idolized in every case, Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. The cause is plain and not to be denied, The proud are always most provoked by pride; Few competitions but engender spite, And those the most where neither has a right.
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does. Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery glass And Heaven reflected in her face.
O happy shades! to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if anything could please.
But fixed unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness everywhere, And slights the season and the scene.
For all that pleased in wood or lawn While Peace possessed these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers.
The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley, musing, slow, They seek like me the secret shade, But not, like me, to nourish woe!
Me, fruitful scenes and prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.
From THE TASK
[Love of Familiar Scenes]
Scenes that soothed Or charmed me young, no longer young, I find Still soothing and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast locked in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirmed by long experience of thy worth And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, Witness a joy that them hast doubled long. Thou knowest my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all.
How oft upon yon eminence our pace Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew, While admiration feeding at the eye, And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene. Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned The distant plough slow moving, and beside His labouring team, that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain diminished to a boy. Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There, fast rooted in their bank, Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut; While far beyond, and overthwart the stream, That, as with molten glass, inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds; Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedge-row beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily viewed, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years: Praise justly due to those that I describe.
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not coloured like his own, and, having power T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey, Lands intersected by a narrow frith. Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave And wear the bonds than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home: then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime
Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too, and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all-essenced o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet, Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight,—when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children; praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen Each in his field of glory, one in arms, And one in council—Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling Victory that moment won, And Chatham, heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Chatham still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet's force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved.
Those suns are set. Oh, rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements, and despair of new.
I was a stricken deer that left the herd Long since; with many an arrow deep infixed My panting side was charged, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by One who had Himself Been hurt by th' archers. In His side He bore, And in His hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene, With few associates, and not wishing more. Here much I ruminate, as much I may, With other views of men and manners now Than once, and others of a life to come. I see that all are wanderers, gone astray Each in his own delusions; they are lost In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed And never won; dream after dream ensues, And still they dream that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed: rings the world With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind. And add two-thirds of the remaining half, And find the total of their hopes and fears Dreams, empty dreams.
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright, He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spattered boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks, News from all nations lumbering at his back, True to his charge, the close-packed load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn, And, having dropped th' expected bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch, Cold and yet cheerful; messenger of grief Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some, To him indifferent whether grief or joy. Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks, Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet With tears that trickled down the writers cheeks Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. But oh th' important budget, ushered in With such heart-shaking music, who can say What are its tidings? Have our troops awaked, Or do they still, as if with opium drugged, Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave? Is India free, and does she wear her plumed And jewelled turban with a smile of peace, Or do we grind her still? The grand debate, The popular harangue, the tart reply, The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit, And the loud laugh—I long to know them all; I burn to set th' imprisoned wranglers free, And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round; And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Then shame to manhood, and opprobrious more To France than all her losses and defeats Old or of later date, by sea or land, Her house of bondage worse than that of old Which God avenged on Pharaoh—the Bastile! Ye horrid towers, th' abode of broken hearts, Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair, That monarchs have supplied from age to age With music such as suits their sovereign ears— The sighs and groans of miserable men, There's not an English heart that would not leap To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know That even our enemies, so oft employed In forging chains for us, themselves were free: For he that values liberty, confines His zeal for her predominance within No narrow bounds; her cause engages him Wherever pleaded; 'tis the cause of man. There dwell the most forlorn of human kind, Immured though unaccused, condemned untried. Cruelly spared, and hopeless of escape. There, like the visionary emblem seen By him of Babylon, life stands a stump, And filleted about with hoops of brass, Still lives, though all its pleasant boughs are gone. To count the hour-bell and expect no change; And ever as the sullen sound is heard, Still to reflect that though a joyless note To him whose moments all have one dull pace, Ten thousand rovers in the world at large Account it music—that it summons some To theatre, or jocund feast, or ball; The wearied hireling finds it a release From labour; and the lover, who has chid Its long delay, feels every welcome stroke Upon his heart-strings trembling with delight: To fly for refuge from distracting thought To such amusements as ingenious woe Contrives, hard-shifting and without her tools— To read engraven on the muddy walls, In staggering types, his predecessor's tale, A sad memorial, and subjoin his own; To turn purveyor to an overgorged And bloated spider, till the pampered pest Is made familiar, watches his approach, Comes at his call, and serves him for a friend; To wear out time in numbering to and fro The studs that thick emboss his iron door, Then downward and then upward, then aslant And then alternate, with a sickly hope By dint of change to give his tasteless task Some relish, till, the sum exactly found In all directions, he begins again:— Oh comfortless existence! hemmed around With woes, which who that suffers would not kneel And beg for exile or the pangs of death? That man should thus encroach on fellow-man, Abridge him of his just and native rights, Eradicate him, tear him from his hold Upon th' endearments of domestic life And social, nip his fruitfulness and use, And doom him for perhaps an heedless word To barrenness and solitude and tears, Moves indignation; makes the name of king (Of king whom such prerogative can please) As dreadful as the Manichean god, Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.
The night was winter in his roughest mood, The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, And through the trees I view the embattled tower Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the withered leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men, Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 'Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwinked. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, The total grist unsifted, husks and all. But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, Not shy as in the world, and to be won By slow solicitation, seize at once The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
I would not enter on my list of friends, Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility, the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent, step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarned, Will tread aside and let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose—th' alcove, The chamber, or refectory,—may die: A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so when, held within their proper bounds And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field: There they are privileged; and he that hunts Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs th' economy of Nature's realm, Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.
O that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!' The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian revery, A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah, that maternal smile! it answers 'Yes,' I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was: where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more: Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet, mantle warm, and velvet-capped, 'Tis now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and, more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this, still legible on memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may, Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no—what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed, Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,' And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed, Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he, That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise— The son of parents passed into the skies!
And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done: By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again, To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft— Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
The twentieth year is well-nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary!
But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign, Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine, My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, That now at every step thou movest Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest, My Mary!
And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!
Obscurest night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home forever left.
No-braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again,
Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had failed To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford; And such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delayed not to bestow. But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repelled; And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'
At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear: And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date: But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.