Though the pleasures of London exceed In number the days of the year, Catharina, did nothing impede,
Would feel herself happier here; For the close woven arches of limes On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than all that the city can show.
So it is, when the mind is endued With a well judging taste from above, Then, whether embellished or rude, 'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse, May even our wonder excite, But groves, hills, and valleys, diffuse A lasting, a sacred delight.
Since then in the rural recess Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess The scene of her sensible choice!
To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds,
And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads.
With her book, and her voice, and her lyre, To wing all her moments at home, And with scenes that new rapture inspire As oft as it suits her to roam, She will have just the life she prefers,
With little to wish or to fear,
And ours will be pleasant as hers,
Might we view her enjoying it here.
[The original of this poem was composed while the translation of Madame Guyon occupied the author's attention, and, with that work, was presented to the Rev. Mr Bull, who subsequently published it, with the version of the French poetess. The piece, written as it now appears, was finished in 1780, as a conclusion for Cowper's first volume. This design, for some reason not explained, he abandoned, and the poem was not published till after his death.]
WHAT virtue, or what mental grace, But men unqualified and base Will boast it their possession? Profusion apes the noble part Of liberality of heart,
And dulness of discretion.
If every polish'd gem we find, Illuminating heart or mind, Provoke to imitation;
No wonder friendship does the same, That jewel of the purest flame, Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend The requisites that form a friend, A real and a sound one; Nor any fool he would deceive, But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he had found one.
Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust, An error soon corrected, -
For who but learns in riper years, That man, when smoothest he appears, Is most to be suspected?
But here again a danger lies,
Lest, having misapplied our eyes,
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude Friendship a false ideal good, A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare Is yet no subject of despair; Nor is it wise complaining, If either on forbidden ground, Or where it was not to be found, We sought without attaining.
No friendship will abide the test That stands on sordid interest, Or mean self-love erected; Nor such as may a while subsist, Between the sot and sensualist, For vicious ends connected.
Who seek a friend, should come disposed To exhibit in full bloom disclosed
But will sincerity suffice?
It is, indeed, above all price,
And must be made the basis;
But every virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole, All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divide The closest knot that may be tied,
By ceaseless sharp corrosion ;
A temper passionate and fierce May suddenly your joys disperse At one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative unite In hopes of permanent delight- The secret just committed, Forgetting its important weight,
They drop through mere desire to prate, And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems, All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, If envy chance to creep in ; An envious man, if you succeed, May prove a dangerous foe indeed, But not a friend worth keeping.
As envy pines at good possess'd, So jealousy looks forth distress'd On good, that seems approaching; And, if success his steps attend, Discerns a rival in a friend,
And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name, Unless belied by common fame, Are sadly prone to quarrel, To deem the wit a friend displays A tax upon their own just praise, And pluck each other's laurel.
A man renown'd for repartee Will seldom scruple to make free With friendship's finest feeling, Will thrust a dagger to your breast, And say he wounded you in jest, By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open ear For tattlers, will be sure to hear
The trumpet of contention;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade, To listen is to lend him aid, And rush into dissention.
A friendship that in frequent fits Of controversial rage emits The sparks of disputation, Like hand-in-hand insurance plates, Most unavoidably creates
The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as a needle to the pole,
Their humour yet so various
They manifest their whole life through The needle's deviations too, Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet On terms of amity complete;
Plebeians must surrender
And yield so much to noble folk, It is combining fire with smoke, Obscurity with splendour.
Some are so placid and serene, (As Irish bogs are always green,)
They sleep secure from waking; And are indeed a bog, that bears Your unparticipated cares
Unmoved and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix Their heterogeneous politics Without an effervescence, Like that of salts with lemon juice, Which does not yet like that produce A friendly coalescence.
Religion should extinguish strife, And make a calm of human life; But friends that chance to differ
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