To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice
May be expected from thee, seated here
On thy distorted root, with hearers none,
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform
Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may.
One man alone, the father of us all,
Drew not his life from woman; never gazed,
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw,
On all around him; learn'd not by degrees,
Nor owed articulation to his ear;'
But, moulded by his Maker into man
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd'
All creatures, with precision understood
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd
To each his name significant, and, fill'd'
With love and wisdom, render back to Heaven'
In praise harmonious the first air he drew.
He was excused the penalties of dull
Minority. No tutor charged his hand
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind
With problems. History, not wanted yet,
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course,
Eventful, should supply her with a theme.
* An anecdote in reference to Yardley Oak is related of Mr Whitbread, which may be appropriately inserted here. He was an enthusiastic admirer of Cowper's poetry, and being desirous of procuring a relic of the tree celebrated in these noble lines, Mr Bull, of Newport-Pagnel, undertook to procure it for him; but some delay having occurred, Mr Whitbread remonstrated with him in the following verses, preserved by Mr Grimshawe:
"Send me the precious bit of oak,
Which your own hand so fondly took
From off the consecrated tree,
A relic dear to you and me.
To many 'twould a bauble prove
Not worth the keeping;-those who love
The teeming, grand, poetic mind,
Which God thought fit in chains to bind'
Of dreadful, dark, despairing gloom→→
Yet left within such ample room
For coruscations strong and bright,
Such beams of everlasting light
As make men envy, love and dread,
The structure of that wondrous head-
Must prize a bit of Judith's stem
That brought to light that wondrous gem-
The fragment which, in verse sublime,
Records her honours to all time."
EPITAPH ON MRS M. HIGGINS, OF WESTON.
LAURELS may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY.
DEEM not, sweet rose, that bloomest 'midst many a thorn,
Thy friend, though to a cloister's shade consign'd,
Can e'er forget the charms he left behind,
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!
In happier days to brighter prospects born,
Oh tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,
Like thee, content in every state may find,
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn;
To steer with nicest art betwixt the extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease!
THE RETIRED CAT.
[1791.]
A POET's cat, sedate and grave
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to inquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.
I know not where she caught the trick,
*Lady Hesketh enumerates amongst the domesticated animals Cowper had collected about him, "that he had, at one time, five rabbits, three hares, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a jay, and a starling; besides two goldfinches, two canary birds, and two dogs. It is amazing how the three hares can find room to gambol and frolic (as they certainly do) in his small parlour;" and she adds, "I forgot to enumerate a squirrel, which he had at the same time, and which used to play with one of the hares continually." To these may be added the favourite cat of the poem.
Nature perhaps herself had cast her
In such a mould philosophique,
Or else she learn'd it of her master.
Sometimes ascending debonnair,
An apple tree, or lofty pear,
Lodged with convenience in the fork,
She watch'd the gardener at his work;
Sometimes her ease and solace sought
In an old empty watering-pot,
There, wanting nothing, save a fan,
To seem some nymph in her sedan
Apparell'd in exactest sort,
And ready to be borne to court.
But love of change it seems has place
Not only in our wiser race:
Cats also feel, as well as we,
That passion's force, and so did she.
Her climbing, she began to find,
Exposed her too much to the wind,
And the old utensil of tin
Was cold and comfortless within;
She therefore wish'd instead of those
Some place of more serene repose,
Where neither cold might come, nor air
Too rudely wanton with her hair,
And sought it in the likeliest mode
Within her master's snug abode.
A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India, for the ladies' use,
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there;
Puss with delight beyond expression
Survey'd the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease ere long,
And lull'd by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid, and shut it fast,
By no malignity impell'd,
But all unconscious whom it held. Awaken'd by the shock, cried Puss,
"Was ever cat attended thus ! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid and it was closed.
How smooth these 'kerchiefs and how sweet!
Oh what a delicate retreat!
I will resign myself to rest
Till Sol declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remain'd still unattended.
The night roll'd tardily away,
(With her indeed 'twas never day ;)
The sprightly morn her course renew'd,
The evening gray again ensued,
And Puss came into mind no more
Than if entomb'd the day before.
With hunger pinch'd, and pinch'd for room,
She now presaged approaching doom,
Nor slept a single wink, or purr'd,
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd.
That night, by chance, the poet watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching;
His noble heart went pit-a-pat,
And to himself he said-"What's that?"
He drew the curtain at his side,
And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied.
Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd
Something imprison'd in the chest,
And, doubtful what, with prudent care
Resolved it should continue there.
At length, a voice which well he knew,
A long and melancholy mew,
Saluting his poetic ears,
Consoled him, and dispell'd his fears:
He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,
The lowest first, and without stop
The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In every cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete
As erst with airy self-conceit,
Nor in her own fond apprehension
A theme for all the world's attention,
But modest, sober, cured of all
Her notions hyperbolical,
And wishing for a place of rest
Anything rather than a chest.
Then stepp'd the poet into bed
With this reflection in his head::
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence.
The man who dreams himself so great,
And his importance of such weight,
That all around in all that 's done,
Must move and act for him alone,
Will learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
ON THE NEGLECT OF HOMER.
COULD Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim, (I fear,)
"Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here."*
TO THE NIGHTINGALE..
WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW-YEAR'S DAY.t
WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear,
From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shewn,
Am I selected from the crowd,
To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
* These lines were occasioned by the failure of Mr Throckmorton to obtain subscribers for the translation of Homer at Oxford. "It seems not a little extraordinary," observes Cowper, in a letter to Mr Throckmorton, "that persons so nobly patronised themselves on the score of literature, should resolve to give no encouragement to it in return. Should I find a fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will not neglect it." It is only just to add, however, that while Mr Throckmorton had to complain of being repulsed at Oxford, Mr Johnson was reaping a rich harvest of names at Cambridge.
† 1792. "You talk of primroses that you pulled at Candlemas-day; but what think you of me that heard a nightingale on New-Year's Day? Perhaps I am the only man in England who can boast of such good fortune; good, indeed, for if it were at all an omen it could not be an unfavourable one."To Mr Johnson, March 11, 1792.
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