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1 perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My strains for ever new.

But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel, were all in vain,
And of a transient date;

For caught, and caged, and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close
And cure of every ill;

More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shewn me less,
Had been your prisoner still.

THE PINE-APPLE AND THE BEE.

[This was one of the earliest poems which Cowper composed after his second recovery, having been written in the spring of 1779: the first copy was addressed to Mr Hill, whose lady had supplied the poet with the seeds which produced his pine-apples.]

THE pine-apples, in triple row,

Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A Bee of most discerning taste,
Perceived the fragrance as he pass'd.
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied ;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.
Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;

Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,

The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the pine-apple, and he

The silly unsuccessful bee.

The maid, who views with pensive air

The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view, but not to touch;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers;
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.

[Translated in the Autumn of 1779; and inserted here among the author's original verses for the sake of the "Reflection."]

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,

So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's power;

Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.

He, that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;

The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.

The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes, in spite of pain;

If Winter bellow from the north,

Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky.

The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But, oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in.

A REFLECTION

ON THE FOREGOING ODE.

AND is this all? Can reason do no more

Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore ?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,

The Christian has an art unknown to thee.
He holds no parley with unmanly fears;
Where duty bids he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

2 H 2

THE SHRUBBERY,

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

[The name is taken from a favourite resort of the Poet's in the grounds of Weston-Underwood. Composed soon after the lines "To Peace."]

Oн, happy shades-to me unblest!
Friendly to peace, but not to me!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree !

This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quivering to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.

But fix'd unalterable Care

Foregoes not what she feels within,
Shews the same sadness every where,
And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While Peace possess'd these silent bowers,
Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing, slow;
They seek like me the sacred shade,
But not like me to nourish wo!

Me fruitful scenes, and prospects waste,
Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

[Another pleasing example of a simple incident of domestic life, exquisitely versified. February, 1780.]

WHAT Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,
Art has in a measure supplied,

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 survived
The frowns of a sky so severe;
Such Mary's true love, that has lived
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem graced with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

THE lady thus address'd her spouse:
“What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,

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