Of talents, judgment, mercies, better far
Than opportunity vouchsafed to err
With less excuse, and, haply, worse effect ?"
I heard, and acquiesced: then to and fro
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck,
My gravelly bounds, from self to human kind
I pass'd, and next consider'd, what is man?
Knows he his origin? Can he ascend
By reminiscence to his earliest date?
Slept he in Adam? And in those from him
Through numerous generations, till he found
At length his destined moment to be born?
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb ?
Deep mysteries both! which schoolmen must have toil'd
To unriddle, and have left them mysteries still.
It is an evil incident to man,
And of the worst, that unexplored he leaves
Truths useful and attainable with ease,
To search forbidden deeps, where mystery lies
Not to be solved, and useless, if it might.
Mysteries are food for angels; they digest
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man,
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean
His manna from the ground, or starve and die.
ON A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S BOWER,
DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT.
THRIVE, gentle plant! and weave a bower
For Mary* and for me,
And deck with many a splendid flower,
Thy foliage large and free.
Thou cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade,
(If truly I divine,)
Some future day the illustrious head
Of him who made thee mine.
Should Daphne shew a jealous frown,
And Envy seize the bay,
Affirming none so fit to crown
Such honour'd brows as they,
Thy cause with zeal we shall defend,
And with convincing power;
For why should not the Virgin's friend
Be crown'd with Virgin's Bower ?
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
(June, 1793.)
DEAR architect of fine chateaux in air,
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood,
For back of royal elephant to bear;
Oh for permission from the skies to share,
Much to my own, though little to thy good,
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood!)
A partnership of literary ware !*
But I am bankrupt now; and doomed henceforth
To drudge, in descant dry, on others' lays;
Bards, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth!
But what is commentator's happiest praise ?
That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes,
Which they who need them use, and then despise.
IN Scotland's realm, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where however bleak the view,
Some better things are found;
*Hayley had proposed to share some literary work (it is not known what) with Cowper. †This tale is founded on an article which appeared in the Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1792 :-Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabbert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it but when she descends to the hull for food."
For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost
As hedgerows in the wild;
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late-
The history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.
The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest, But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd and the moors
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding place they sought,
Till both grew vexed and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.
A ship?—could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest?
Hush !—silent hearers profit most-
This racer of the sea
Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.
But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.
Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fix'd,
Formed with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.
Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor,
With russet specks bedight;
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.
The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
goes the male? Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind.
No-soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love;
Then perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair
Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man;
For whose lean country much disdain
We English often shew;
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe;
Be it your fortune, year by year,
The same resource to prove,
And may ye sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!
ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.
A SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.
Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,
For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.
Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy remains,
Since, teach you all I can,
I see you, after all my pains,
So much resemble man?
SIR, when I flew to seize the bird
In spite of your command,
A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.
You cried-Forbear!-but in my breast
A mightier cried-Proceed!-
'Twas Nature, Sir, whose strong behest
Impell'd me to the deed.
Yet much as Nature I respect,
I ventured once to break
(As you perhaps may recollect)
Her precept for your sake;
And when your linnet on a day,
Passing his prison door,
Had flutter'd all his strength away,
And panting press'd the floor,
Well knowing him a sacred thing,
Not destined to my tooth,
I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,
And licked the feathers smooth.
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