The Works of Cowper and Thomson

Six gentlemen upon the road,

| These flowing from the fount of grace above, Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

Those breathed from lips of everlasting love. With postboy scampering in the rear, The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys; They raised the hue and cry,

Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys;

An envious world will interpose its frown, Stop thief! stop thief !-a highwayman!

To mar delights superior to its own; Not one of them was mute;

And many a pang, experienced still within, And all and each that passed that way

Reminds them of their hated inmate, Sin: Did join in the pursuit.

But ills of every shape and every name, And now the turnpike gates again

Transformed to blessings, miss their cruel aim; Flew open in short space;

And every moment's calm that soothes the breast, The toll-men thinking as before,

Is given in earnest of eternal rest. That Gilpin rode a race.

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast

Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste ! And so he did, and won it too,

No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, For he got first to town;

But the chief Shepherd even there is near; Nor stopped till where he had got up Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain He did again get down.

Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain;

Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
Now let us sing, long live the king,

And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine-
And Gilpin, long live he;
And, when he next doth ride abroad,

So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,

And drought on all the drooping herbs around. May l be there to see!

TO THE

AN EPISTLE

TO AN
AFFLICTED PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.

Madam,
A STRANGER's purpose in these lays
Is to congratulate and not to praise.
To give the creature the Creator's due
Were sin in me, and an offence to you.
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid,
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade,
A coin by craft for folly's use designed,
Spurious, and only current with the blind.

The path of sorrow and that path alone,
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown;
No traveller ever reached that blest abode,
Who found not thorns and briers in his road,
The world may dance along the flowery plain,
Cheered as they go by many a sprightly strain,
Where Nature has her mossy velvet spread,
With unshod feet they yet securely tread,
Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend,
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end.
But he, who knew what human hearts would prove,
How slow to learn the dictates of his love,
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will,
A life of ease would make them harder still,
In pity to the souls his grace designed
To rescue from the ruins of mankind,
Called for a cloud to darken all their years,
And said, “Go, spend them in the vale of tears."
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air !
O salutary streams that murinur there!

REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN.
UNWIN, I should but ill repay

The kindness of a friend,
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay,

As ever friendship penned,
Thy name omitted in a page,
That would reclaim a vicious age,
A union formed, as mine with thee,

Not rashly, nor in sport,
May be as fervent in degree,

And faithful in its sort,
And may as rich in comfort prove
As that of true fraternal love,
The bud inserted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though differing in its kind,

The stock whereon it grows,
With flower as sweet, or fruit as fair
As if produced by nature there.
Not rich, I render what I may,

I seize thy name in haste,
And place it in this first cssay,

Lest this should prove the last.
'Tis where it should be—in a plan,
That holds in view the good of man.
The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,

Should be the poet's heart;
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blazed by art.
No muses on these lines attend,
I sink the poet in the friend,

TO THE REVEREND MR, NEWTON.

An Invitation into the Country.

The longer I heard, I esteemed

The work of my fancy the more, And e'en to myself never seemed

So tuneful a poet before. 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 aught that the city can show.

The swallows in their torpid state

Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early Spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor feared by them,

Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,

And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn:
But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bowers, And weave fresh garlands every day,

To crown the smiling hours.
And if a tear, that speaks regret

Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,

Shall shine and dry the tear.

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 steels, And by Philomel's annual note

To measure the life that she leads.

CATHARINA.

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 hope or to fear,
And ours would be pleasant as hers,

Might we view her enjoying it here.

TO MISS STAPLETON, (row MRS. COURTNAY.) She came—she is gone—we have met

And meet perhaps never again; The sun of that moment is set,

And seems to have risen in vain. Catharina has fled like a dream

(So vanishes pleasure, alas!) But has left a regret and esteem,

That will not so suddenly pass.

THE MORALIZER CORRECTED,

A TALE.

The last evening ramble we made,

Catharina, Maria, and I, Our progress was often delayed

By the nightingale warbling nigh. We paused under many a tree,

And much she was charmed with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,

Who so lately had witnessed her own. My numbers that day she had sung,

And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue

Could infuse into numbers of mine.

A HERMIT, (or if 'chance you hold . That title now too trite and old) A man, once young, who lived retired, As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finished his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book Within its customary nook, And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at evening tide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill,

Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never missed.
But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppressed;

And Dick felt some desires,
That after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain

A pass between his wires.
The open windows seemed t’ invite
The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confined;
And Dick, although his way was clear,
Was much too generous and sincere,

Te leave his friend behind.

Shades slanting at the close of day
Chilled more his else delightful way.
Distant a little mile he spied
A western bank's still sunny side,
And right toward the favoured place
Proceeding with his nimblest pace,
In hope to bask a little yet,
Just reached it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs!
Learns something from whate'er occurs—
And hence, he said, my mind computes
The real worth of man's pursuits.
His object chosen, wealth or fame,
Or other sublunary game,
Imagination to his view
Presents it decked with every hue
That can seduce himn not to spare
His powers of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life's evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fales;
And, earned, too late, it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase.

True, answered an angelic guide,
Attendant at the senior's side-
But whether all the time it cost,
To urge the fruitless chase be lost,
Must be decided by the worth
Of that, which called his ardour forth.
Trifles pursued, whate'er th' event,
Must cause him shame or discontent;
A vicious object still is worse,
Successful there he wins a curse;
But he, who e'en in life's last stage
Endeavours laudable engage,
Is paid at least in peace of mind,
And sense of having well designed;
And if, ere he attain his end,
His sun precipitate descend,
A brighter prize than that he meant
Shall recompense his mere intent.
No virtuous wish can bear a date
Either too early or too late.

So settling on his cage, by play,
And chirp, and kiss, he seemed to say,

You must not live alone
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,

Returned him to his own.
O ye, who never taste the joys
Of Friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush, when I tell you how a bird,
A prison with a friend preferred

To liberty without.

THE NEEDLESS ALARM.

A TALE.

There is a field through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch-fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he may follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks concealed, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven-wood instead; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn, Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragved thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shivered long ago And horrid brambles intertwine below; A hollow scooped, I judge, in ancient time, For baking carth, or burning rock to lime.

Not yet the hawthorn bore her berries red, With which the fieldfare, wintry guest, is fed; Nor autumn yet had brushed from every spray With her chill hand, the mellow leaves away; But corn was housed, and beans were in the stack, Now therefore issued forth the spotted pack,

THE FAITHFUL BIRD. The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoyed the open air; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there. They sang, as blithe as finches sing, That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;

With tails high mounted, ears hung low, and That sage they seemed, as lawyers o'er a doubt, throats,

Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out; With a whole gamut filled of heavenly notes, Or academic tutors, teaching youths, For which, alas! my destiny severe,

Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths; Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear. When thus a mutton, statelier than the rest, The sun, accomplishing his early march,

A ram, the ewes and wethers sad addressed His lamp now planted on Heaven's topmast arch,

Friends ! we have lived too long. I never heard When, exercise and air my only aim,

Sounds such as these, so worthy to be feared.

Could I believe, that winds for ages pent And heedless whither, to that field I came,

In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent. Ere yet with ruthless joy the happy hound

Told hill and dale that Reynard's track was found, And from their prison-house below arise,
Or with the high-raised horn's melodious clang

With all these hideous howlings to the skies, All Killwick* and all Dinglederry* rang.

I could be much composed, nor should appear,

For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear. Sheep grazed the field: soine with soft bosom Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders rolled,

pressed The herb as soft, while nibbling strayed the rest; Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,

All night, me resting quiet in the fold. Nor noise was heard but of the hasty brook,

I could expound the melancholy tone; Struggling, detained in many a petty nook.

Should deem it by our old companion made, All seemed so peaceful, that, from them conveyed, The ass; for he, we know, has lately strayed, To me their peace by kind contagion spread.

And being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide But when the huntsman with distended cheek,

Might be supposed to clamour for a guide. 'Gan make his instrument of music speak,

But ah! those dreaded yells what soul can hear And from within the wood that crash was heard, That owns a carcase, and not quake for fear? Though not a hound from whom it burst appeared, Demons produce them doubtless; brazen-clawed The sheep recumbent, and the sheep that grazed; And fanged with brass the deinons are abroad; All huddling into phalanx, stood and gazed,

I hold it therefore wisest and most fit, Admiring, terrified, the novel strain,

That, life to save, we leap into the pit. Then coursed the field around, and coursed it

Him answered then his loving mate and true round again;

But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe But, recollecting, with a sudden thought,

How! leap into the pit our life to save ? That flight in circles urged advanced them nought, To save our life leap all into the grave ? They gathered close round the old pit's brink,

For can we find it less ? Contemplate first And thought again—but knew not what to think. The depth, how awful! falling there, we burst;

The man to solitude accustomed long, Or should the brambles, interposed, our fall Perceives in every thing that lives a tongue; In part abate, that happiness were small; Not animals alone, but shrubs and trees

For with a race like theirs no chance I see Hlave speech for him, and understood with ease; Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we. After long drought, when rains abundant fall, Mean-time, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray, He hears the herbs and flowers rejoicing all; Or be it not, or be it whose it may, Knows what the freshness of their hue implies, And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues How glad they catch the largess of the skies; Of demons uttered, from whatever lungs, But, with precision nicer still, the mind

Sounds are but sounds; and, till the cause appear, He scans of every locomotive kind;

We have at least commodious standing here. Birds of all feather, beasts of every name, Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast That serve mankind, or shun them, wild or tame; From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last. The looks and gestures of their griefs and fears While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals, Have all articulation in his ears;

For Reynard, close attended at his heels He spells them true by intuition’s light,

By panting dog, tired man, and spattered horse, And needs no glossary to set him right.

Through mere good fortune took a different course. This truth premised was needful as a text,

The flock grew calm again; and I, the road To win due credence to what follows next.

Following, that led me to my own abode, Awhile they mused; surveying every face,

Much wondered that the silly sheep had found

Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;
Their periwigs of wool, and fears combined,

So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound. Stamped on each countenance such marks of inind,

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, • Two woods belonging to John Throckmorton, Esq. Live till to-morrow, will have passed away.

MORAL.

BOADICEA.

AN ODE.

WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods; Sage beneath the spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief. Princess ! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame. Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre. She with all a monarch’s pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow: Rushed to battle, fought and died;

Dying hurled them at the foe. Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

When, conscious of no danger from below,
She towered a cloud-capt pyramid of snow.
No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
| The blooming groves, that girdled her around.

Her unctuous olives, and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assured,
In peace upon her sloping sides matured.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration labouring in her womb,
She teemed and heaved with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid earth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighbouring skies,
While through the Stygian veil, that blots the day,
In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play.
But oh! what muse, and in what powers of song,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along; .
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate works of man;
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass, See it an uninformed and idle mass; Without a soil t'invite the tiller's care, Or blade, that might redeem it from despair. Yet time at length (what will not time achieve ?) Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce live. Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the glade, And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade. O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats, O charming Paradise of short-lived sweets! The selfsame gale, that wasts the fragrance round, Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound : Again the mountain feels th’imprisoned foe, Again pours ruin on the vale below. Ten thousand swains the wasted scene deplore, That only future ages can restore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your cause, Who strike the blow, then plead your own defence, Glory your aim, but justice your pretence; Behold in Ætna's emblematic fires, The mischiefs your ambitious pride inspires ! Fast by the stream, that bounds your just domain, And tells you where you have a right to reign, A nation dwells, not envious of your throne, Studious of peace, their neighbours', and their own. Ill-fated race ! how deeply must they rue Their only crime, vicinity to you! The trumpet sounds, your legions swarm abroad,

Through the ripe harvest lies their destined road; At every step beneath their feet they tread The life of multitudes, a nation's bread ! Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress Before them, and behind a wilderness. Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son, Attend to finish what the sword begun;

HEROISM. THERE was a time when Ætna's silent fire Slept unperceived, the mountain yet entire;

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The Works of Cowper and Thomson: Including Many Letters and Poems Never ...