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PROGRESS OF ERROR.

Or the pieces composing Cowper's first volume, the Progress of Error was first written, being the earliest original poem of considerable length which he produced. Both the title and the subject were suggested by Mrs Unwin, at whose urgent entreaty the work was commenced, in the beginning of December, 1780. The poet, even in this initiatory attempt, must have advanced with rapidity, since we find him writing to a clerical friend on the 21st of the same month :-" It will not be long, perhaps, before you will receive a poem called the Progress of Error, that will be succeeded by another in due time. Don't be alarmed. I ride Pegasus with a curb. He will never run away with me again." Early in January following, the poem appears to have been forwarded in terms of this promise; for, a month afterwards, he again addresses Mr Newton:- "I am glad that the Progress of Error did not err in its progress, as I feared it had, and that it reached you safe; and still more pleased that it has met with your approbation; for, if it had not, I should have wished it had miscarried." The poem was, however, afterwards revised, and some alterations and additions made, before being finally committed to the press in March,

1781.

This poem is the least pleasing of Cowper's productions: still it exhibits passages of great power, and a general honesty

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and earnestness of purpose that, with the eloquence of truth, win their way to the affections. As a specimen of versification merely, it is harsh and unfinished, displaying little of that consummate mastery over language which he afterwards attained while, as a didactic work, it shews a deficiency in definite, or at least obvious, aim. It abounds, however, in those pointed remarks, and striking sentences, peculiarly characteristic of the author's manner, and which render his writings a rich repository of sayings that fix themselves deeply on the memory, as useful rules of conduct, or salutary precepts for the secret and silent improvement of the heart.

THE PROGRESS OF ERROR.

Si quid loquar audiendum.-HOR. Lib. iv. Od. 2.

SING, Muse, (if such a theme, so dark, so long,
May find a Muse to grace it with a song)
By what unseen and unsuspected arts

The serpent Error twines round human hearts;
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery shades,
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades,
The pois'nous, black, insinuating worm'
Successfully conceals her loathsome form.
Take, if ye can, ye careless and supine,
Counsel and caution from a voice like mine!
Truths, that the theorist could never reach,
And observation taught me, I would teach.

Not all whose eloquence the fancy fills,
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills,
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend,
Can trace her mazy windings to their end;
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure,
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure.
The clear harangue, and cold as it is clear,
Falls soporific on the listless ear;

Like quicksilver, the rhet'ric they display
Shines as it runs, but grasp'd at slips away.
Placed for his trial on this bustling stage,
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age,
Free in his will to choose or to refuse,
Man may improve the crisis or abuse;
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan,
Say to what bar amenable were man?
With nought in charge, he could betray no trust;
And, if he fell, would fall because he must;

If love reward him, or if vengeance strike,
His recompense is both unjust alike.
Divine authority within his breast

Brings every thought, word, action to the test;
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains,
As reason, or as passion, takes the reins.

Heaven from above, and conscience from within,
Cries in his startled ear," Abstain from sin !"
The world around solicits his desire,

And kindles in his soul a treach'rous fire:
While, all his purposes and steps to guard,
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward;
And pleasure brings as surely in her train
Remorse, and sorrow, and vindictive pain.

Man, thus endued with an elective voice,
Must be supplied with objects of his choice,
Where'er he turns, enjoyment and delight,
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight;
Those open on the spot their honey'd store;
These call him loudly to pursuit of more.
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice
Avarice shews, and virtue is the price.

Here various motives his ambition raise,—
Power, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of praise;
There beauty woos him with expanded arms;
E'en Bacchanalian madness has its charms.

Nor these alone, whose pleasures, less refined,
Might well alarm the most unguarded mind,
Seek to supplant his inexperienced youth,
Or lead him devious from the path of truth;
Hourly allurements on his passions press,
Safe in themselves, but dangerous in th' excess.
Hark! how it floats upon the dewy air;
Oh, what a dying, dying close was there!
'Tis harmony from yon sequester'd bower,
Sweet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour!
Long ere the charioteer of day had run

His morning course, th' enchantment was begun ;
And he shall gild yon mountain's height again,
Ere yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain.

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent,

That virtue points to? Can a life thus spent

Lead to the bliss she promises the wise,

Detach the soul from earth, and speed her to the skies? Ye devotees to your adored employ,

Enthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy,

Love makes the music of the blest above,
Heaven's harmony is universal love;

And earthly sounds, though sweet and well combined,
And lenient as soft opiates to the mind,
Leave vice and folly unsubdued behind.

Gray dawn appears; the sportsman and his train
Speckle the bosom of the distant plain ;
'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighb❜ring lairs;
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps,
True beagle as the stanchest hound he keeps.
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene,
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean;
The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays-
'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days.
Again impetuous to the field he flies;

Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies;
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home,
Unmiss'd but by his dogs, and by his groom."

Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and stars of human race;
But if, eccentric, ye forsake your sphere,
Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear;
The comet's baneful influence is a dream;
Your's real, and pernicious in th' extreme.
What then!are appetites and lusts laid down
With the same ease that man puts on his gown?

Will av'rice and concupiscence give place,

Charm'd by the sounds-Your Rev'rence, or Your
Grace?

No. But his own engagement binds him fast;
Or, if it does not, brands him to the last,
What atheists call him—a designing knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave.

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