A poet's cat, sedate and graveAs poet well could wish to have,Was much addicted to inquireFor nooks to which she might retire,And where, secure as mouse in chink,She might repose, or sit and think.I know not where she caught the trick—Nature perhaps herself had cast herIn such a mould philosophique,Or else she learn'd it of her master.Sometimes ascending, debonnair,An apple tree, or lofty pear,Lodged with convenience in the fork,She watch'd the gardener at his work;Sometimes her ease and solace soughtIn an old empty watering pot:There, wanting nothing save a fan,To seem some nymph in her sedanApparell'd in exactest sort,And ready to be borne to court.But love of change, it seems, has placeNot only in our wiser race;Cats also feel, as well as we,That passion's force, and so did she.Her climbing, she began to find,Exposed her too much to the wind,And the old utensil of tinWas cold and comfortless within:She therefore wish'd instead of thoseSome place of more serene repose,Where neither cold might come, nor airToo rudely wanton with her hair,And sought it in the likeliest modeWithin her master's snug abode.A drawer, it chanced, at bottom linedWith linen of the softest kind,With such as merchants introduceFrom India, for the ladies' use,A drawer impending o'er the rest,Half open in the topmost chest,Of depth enough, and none to spare,Invited her to slumber there;Puss with delight beyond expression,Survey'd the scene, and took possession.Recumbent at her ease, ere long,And lull'd by her own humdrum song,She left the cares of life behind,And slept as she would sleep her last,When in came, housewifely inclined,The chambermaid, and shut it fast;By no malignity impell'd,But all unconscious whom it held.Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)"Was ever cat attended thus?The open drawer was left, I see,Merely to prove a nest for me,For soon as I was well composed,Then came the maid, and it was closed,How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!O what a delicate retreat!I will resign myself to restTill Sol, declining in the west,Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,Susan will come and let me out."The evening came, the sun descended,And Puss remain'd still unattended.The night roll'd tardily away,(With her indeed 'twas never day,)The sprightly morn her course renew'd,The evening grey again ensued,And puss came into mind no moreThan if entomb'd the day before.With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,She now presaged approaching doom,Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.That night, by chance, the poet watching,Heard an inexplicable scratching;His noble heart went pit-a-pat,And to himself he said—"What's that?"He drew the curtain at his side,And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.Yet, by his ear directed, guess'dSomething imprison'd in the chest,And, doubtful what, with prudent careResolved it should continue there.At length a voice which well he knew,A long and melancholy mew,Saluting his poetic ears,Consoled him and dispell'd his fears:He left his bed, he trod the floor,He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,The lowest first, and without stopThe rest in order to the top.For 'tis a truth well known to most,That whatsoever thing is lost,We seek it, ere it come to light,In every cranny but the right.Forth skipp'd the cat, not now repleteAs erst with airy self-conceit,Nor in her own fond apprehensionA theme for all the world's attention,But modest, sober, cured of allHer notions hyperbolical,And wishing for a place of restAny thing rather than a chest.Then stepp'd the poet into bedWith this reflection in his head:
A poet's cat, sedate and graveAs poet well could wish to have,Was much addicted to inquireFor nooks to which she might retire,And where, secure as mouse in chink,She might repose, or sit and think.I know not where she caught the trick—Nature perhaps herself had cast herIn such a mould philosophique,Or else she learn'd it of her master.Sometimes ascending, debonnair,An apple tree, or lofty pear,Lodged with convenience in the fork,She watch'd the gardener at his work;Sometimes her ease and solace soughtIn an old empty watering pot:There, wanting nothing save a fan,To seem some nymph in her sedanApparell'd in exactest sort,And ready to be borne to court.But love of change, it seems, has placeNot only in our wiser race;Cats also feel, as well as we,That passion's force, and so did she.Her climbing, she began to find,Exposed her too much to the wind,And the old utensil of tinWas cold and comfortless within:She therefore wish'd instead of thoseSome place of more serene repose,Where neither cold might come, nor airToo rudely wanton with her hair,And sought it in the likeliest modeWithin her master's snug abode.A drawer, it chanced, at bottom linedWith linen of the softest kind,With such as merchants introduceFrom India, for the ladies' use,A drawer impending o'er the rest,Half open in the topmost chest,Of depth enough, and none to spare,Invited her to slumber there;Puss with delight beyond expression,Survey'd the scene, and took possession.Recumbent at her ease, ere long,And lull'd by her own humdrum song,She left the cares of life behind,And slept as she would sleep her last,When in came, housewifely inclined,The chambermaid, and shut it fast;By no malignity impell'd,But all unconscious whom it held.Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss)"Was ever cat attended thus?The open drawer was left, I see,Merely to prove a nest for me,For soon as I was well composed,Then came the maid, and it was closed,How smooth these 'kerchiefs, and how sweet!O what a delicate retreat!I will resign myself to restTill Sol, declining in the west,Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,Susan will come and let me out."The evening came, the sun descended,And Puss remain'd still unattended.The night roll'd tardily away,(With her indeed 'twas never day,)The sprightly morn her course renew'd,The evening grey again ensued,And puss came into mind no moreThan if entomb'd the day before.With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,She now presaged approaching doom,Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.That night, by chance, the poet watching,Heard an inexplicable scratching;His noble heart went pit-a-pat,And to himself he said—"What's that?"He drew the curtain at his side,And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.Yet, by his ear directed, guess'dSomething imprison'd in the chest,And, doubtful what, with prudent careResolved it should continue there.At length a voice which well he knew,A long and melancholy mew,Saluting his poetic ears,Consoled him and dispell'd his fears:He left his bed, he trod the floor,He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,The lowest first, and without stopThe rest in order to the top.For 'tis a truth well known to most,That whatsoever thing is lost,We seek it, ere it come to light,In every cranny but the right.Forth skipp'd the cat, not now repleteAs erst with airy self-conceit,Nor in her own fond apprehensionA theme for all the world's attention,But modest, sober, cured of allHer notions hyperbolical,And wishing for a place of restAny thing rather than a chest.Then stepp'd the poet into bedWith this reflection in his head:
Beware of too sublime a senseOf your own worth and consequence:The man who dreams himself so great,And his importance of such weight,That all around, in all that's done,Must move and act for him alone,Will learn in school of tribulationThe folly of his expectation.
Beware of too sublime a senseOf your own worth and consequence:The man who dreams himself so great,And his importance of such weight,That all around, in all that's done,Must move and act for him alone,Will learn in school of tribulationThe folly of his expectation.
1791.
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,Of numerous charms possess'd,A warm dispute once chanced to wage,Whose temper was the best.The worth of each had been completeHad both alike been mild:But one, although her smile was sweet,Frown'd oftener than she smiled.And in her humour, when she frown'd,Would raise her voice, and roar,And shake with fury to the groundThe garland that she wore.The other was of gentler cast,From all such frenzy clear,Her frowns were seldom known to last,And never proved severe.To poets of renown in songThe nymphs referr'd the cause,Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong,And gave misplaced applause.They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,The flippant and the scold,And though she changed her mood so oft,That failing left untold.No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,Or so resolved to err—In short the charms her sister hadThey lavish'd all on her.Then thus the god, whom fondly theyTheir great inspirer call,Was heard, one genial summer's day,To reprimand them all."Since thus ye have combined," he said,"My favourite nymph to slight,Adorning May, that peevish maid,With June's undoubted right,"The minx shall, for your folly's sake,Still prove herself a shrew,Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,And pinch your noses blue."
Two nymphs, both nearly of an age,Of numerous charms possess'd,A warm dispute once chanced to wage,Whose temper was the best.
The worth of each had been completeHad both alike been mild:But one, although her smile was sweet,Frown'd oftener than she smiled.
And in her humour, when she frown'd,Would raise her voice, and roar,And shake with fury to the groundThe garland that she wore.
The other was of gentler cast,From all such frenzy clear,Her frowns were seldom known to last,And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in songThe nymphs referr'd the cause,Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong,And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle call'd, and kind and soft,The flippant and the scold,And though she changed her mood so oft,That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,Or so resolved to err—In short the charms her sister hadThey lavish'd all on her.
Then thus the god, whom fondly theyTheir great inspirer call,Was heard, one genial summer's day,To reprimand them all.
"Since thus ye have combined," he said,"My favourite nymph to slight,Adorning May, that peevish maid,With June's undoubted right,
"The minx shall, for your folly's sake,Still prove herself a shrew,Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,And pinch your noses blue."
May, 1791.
Survivor sole, and hardly such, of allThat once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,(Since which I number threescore winters past,)A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,As now, and with excoriate forks deform,Relics of ages! could a mind, imbuedWith truth from heaven, created thing adore,I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.It seems idolatry with some excuse,When our forefather druids in their oaksImagined sanctity. The conscience, yetUnpurified by an authentic actOf amnesty, the meed of blood divine,Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloomOf thickest shades, like Adam after tasteOf fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ballWhich babes might play with; and the thievish jay,Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughsAnd all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soilDesign'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, preparedThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy searchOf argument, employ'd too oft amiss,Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clodSwelling with vegetative force instinct,Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins,Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact;A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,And, all the elements thy puny growthFostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, could'st thou speak,As in Dodona once thy kindred treesOracular, I would not curious askThe future, best unknown, but at thy mouthInquisitive, the less ambiguous past.By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,The clock of history, facts and eventsTiming more punctual, unrecorded factsRecovering, and misstated setting right—Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again!Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;And time hath made thee what thou art—a caveFor owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocksThat grazed it stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm.No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.While thus through all the stages thou hast push'dOf treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'dSlow after century, a giant bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd rootUpheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'dWith prominent wens globose—till at the lastThe rottenness, which time is charged to inflictOn other mighty ones, found also thee.What exhibitions various hath the worldWitness'd of mutability in allThat we account most durable below?Change is the diet on which all subsist,Created changeable, and change at last,Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heatTransmitting cloudless, and the solar beamNow quenching in a boundless sea of clouds—Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought,Invigorate by turns the springs of lifeIn all that live, plant, animal, and man,And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works,Delight in agitation, yet sustainThe force that agitates not unimpair'd;But worn by frequent impulse, to the causeOf their best tone their dissolution owe.Thought cannot spend itself, comparing stillThe great and little of thy lot, thy growthFrom almost nullity into a stateOf matchless grandeur, and declension thence,Slow, into such magnificent decay.Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a flyCould shake thee to the root—and time has beenWhen tempests could not. At thy firmest ageThou hadst within thy bole solid contentsThat might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deckOf some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,The shipwright's darling treasure, didst presentTo the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold,Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load![833]But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier daysOaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supplyThe bottomless demands of contest wagedFor senatorial honours. Thus to timeThe task was left to whittle thee awayWith his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved,Achieved a labour which had, far and wide,By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient selfPossessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seemsA huge throat calling to the clouds for drink,Which it would give in rivulets to thy root,Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'stThe feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite.Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock,A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, claspThe stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yetFails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,Though all the superstructure, by the toothPulverized of venality, a shellStands now, and semblance only of itself!Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them offLong since, and rovers of the forest wildWith bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have leftA splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white;And some memorial none where once they grew.Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forthProof not contemptible of what she can,Even where death predominates. The springFinds thee not less alive to her sweet forceThan yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood,So much thy juniors, who their birth receivedHalf a millennium since the date of thine.But since, although well-qualified by ageTo teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voiceMay be expected from thee, seated hereOn thy distorted root, with hearers none,Or prompter, save the scene, I will performMyself the oracle, and will discourseIn my own ear such matter as I may.One man alone, the father of us all,Drew not his life from woman; never gazed,With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,Nor owed articulation to his ear;But, moulded by his Maker into manAt once, upstood intelligent, survey'dAll creatures, with precision understoodTheir purport, uses, properties, assign'dTo each his name significant, and, fill'dWith love and wisdom, render'd back to HeavenIn praise harmonious the first air he drew.He was excused the penalties of dullMinority. No tutor charged his handWith the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mindWith problems. History, not wanted yet,Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course,Eventful, should supply her with a theme....
Survivor sole, and hardly such, of allThat once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth,(Since which I number threescore winters past,)A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps,As now, and with excoriate forks deform,Relics of ages! could a mind, imbuedWith truth from heaven, created thing adore,I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee.It seems idolatry with some excuse,When our forefather druids in their oaksImagined sanctity. The conscience, yetUnpurified by an authentic actOf amnesty, the meed of blood divine,Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloomOf thickest shades, like Adam after tasteOf fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ballWhich babes might play with; and the thievish jay,Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'dThe auburn nut that held thee, swallowing downThy yet close-folded latitude of boughsAnd all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rainsBeneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soilDesign'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer,With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, preparedThe soft receptacle, in which, secure,Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can,Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy searchOf argument, employ'd too oft amiss,Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clodSwelling with vegetative force instinct,Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled twins,Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact;A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,And, all the elements thy puny growthFostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, could'st thou speak,As in Dodona once thy kindred treesOracular, I would not curious askThe future, best unknown, but at thy mouthInquisitive, the less ambiguous past.By thee I might correct, erroneous oft,The clock of history, facts and eventsTiming more punctual, unrecorded factsRecovering, and misstated setting right—Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again!Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods;And time hath made thee what thou art—a caveFor owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughsO'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocksThat grazed it stood beneath that ample copeUncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm.No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlivedThy popularity, and art become(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thingForgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.While thus through all the stages thou hast push'dOf treeship—first a seedling, hid in grass;Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'dSlow after century, a giant bulkOf girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd rootUpheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'dWith prominent wens globose—till at the lastThe rottenness, which time is charged to inflictOn other mighty ones, found also thee.What exhibitions various hath the worldWitness'd of mutability in allThat we account most durable below?Change is the diet on which all subsist,Created changeable, and change at last,Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heatTransmitting cloudless, and the solar beamNow quenching in a boundless sea of clouds—Calm and alternate storm, moisture, and drought,Invigorate by turns the springs of lifeIn all that live, plant, animal, and man,And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads,Fine passing thought, e'en in their coarsest works,Delight in agitation, yet sustainThe force that agitates not unimpair'd;But worn by frequent impulse, to the causeOf their best tone their dissolution owe.Thought cannot spend itself, comparing stillThe great and little of thy lot, thy growthFrom almost nullity into a stateOf matchless grandeur, and declension thence,Slow, into such magnificent decay.Time was when, settling on thy leaf, a flyCould shake thee to the root—and time has beenWhen tempests could not. At thy firmest ageThou hadst within thy bole solid contentsThat might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deckOf some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,The shipwright's darling treasure, didst presentTo the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold,Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load![833]But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier daysOaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supplyThe bottomless demands of contest wagedFor senatorial honours. Thus to timeThe task was left to whittle thee awayWith his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge,Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more,Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved,Achieved a labour which had, far and wide,By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient selfPossessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seemsA huge throat calling to the clouds for drink,Which it would give in rivulets to thy root,Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'stThe feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite.Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock,A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, claspThe stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yetFails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,Though all the superstructure, by the toothPulverized of venality, a shellStands now, and semblance only of itself!Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them offLong since, and rovers of the forest wildWith bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have leftA splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white;And some memorial none where once they grew.Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forthProof not contemptible of what she can,Even where death predominates. The springFinds thee not less alive to her sweet forceThan yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood,So much thy juniors, who their birth receivedHalf a millennium since the date of thine.But since, although well-qualified by ageTo teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voiceMay be expected from thee, seated hereOn thy distorted root, with hearers none,Or prompter, save the scene, I will performMyself the oracle, and will discourseIn my own ear such matter as I may.One man alone, the father of us all,Drew not his life from woman; never gazed,With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,Nor owed articulation to his ear;But, moulded by his Maker into manAt once, upstood intelligent, survey'dAll creatures, with precision understoodTheir purport, uses, properties, assign'dTo each his name significant, and, fill'dWith love and wisdom, render'd back to HeavenIn praise harmonious the first air he drew.He was excused the penalties of dullMinority. No tutor charged his handWith the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mindWith problems. History, not wanted yet,Lean'd on her elbow, watching time, whose course,Eventful, should supply her with a theme....
1791.
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.
Whence is it that, amazed, I hearFrom yonder wither'd spray,This foremost morn of all the year,The melody of May?And why, since thousands would be proudOf such a favour shown,Am I selected from the crowdTo witness it alone?Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,For that I also longHave practised in the groves like thee,Though not like thee in song?Or sing'st thou, rather, under forceOf some divine command,Commission'd to presage a courseOf happier days at hand!Thrice welcome then! for many a longAnd joyless year have I,As thou to-day, put forth my songBeneath a wintry sky.But thee no wintry skies can harm,Who only need'st to singTo make e'en January charm,And every season spring.
Whence is it that, amazed, I hearFrom yonder wither'd spray,This foremost morn of all the year,The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proudOf such a favour shown,Am I selected from the crowdTo witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,For that I also longHave practised in the groves like thee,Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou, rather, under forceOf some divine command,Commission'd to presage a courseOf happier days at hand!
Thrice welcome then! for many a longAnd joyless year have I,As thou to-day, put forth my songBeneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,Who only need'st to singTo make e'en January charm,And every season spring.
1792.
OF MISS PATTY MORE'S, SISTER OF HANNAH MORE.
In vain to live from age to ageWhile modern bards endeavour,I write my name in Patty's page,And gain my point for ever.
In vain to live from age to ageWhile modern bards endeavour,I write my name in Patty's page,And gain my point for ever.
W. COWPER.March 6, 1792.
TO WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'dFanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'dFrom exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the earOf Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; [pauseHope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold cautionAnd weave delay, the better hour is nearThat shall remunerate thy toils severe,By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and loveFrom all the just on earth and all the blest above.
Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain,Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'dFanatic, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'dFrom exile, public sale, and slavery's chain.Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd,Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain.Thou hast achieved a part; hast gain'd the earOf Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; [pauseHope smiles, joy springs, and, though cold cautionAnd weave delay, the better hour is nearThat shall remunerate thy toils severe,By peace for Afric, fenced with British laws.Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and loveFrom all the just on earth and all the blest above.
April 16, 1792.
PRINTED IN THE NORTHAMPTON MERCURY.
To purify their wine, some people bleedA lamb into the barrel, and succeed;No nostrum, planters say, is half so goodTo make fine sugar as a negro's blood.Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs,'Tis in the blood of innocence alone—Good cause why planters never try their own.
To purify their wine, some people bleedA lamb into the barrel, and succeed;No nostrum, planters say, is half so goodTo make fine sugar as a negro's blood.Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things,And thence perhaps this wondrous virtue springs,'Tis in the blood of innocence alone—Good cause why planters never try their own.
OF CECIL STREET, LONDON.
Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mindPleasing requital in my verse may find;Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,Immortalizing names which else had died:And O! could I command the glittering wealthWith which sick kings are glad to purchase health!Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,Were in the power of verse like mine to give,I would not recompense his arts with less,Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.Friend of my friend![834]I love thee, though unknown,And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
Austin! accept a grateful verse from me,The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee.Loved by the muses, thy ingenuous mindPleasing requital in my verse may find;Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of Time aside,Immortalizing names which else had died:And O! could I command the glittering wealthWith which sick kings are glad to purchase health!Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live,Were in the power of verse like mine to give,I would not recompense his arts with less,Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress.Friend of my friend![834]I love thee, though unknown,And boldly call thee, being his, my own.
May 26, 1792.
THE SECOND PART: ON HER MARRIAGE TO GEORGE COURTENAY, ESQ.
Believe it or not, as you choose,The doctrine is certainly true,That the future is known to the muse,And poets are oracles too.I did but express a desireTo see Catharina at home,At the side of my friend George's fire,And lo—she is actually come!Such prophecy some may despise,But the wish of a poet and friendPerhaps is approved in the skies,And therefore attains to its end.'Twas a wish that flew ardently forthFrom a bosom effectually warm'dWith the talents, the graces, and worthOf the person for whom it was form'd.Maria[835]would leave us, I knew,To the grief and regret of us all,But less to our grief, could we viewCatharina the Queen of the Hall.And therefore I wish'd as I did,And therefore this union of hands:Not a whisper was heard to forbid,But all cry—Amen—to the bans.Since, therefore, I seem to incurNo danger of wishing in vainWhen making good wishes for her,I will e'en to my wishes again—With one I have made her a wife,And now I will try with another,Which I cannot suppress for my life—How soon I can make her a mother.
Believe it or not, as you choose,The doctrine is certainly true,That the future is known to the muse,And poets are oracles too.I did but express a desireTo see Catharina at home,At the side of my friend George's fire,And lo—she is actually come!
Such prophecy some may despise,But the wish of a poet and friendPerhaps is approved in the skies,And therefore attains to its end.'Twas a wish that flew ardently forthFrom a bosom effectually warm'dWith the talents, the graces, and worthOf the person for whom it was form'd.
Maria[835]would leave us, I knew,To the grief and regret of us all,But less to our grief, could we viewCatharina the Queen of the Hall.And therefore I wish'd as I did,And therefore this union of hands:Not a whisper was heard to forbid,But all cry—Amen—to the bans.
Since, therefore, I seem to incurNo danger of wishing in vainWhen making good wishes for her,I will e'en to my wishes again—With one I have made her a wife,And now I will try with another,Which I cannot suppress for my life—How soon I can make her a mother.
June, 1792.
A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON.
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim.No sycophant, although of spaniel race,And though no hound, a martyr to the chace—Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;This record of his fate exulting view,He died worn out with vain pursuit of you."Yes,"—the indignant shade of Fop replies—"And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies."
Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name,Here moulders one whose bones some honour claim.No sycophant, although of spaniel race,And though no hound, a martyr to the chace—Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice,Your haunts no longer echo to his voice;This record of his fate exulting view,He died worn out with vain pursuit of you."Yes,"—the indignant shade of Fop replies—"And worn with vain pursuit, man also dies."
August, 1792.
ON HIS PICTURE OF ME IN CRAYONS,
Drawn at Eartham in the 61st year of my age, and in the months of August and September, 1792.
Romney, expert infallibly to traceOn chart or canvass, not the form aloneAnd semblance, but however faintly shown,The mind's impression too on every face—With strokes that time ought never to erase,Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I ownThe subject worthless, I have never knownThe artist shining with superior grace.But this I mark—that symptoms none of woeIn thy incomparable work appear.Well—I am satisfied it should be so,Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou seeWhen I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
Romney, expert infallibly to traceOn chart or canvass, not the form aloneAnd semblance, but however faintly shown,The mind's impression too on every face—With strokes that time ought never to erase,Thou hast so pencill'd mine, that though I ownThe subject worthless, I have never knownThe artist shining with superior grace.
But this I mark—that symptoms none of woeIn thy incomparable work appear.Well—I am satisfied it should be so,Since, on maturer thought, the cause is clear;
For in my looks what sorrow couldst thou seeWhen I was Hayley's guest, and sat to thee?
October, 1792.
If John marries Mary, and Mary alone,'Tis a very good match between Mary and John.Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!It can't be a match—'tis a bundle of matches.
If John marries Mary, and Mary alone,'Tis a very good match between Mary and John.Should John wed a score, oh, the claws and the scratches!It can't be a match—'tis a bundle of matches.
OF CHICHELEY.
Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,Till all who knew him follow to the skies.Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep—And justly—few shall ever him transcendAs husband, parent, brother, master, friend.
Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man lies,Till all who knew him follow to the skies.Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep;Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants weep—And justly—few shall ever him transcendAs husband, parent, brother, master, friend.
April, 1793.
On receiving from her a network purse made by herself.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,When I was young, and thou no moreThan plaything for a nurse,I danced and fondled on my knee,A kitten both in size and glee,I thank thee for my purse.Gold pays the worth of all things here;But not of love;—that gem's too dearFor richest rogues to win it;I, therefore, as a proof of love,Esteem thy present far aboveThe best things kept within it.
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore,When I was young, and thou no moreThan plaything for a nurse,I danced and fondled on my knee,A kitten both in size and glee,I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here;But not of love;—that gem's too dearFor richest rogues to win it;I, therefore, as a proof of love,Esteem thy present far aboveThe best things kept within it.
May 4, 1793.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,Built as it has been in our waning years,A rest afforded to our weary feet,Preliminary to—the last retreat.
This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears,Built as it has been in our waning years,A rest afforded to our weary feet,Preliminary to—the last retreat.
May, 1793.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,I may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings.But thou hast little need. There is a bookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,A chronicle of actions just and bright;There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,I may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings.But thou hast little need. There is a bookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
May, 1793.
On his presenting me with an antique bust of Homer.
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!When I behold the fruit of thy regard,The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:Joy too and grief—much joy that there should be,Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to rewardWith some applause my bold attempt and hard,Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne,Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
Kinsman beloved, and as a son, by me!When I behold the fruit of thy regard,The sculptured form of my old favourite bard,I reverence feel for him, and love for thee:Joy too and grief—much joy that there should be,Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to rewardWith some applause my bold attempt and hard,Which others scorn; critics by courtesy.The grief is this, that, sunk in Homer's mine,I lose my precious years, now soon to fail,Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine,Proves dross when balanced in the Christian scale.Be wiser thou—like our forefather Donne,Seek heavenly wealth, and work for God alone.
May, 1793.
On his arriving at Cambridge wet when no rain had fallen there.
If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he foundWhile moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,Might fitly represent the church, endow'dWith heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry:Heaven grant us half the omen—may we seeNot drought on others, but much dew on thee!
If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he foundWhile moisture none refresh'd the herbs around,Might fitly represent the church, endow'dWith heavenly gifts to heathens not allow'd;In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high,Thy locks were wet when others' locks were dry:Heaven grant us half the omen—may we seeNot drought on others, but much dew on thee!
May, 1793.
A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,Well fed, and at his ease,Should wiser be than to pursueEach trifle that he sees.But you have kill'd a tiny bird,Which flew not till to-day,Against my orders, whom you heardForbidding you the prey.Nor did you kill that you might eatAnd ease a doggish pain,For him, though chased with furious heat,You left where he was slain.Nor was he of the thievish sort,Or one whom blood allures,But innocent was all his sportWhom you have torn for yours.My dog! what remedy remains,Since teach you all I can,I see you, after all my pains,So much resemble man?
A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,Well fed, and at his ease,Should wiser be than to pursueEach trifle that he sees.
But you have kill'd a tiny bird,Which flew not till to-day,Against my orders, whom you heardForbidding you the prey.
Nor did you kill that you might eatAnd ease a doggish pain,For him, though chased with furious heat,You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,Or one whom blood allures,But innocent was all his sportWhom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,Since teach you all I can,I see you, after all my pains,So much resemble man?
July 15, 1793.
Sir, when I flew to seize the birdIn spite of your command,A louder voice than yours I heard,And harder to withstand.You cried—Forbear!—but in my breastA mightier cried—Proceed!—'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behestImpell'd me to the deed.Yet, much as nature I respect,I ventured once to break(As you perhaps may recollect)Her precept for your sake;And when your linnet on a day,Passing his prison door,Had flutter'd all his strength away,And panting press'd the floor.Well knowing him a sacred thing,Not destined to my tooth,I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,And lick'd the feathers smooth.Let my obedience then excuseMy disobedience now,Nor some reproof yourself refuseFrom your aggrieved bow-wow:If killing birds be such a crime,(Which I can hardly see,)What think you, Sir, of killing timeWith verse address'd to me!
Sir, when I flew to seize the birdIn spite of your command,A louder voice than yours I heard,And harder to withstand.
You cried—Forbear!—but in my breastA mightier cried—Proceed!—'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behestImpell'd me to the deed.
Yet, much as nature I respect,I ventured once to break(As you perhaps may recollect)Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,Passing his prison door,Had flutter'd all his strength away,And panting press'd the floor.
Well knowing him a sacred thing,Not destined to my tooth,I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,And lick'd the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuseMy disobedience now,Nor some reproof yourself refuseFrom your aggrieved bow-wow:
If killing birds be such a crime,(Which I can hardly see,)What think you, Sir, of killing timeWith verse address'd to me!
Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,Than any built of stone or yet of wood,For back of royal elephant to bear!O for permission from the skies to share,Much to my own, though little to thy good,With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)A partnership of literary ware!But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforthTo drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth!But what his commentator's happiest praise?That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,Which they who need them use, and then despise.
Dear architect of fine chateaux in air,Worthier to stand for ever, if they could,Than any built of stone or yet of wood,For back of royal elephant to bear!
O for permission from the skies to share,Much to my own, though little to thy good,With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)A partnership of literary ware!
But I am bankrupt now; and doom'd henceforthTo drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd birth!But what his commentator's happiest praise?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,Which they who need them use, and then despise.
June 29, 1793.
To Stanzas addressed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Catharine Fanshawe, in returning a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent to her, on condition she should neither show it, nor take a copy.
To be remember'd thus is fame,And in the first degree;And did the few like her the same,The press might sleep for me.So Homer in the memory storedOf many a Grecian belle,Was once preserved—a richer hoard,But never lodged so well.
To be remember'd thus is fame,And in the first degree;And did the few like her the same,The press might sleep for me.
So Homer in the memory storedOf many a Grecian belle,Was once preserved—a richer hoard,But never lodged so well.
1793.
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.
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.
September, 1793.
On his translating the Author's Song on a Rose into Italian Verse.
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,And steep'd not now in rain,But in Castilian streams by you,Will never fade again.
My rose, Gravina, blooms anew,And steep'd not now in rain,But in Castilian streams by you,Will never fade again.
1793.
FOR THE TOMB OF MR. HAMILTON.
Pause here, and think: a monitory rhymeDemands one moment of thy fleeting time.Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;Seems it to say—"Health here has long to reign?"Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eyeThat beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,Anticipates a day it never sees;And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloudExclaims "Prepare thee for an early shroud."
Pause here, and think: a monitory rhymeDemands one moment of thy fleeting time.Consult life's silent clock, thy bounding vein;Seems it to say—"Health here has long to reign?"Hast thou the vigour of thy youth? an eyeThat beams delight? a heart untaught to sigh?Yet fear. Youth, ofttimes healthful and at ease,Anticipates a day it never sees;And many a tomb, like Hamilton's, aloudExclaims "Prepare thee for an early shroud."
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack hare.Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.His diet was of wheaten breadAnd milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins' russet peel,And, when his juicy salads fail'd,Sliced carrot pleased him well.A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.Eight years and five round rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.I kept him for his humour's sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.But now beneath this walnut shadeHe finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.He, still more aged, feels the shocks,From which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney's box,Must soon partake his grave.
Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;
Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack hare.
Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten breadAnd milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins' russet peel,And, when his juicy salads fail'd,Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.
But now beneath this walnut shadeHe finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,From which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney's box,Must soon partake his grave.