higher passages are all carefully finished, and rise or fall, according to the nature of the subject, with inimitable grace and melody. In this respect, Cowper, as already mentioned, has greatly the advantage of Thomson, whose stately march is never relaxed, however trivial be the theme. The variety of The Task in style and manner, no less than in subject, is one of its greatest charms. The mock-heroic opening is a fine specimen of his humour, and from this he slides into rural description and moral reflection so naturally and easily, that the reader is carried along apparently without an effort. The scenery of the Ouse-its level plains and spacious meads-is described with the vividness of painting, and the poet then elevates the character of his picture by a rapid sketch of still nobler features:
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night; nor these alone whose notes Nice-fingered art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still-repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake.
A girdle of half-withered shrubs he shews, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly goss, that, shapeless and deform, And dangerous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf Smells fresh, and rich in odoriferous herbs And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.
From the begining to the end of The Task we never lose sight of the author. His love of country rambles, when a boy,
O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink; his walks with Mrs Unwin, when he had exchanged the Thames for the Ouse, and had 'grown sober in the vale of years; his playful satire and tender admonition, his denunciation of slavery, his noble patriotism, his devotional earnestness and sublimity, his warm sympathy with his fellow-men, and his exquisite paintings of domestic peace and happiness, are all so much self-portraiture, drawn with the ripe skill and taste of the master, yet with a modesty that shrinks from the least obtrusiveness and display. The very rapidity of his transitions, where things light and sportive are drawn up with the most solemn truths, and satire, pathos, and reproof alternately mingle or repel each other, are characteristic of his mind and temperament in ordinary life. His inimitable ease and colloquial freedom, which lends such a charm to his letters, is never long absent from his poetry; and his peculiar tastes, as seen in that somewhat grandiloquent line,
Who loves a garden, loves a greenhouse too,
are all pictured in the pure and lucid pages of The Task. It cannot be said that Cowper ever abandoned his sectarian religious tenets, yet they are little seen in his great work. His piety is that which all should feel and venerate; and if his sad experience of the world had tinged the prospect of life, its fluctuations and its vast concerns,' with a deeper shade than seems consonant with the general welfare and happiness, it also imparted a
The freedom of this versification, and the admir-higher authority and more impressive wisdom to able variety of pause and cadence, must strike the most uncritical reader. With the same playful strength and equal power of landscape-painting,
The Diversified Character of Creation. The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, might be indulged. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smiles, slides off Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug inclosures in the sheltered vale, Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Delight us, happy to renounce a while, Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more. Then forests, or the savage rock may please That hides the sea-mew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man; his hoary head Conspicuous many a league, the mariner Bound homeward, and in hope already there,
his earnest and solemn appeals. He was 'a stricken deer that left the herd,' conscious of the follies and wants of those he left behind, and inspired with power to minister to the delight and
instruction of the whole human race.
The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz, Touched with a magnet, had attracted his. His whispered theme, dilated and at large, Proves after all a wind-gun's airy charge- An extract of his diary-no more- A tasteless journal of the day before. He walked abroad, o'ertaken in the rain, Called on a friend, drank tea, stept home again; Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk; I interrupt him with a sudden bow, Adieu, dear sir, lest you should lose it now.
A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see, Quite as absurd, though not so light as he :
A shallow brain behind a serious mask, An oracle within an empty cask, The solemn fop, significant and budge; A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge; He says but little, and that little said, Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead. His wit invites you by his looks to come, But when you knock, it never is at home : 'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage, Some handsome present, as your hopes presage; 'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity of love;
But when unpacked, your disappointment groans To find it stuffed with brickbats, earth, and stones. Some men employ their health-an ugly trick- In making known how oft they have been sick, And give us in recitals of disease
A doctor's trouble, but without the fees; Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, How an emetic or cathartic sped; Nothing is slightly touched, much less forgot; Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on the spot. Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seemed, and now the doctor's skill; And now-alas for unforeseen mishaps! They put on a damp night-cap, and relapse; They thought they must have died, they were so bad; Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.
Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, You always do too little or too much :' You speak with life, in hopes to entertain- Your elevated voice goes through the brain; You fall at once into a lower key-
That's worse-the drone-pipe of a humble-bee. The southern sash admits too strong a light; You rise and drop the curtain-now 'tis night. He shakes with cold-you stir the fire, and strive To make a blaze-that's roasting him alive. Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish ; With sole-that's just the sort he would not wish. He takes what he at first professed to loathe, And in due time feeds heartily on both; Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown, He does not swallow, but he gulps it down. Your hope to please him vain on every plan, Himself should work that wonder, if he can. Alas! his efforts double his distress.
He likes yours little, and his own still less ; Thus always teasing others, always teased, His only pleasure is to be displeased.
I pity bashful men, who feel the pain Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain, And bear the marks upon a blushing face Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace. Our sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose; But being tried, it dies upon the lip, Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip; Our wasted oil unprofitably burns, Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
On the Receipt of his Mother's Picture.
Oh that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles 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 immortalise, 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 reverie,
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 gavest me, though unseen, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, 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 sound shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of a quick return : What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived; By disappointment 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 learned 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 wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, '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 mightṣt 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 in 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, and jessamine,
I pricked them into paper with a pin- And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile- Could those few pleasant hours 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 shew 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 at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But 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 to 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.
Voltaire and the Lace-worker.-From Truth.' Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store; Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay, Shuffling her threads about the livelong day, Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light; She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, Has little understanding, and no wit; Receives no praise; but though her lot be suchToilsome and indigent-she renders much; Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible trueA truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew; And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies. O happy peasant! O unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; He praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come, She never heard of half a mile from home; He lost in errors his vain heart prefers, She safe in the simplicity of hers.
To Mary (Mrs Unwin).
Autumn, 1793.
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!
*Garth. (See Vol. I. of this work, page 507.)
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 the 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 writer's 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 the 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 the 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 the 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. Not such his evening who, with shining face Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath Of patriots bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not even critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge That tempts ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes; He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends, And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them but to lose them in his turn. Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft Meanders, lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives. Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise, The dearth of information and good sense That it foretells us, always comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there, With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks, And lilies for the brows of faded age, Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean plundered of their sweets, Nectareous essences, Olympian dews, Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits, And Katterfelto,* with his hair on end At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 'Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all. . . . Oh Winter! ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks
* A noted conjuror of the day.
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age; thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know. . . . Come, Evening, once again, season of peace; Return, sweet Evening, and continue long Methinks I see thee in the streaky west, With matron-step slow-moving, while the night Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employed In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charged for man With sweet oblivion of the cares of day: Not sumptuously adorned, nor needing aid, Like homely-featured Night, of clustering gems; A star or two just twinkling on thy brow Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine No less than hers: not worn indeed on high With ostentatious pageantry, but set With modest grandeur in thy purple zone, Resplendent less, but of an ampler round. Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm, Or make me so. Composure is thy gift; And whether I devote thy gentle hours To books, to music, or the poet's toil; To weaving nets for bird-alluring fruit;
Or twining silken threads round ivory reels,
When they command whom man was born to please,
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still."
Love of Nature.-From the same.
'Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works Is an ingredient in the compound, man, Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout Discriminated each from each, by strokes And touches of his hand, with so much art Diversified, that two were never found Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all, That all discern a beauty in his works,
And all can taste them: minds that have been formed And tutored, with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.
It is a flame that dies not even there,
Where nothing feeds it: neither business, crowds, Nor habits of luxurious city-life, Whatever else they smother of true worth In human bosoms, quench it or abate. The villas with which London stands begirt, Like a swarth Indian with his belt of beads, Prove it. A breath of unadulterate air, The glimpse of a green pasture, how they cheer The citizen, and brace his languid frame! Even in the stifling bosom of the town,
A garden in which nothing thrives, has charms That soothe the rich possessor; much consoled That here and there some sprigs of mournful mint, Of nightshade or valerian, grace the wall He cultivates. These serve him with a hint That Nature lives; that sight-refreshing green
Is still the livery she delights to wear, Though sickly samples of the exuberant, whole. What are the casements lined with creeping herbs, The prouder sashes fronted with a range Of orange, myrtle, or the fragrant weed,
The Frenchman's darling?* Are they not all proofs That man, immured in cities, still retains
His inborn inextinguishable thirst
Of rural scenes, compensating his loss By supplemental shifts the best he may? The most unfurnished with the means of life, And they that never pass their brick-wall bounds To range the fields, and treat their lungs with air, Yet feel the burning instinct; overhead Suspend their crazy boxes, planted thick, And watered duly. There the pitcher stands A fragment, and the spoutless tea-pot there; Sad witnesses how close-pent man regrets The country, with what ardour he contrives A peep at nature, when he can no more.
English Liberty.-From the same.
The king who loves the law, respects his bounds, And reigns content within them; him we serve Freely and with delight, who leaves us free : But recollecting still that he is man,
We trust him not too far. King though he be, And king in England too, he may be weak, And vain enough to be ambitious still; May exercise amiss his proper powers,
Or covet more than freemen choose to grant : Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours To administer, to guard, to adorn the state, But not to warp or change it. We are his To serve him nobly in the common cause, True to the death, but not to be his slaves. Mark now the difference, ye that boast your love Of kings, between your loyalty and ours. We love the man, the paltry pageant you; We the chief patron of the commonwealth, You the regardless author of its woes; We, for the sake of liberty, a king, You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake: Our love is principle, and has its root In reason, is judicious, manly, free; Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod, And licks the foot that treads it in the dust. Were kingship as true treasure as it seems, Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish, I would not be a king to be beloved Causeless, and daubed with undiscerning praise, Where love is mere attachment to the throne, Not to the man who fills it as he ought. . . 'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science, blinds The eyesight of discovery, and begets In those that suffer it a sordid mind, Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed By public exigence, till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free. My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadulterate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires, And thou hast need of discipline and art To give thee what politer France receives From nature's bounty-that humane address And sweetness, without which no pleasure is In converse, either starved by cold reserve, Or, flushed with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl. Yet being free, I love thee: for the sake Of that one feature can be well content, Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside.
But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me. I should then with double pain Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,
For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,
I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less austere ;
In scenes which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forebode impossible events,
And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may ! But the age of virtuous politics is past, And we are deep in that of cold pretence. Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes Deep in his soft credulity the stamp Designed by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, Incurs derision for his easy faith, And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not? Can he love the whole Who loves no part?—he be a nation's friend, Who is in truth the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake That country, if at all, must be beloved?
Relic of ages!-could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel and worship thee. Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloined The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down The yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp. But fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains, Beneath thy parent tree, mellowed the soil Designed thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle in which, secure,
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak,
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right- Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! . . What exhibitions various hath the world
A tree in Yardley Chace, near Olney, said to have been planted by Judith, daughter of William the Conqueror, and wife of Earl Waltheof.
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