Poets' Corner - William Cowper

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Verses

I AM monarch of all I survey,: My right there is none to dispute;
From the center all round to the sea: I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms: That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms: Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach.: I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;: I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain: My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,: Their tameness is shocking to me.
Society friendship and love: Divinely bestow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove: How soon I would taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage: In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,: And be cheered by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold: Resides in that heavenly world!
More prescious than silver and gold,: Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church-going bell: These valleys and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell,: Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds that have made me your sport,: Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report: Of a land I shall visit no more:
My friends, do they now and then send: A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind!: Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,: And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land: In a moment I seem to be there;
But, alas! recollection at hand: Soon hurries me back to despair,
But the seafowl is gone to her nest,: The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,: And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,: And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace: And reconciles man to his lot.; William Cowper

Ode to Apollo

PATRON of all those luckless brains
That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much meter with much pains,
And little or no meaning;
Ah, why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,
Why, stooping from the noon of day,
Too covetous of drink,
Apollo, hast thou stolen away
A poet's drop of ink?
Upboure in the the viewless air,
It floats a vapour now,
Impell'd through regions dense and rare,
By all the winds that blow; >p>
Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,
Combined with millions more,
To form an Iris in the skies,
Though black and foul before.
Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So soon to be forgot!
Phoebus, if such be thy design,
To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may shine
With equal grace below.: William Cowper

On the Grasshopper

HAPPY songster, perch'd above,
On the summit of the grove,
Whom a dewdrop cheers to sing
With the freedom of a king!
From thy perch survey the fields
Where prolific nature yields
Nought that, willingly as she,
Man surrenders not to thee.
For hostility or hate
None thy pleasures can create.
Thee it satisfies to sing
Sweetly the return of spring,
Herald of the genial hours,
Harming neither herbs nor flowers.
Therefore man thy voice attends
Gladly,--thou and he are friends;
Nor thy never-ceasing strains
Phoebus or the Muse disdains
As too simple or too long,
For themselves inspire the song.
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying,
Ever singing, sporting, playing,
What has nature else to show
Godlike in its kind as thou?: William Cowper

The Flatting-Mill

WHEN a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show,
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
And warm'd by the pressure is all in a glow.
This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump-after-thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill from a delicate palate.
Alas for the Poet, who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill!
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow.
After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows,
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.: William Cowper

To Mrs. Unwin

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, new
And undebas'd 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 as it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By 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.: William Cowper

The Winter Nosegay

WHAT Nature, alas! has deni'd
To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure suppli'd,
And winter is deck'd with a smile.
See, Mary, what beauties I bring
From the shelter of that sunny shed,
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,
Though abroad they are frozen and dead.
'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime;
A fortress to which she retreats,
From the cruel assaults of the clime.
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay,
As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely surviv'd
The frowns of a sky so severe!
Such Mary's true love that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late-blowing rose,
Seem grac'd with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend, such as you.: William Cowper

The Distress'd Travellers; or, Labour in Vain

I SING of a journey to Clifton,
We would have perform'd if we could,
Without cart or barrow to lift on
Poor Mary and me through the mud;
Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud,
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding,
Hop, hop, a la mode de deux frogs.
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dress'd in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about,
But they clatter and rattle, and make such a rout!
SHE: Well! now I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though, is rather alarming;
How slowly and stately it moves!
HE: Pshaw! never mind;
'Tis not in the wind;
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind.
SHE: I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end.
HE: The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way.
SHE: But now I begin to be frighted:
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted.--
Stop! stop! I am sunk in a hole!
HE: Nay, never care!
'Tis a common affair;
You'll not be the last that will set a foot there.
SHE: Let me breathe now alittle, and ponder
On what it were better to do.
That terrible lane, I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through!
HE: So think I;
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try.
SHE: But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past,
Slipping and sliding; and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruin'd at last.
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
That struggling and striving is labour in vain.
HE: Stick fast there, while I go and look.
SHE: Don't go away, for fear I should fall!
HE: I have examin'd it every nook,
And what you have here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round;
The dirt we have found
Would be an estate at a farthing a pound.
Now, Sister Anne, the guitar you must take;
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song.
I have vari'd the verse for variety sake,
And cut it off short, because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame,
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.: William Cowper

To Mary

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,
No 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 play'd 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 utter'd 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 press'd, press gently mine,: My Mary!
And then I feel that still I hold
A richer store ten thousandfold
Than misers fancy in their gold,: My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,: My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd 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!; William Cowper

The Castaway

OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Washing headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home forever left.
No braver chief could Albion* boast [England]
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd 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 wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, as such storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, 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 repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cri'd, "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 subdu'd, 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 allay'd,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone;
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.: William Cowper

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