William Cowper[/75/-/s00]314 Loss OF THE ROYAL GEORGE
¶Eight hundred of the braveWhose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heelAnd laid her on her side.
¶A land-breeze shook the shroudsAnd she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.
¶It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak,She ran upon no rock.[534]His sword was in its sheath,His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
¶Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float againFull charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main:
¶But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
To A YOUNG LADY
¶SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—Silent and chaste she steals along,Far from the world's gay busy throng:With gentle yet prevailing force,Intent upon her destined course;Graceful and useful all she does,Blessing and blest where'er she goes;Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,And Heaven reflected in her face.
The Poplar Field
¶THE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shadeAnd the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
¶Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a viewOf my favourite field, and the bank where they grew[535]And now in the grass behold they are laid,And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
¶The blackbird has fled to another retreatWhere the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;And the scene where his melody charm'd me beforeResounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
¶My fugitive years are all hasting away,And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
¶'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,Have a still shorter date; and die sooner than we.
The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk
¶I AM monarch of all I survey;My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the seaI am lord of the fowl and the brute.0 Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarms,Than reign in this horrible place.
¶I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.
¶Society, Friendship, and LoveDivinely bestow'd upon man,O, had I the wings of a dove[536]How soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth;Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
¶Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more:My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.
¶How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compared with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift-winged arrows of light.When I think of my own native landIn a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.
¶But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a graceAnd reconciles man to his lot.
To MARY UNWIN
¶MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they diAn eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,[537]That ere through age or woe I shed my wingsI may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings:—
¶But thou hast little need. There is a BookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
¶A chronicle of actions just and bright—There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee
To THE SAME
¶THE twentieth year is well-nigh pastSince first our sky was overcast;Ah would that this might be the last!My Mary!
¶Thy spirits have a fainter flow,I see thee daily weaker grow—'Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!
¶Thy needles, once a shining store,For my sake restless heretofore,Now rust disused, and shine no more;My Mary!
¶For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!
¶But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary![538]Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!
¶Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!
¶For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!
¶Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine,My Mary!
¶Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'stThat now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!
¶And still to love, though press'd with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!
¶But ah! by constant heed I knowHow oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!
¶And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!
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 a spreading oakSat the Druid, hoary chief;Every burning word he spokeFull of rage, and full of grief.
¶'Princess! if our aged eyesWeep upon thy matchless wrongs,'Tis because resentment tiesAll the terrors of our tongues.
¶'Rome shall perish—write that wordIn 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 springsFrom the forests of our land,Armed with thunder, clad with wings,Shall a wider world command.
¶'Regions Caesar never knewThy posterity shall sway,Where his eagles never flew,None invincible as they.'[540]Such the bard's prophetic words,Pregnant with celestial fire,Bending, as he swept the chordsOf 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.'
The Castaway
¶OBSCUREST night involved the sky,The Atlantic billows roared,When such a destined wretch as I,Washed headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,His floating home for ever left.
¶No braver chief could Albion boastThan he with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion's coastWith warmer wishes sent.He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.
¶Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay;Nor soon he felt his strength decline,Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.
¶He shouted: nor his friends had failedTo check the vessel's course,But so the furious blast prevailed,[541]That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.
¶Some succour yet they could afford;And such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delayed not to bestow.But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
¶Nor, cruel as it seemed, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to dieDeserted, and his friends so nigh.
¶He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld;And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repelled;And ever, as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu 1'
¶At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,Could catch the sound no more:For then, by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.
¶No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,That tells his name, his worth, his ageIs wet with Anson's tear:And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.[542]I therefore purpose not, or dream,Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date:But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another's case.
¶No voice divine the storm allayed,No light propitious shone,When, snatched from all effectual aid,We perished, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
The Shrubbery
¶O 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 anything could please.
¶But fixed unalterable CareForegoes not what she feels within,Shows the same sadness everywhere,And slights the season and the scene.
¶For all that pleased in wood or lawn,While Peace possessed these silent bowers,Her animating smile withdrawn,Has lost its beauties and its powers.
¶The saint or moralist should treadThis moss-grown alley, musing, slow;They seek, like me, the secret shade,But not, like me, to nourish woe![543]Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste,Alike admonish not to roam;These tell me of enjoyments past,And those of sorrows yet to come.
On the Receipt of My Mother's PictureOut of Norfolk
¶OH that those lips had language! Life has passedWith me but roughly since I heard thee last.Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smile I see,The same that oft in childhood solaced me;Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!'The meek intelligence of those dear eyes(Blessed be the art that can immortalize,The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claimTo quench it) here shines on me still the same.Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,0 welcome guest, though unexpected here!Who bidst me honour with an artless song,Affectionate, a mother lost so long,I will obey, not willingly alone,But gladly, as the precept were her own:And, while that face renews my filial grief,Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,A momentary dream that thou art she.My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss:Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—Ah, that maternal smile! It answers—Yes.I heard the bell toll on thy burial day,I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,And, turning from my nursery window, drewA long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone[544]Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,The parting word shall pass my lips no morelThy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.What ardently I wished I long believed,And, disappointed still, was still deceived.By expectation every day beguiled,Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,I learnt at last submission to my lot;But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;And where the gardener Robin, day by day,Drew me to school along the public way,Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrappedIn scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,'Tis now become a history little known,That once we called the pastoral house our own.Short-lived possession! but the record fairThat memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,Still outlives many a storm that has effacedA thousand other themes less deeply traced.The nightly visits to my chamber made,That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,The biscuit, or confectionary plum;The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowedBy thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;All this, and more endearing still than all,Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakesThat humour interposed too often makes;All this still legible in memory's page,And still to be so to my latest age,Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to paySuch honours to thee as my numbers may;Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,[545]Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,The violet, the pink, and jessamine,I pricked them into paper with a pin(And thou wast happier than myself the while,Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),Could these few pleasant days again appear,Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?I would not trust my heart—the dear delightSeems so to be desired, perhaps I might.—But no—what here we call our life is suchSo little to be loved, and thou so much,That I should ill requite thee to constrainThy unbound spirit into bonds again.Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,There sits quiescent on the floods that showHer beauteous form reflected clear below,While airs impregnated with incense playAround her, fanning light her streamers gay;So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,'And thy loved consort on the dangerous tideOf life long since has anchored by thy side.But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,Always from port withheld, always distressed—Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost,Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,And day by day some current's thwarting forceSets me more distant from a prosperous course.Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.My boast is not, that I deduce my birthFrom loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;But higher far my proud pretensions rise—The son of parents passed into the skies!And now, farewell!—Time unrevoked has run[546]His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again;To have renewed the joys that once were mine,Without the sin of violating thine:And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,And I can view this mimic show of thee,Time has but half succeeded in his theft—Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
The Diverting History of John Gilpin
¶JOHN GILPIN was a citizen
¶John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,'Though wedded we have beenThese twice ten tedious years, yet weNo holiday have seen.
¶'To-morrow is our wedding-day,And we will then repairUnto the Bell at Edmonton,All in a chaise and pair.
¶'My sister, and my sister's child,Myself, and children three,Will fill the chaise; so you must rideOn horseback after we.'
¶He soon replied, 'I do admireOf womankind but one,And you are she, my dearest dear,Therefore it shall be done.
¶'I am a linen-draper bold,As all the world doth know,And my good friend the calenderWill lend his horse to go.'[547]Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, 'That's well said;And for that wine is dear,We will be furnished with our own,Which is both bright and clear.'
¶John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;O'erjoyed was he to find,That though on pleasure she was bent,She had a frugal mind.
¶The morning came, the chaise was brought,But yet was not allowedTo drive up to the door, lest allShould say that she was proud.
¶So three doors off the chaise was stayed,Where they did all get in;Six precious souls, and all agogTo dash through thick and thin.
¶Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,Were never folk so glad,The stones did rattle underneath,As if Cheapside were mad.
¶John Gilpin at his horse's sideSeized fast the flowing mane,And up he got, in haste to ride,But soon came down again;
¶For saddle-tree scarce reached had be,His journey to begin,When, turning round his head, he sawThree customers come in.
¶So down he came; for loss of time,Although it grieved him sore,Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,Would trouble him much more.[548]'Twas long before the customersWere suited to their mind,When Betty screaming came down stairs,'The wine is left behind!'
¶'Good lack,' quoth he—'yet bring it me,My leathern belt likewise,In which I bear my trusty sword,When I do exercise.'
¶Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)Had two stone bottles found,To hold the liquor that she loved,And keep it safe and sound.
¶Each bottle had a curling ear,Through which the belt he drew,And hung a bottle on each side,To make his balance true.
¶Then over all, that he might beEquipped from top to toe,His long red cloak, well brushed and neat;He manfully did throw.
¶Now see him mounted once againUpon his nimble steed,Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,With caution and good heed.
¶But finding soon a smoother roadBeneath his well-shod feet,The snorting beast began to trot,Which galled him in his seat.
¶So, 'Fair and softly,' John he cried,But John he called in vain;That trot became a gallop soon,In spite of curb and rein.[549]So stooping down as needs he mustWho cannot sit upright,He grasped the mane with both his hands,And eke with all his might.
¶His horse, who never in that sortHad handled been before,What thing upon his back had gotDid wonder more and more.
¶Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;Away went hat and wig;He little dreamt, when he set out,Of running such a rig.
¶The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,Like streamer long and gay,Till, loop and button failing both,At last it flew away.
¶Then might all people well discernThe bottles he had slung;A bottle swinging at each side.As hath been said or sung.
¶The dogs did bark, the children screamed,Up flew the windows all;And every soul cried out, 'Well done!'As loud as he could bawl.
¶Away went Gilpin—who but he?His fame soon spread around;'He carries weight! He rides a race!'''Tis for a thousand pound!'
¶And still, as fast as he drew near,'Twas wonderful to view,How in a trice the turnpike-menTheir gates wide open threw.[550]And now, as he went bowing downHis reeking head full low,The bottles twain behind his backWere shattered at a blow.
¶Down ran the wine into the road,Most piteous to be seen,Which made his horse's flanks to smokeAs they had basted been.
¶But still he seemed to carry weight,With leathern girdle braced;For all might see the bottle-necksStill dangling at his waist.
¶Thus all through merry IslingtonThese gambols he did play,Until he came unto the WashOf Edmonton so gay;
¶And there he threw the Wash aboutOn both sides of the way,Just like unto a trundling mop,Or a wild goose at play.
¶At Edmonton his loving wifeFrom the balcony spiedHer tender husband, wondering muchTo see how he did ride.
¶'Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here's the house!'They all at once did cry;'The dinner waits, and we are tired;'—Said Gilpin—'So am I!'
¶But yet his horse was not a whitInclined to tarry there!For why?—his owner had a houseFull ten miles off at Ware.[551]So like an arrow swift he flew,Shot by an archer strong;So did he fly—which brings me toThe middle of my song.
¶Away went Gilpin, out of breath,And sore against his will,Till at his friend the calender'sHis horse at last stood still.
¶The calender, amazed to seeHis neighbour in such trim,Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,And thus accosted him:
¶'What news? what news? your tidings tell;Tell me you must and shall—Say why bareheaded you are come,Or why you come at all?'
¶Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,And loved a timely joke;And thus unto the calenderIn merry guise he spoke:
¶'I came because your horse would come,And, if I well forebode,My hat and wig will soon be here,—They are upon the road.'
¶The calender, right glad to findHis friend in merry pin,Returned him not a single word,But to the house went in;
¶Whence straight he came with hat and wig;A wig that flowed behind,A hat not much the worse for wear,Each comely in its kind.[552]He held them up, and in his turnThus showed his ready wit,'My head is twice as big as yours,They therefore needs must fit.
¶'But let me scrape the dirt awayThat hangs upon your face;And stop and eat, for well you mayBe in a hungry case.'
¶Said John, 'It is my wedding day,And all the world would stare,If wife should dine at Edmonton,And I should dine at Ware.'
¶So turning to his horse, he said,'I am in haste to dine;'Twas for your pleasure you came here,You shall go back for mine.'
¶Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!For which he paid full dear;For, while he spake, a braying assDid sing most loud and clear;
¶Whereat his horse did snort, as heHad heard a lion roar,And galloped off with all his might,As he had done before.
¶Away went Gilpin, and awayWent Gilpin's hat and wig;He lost them sooner than at first;For why?—they were too big.
¶Now Mistress Gilpin, when she sawHer husband posting downInto the country far away,She pulled out half a crown;[553]And thus unto the youth she saidThat drove them to the Bell,'This shall be yours, when you bring backMy husband safe and well.'
¶The youth did ride, and soon did meetJohn coming back again:Whom in a trice he tried to stop,By catching at his rein;
¶But not performing what he meant,And gladly would have done,The frighted steed he frighted more,And made him faster run.
¶Away went Gilpin, and awayWent postboy at his heels,The postboy's horse right glad to missThe lumbering of the wheels.
¶Six gentlemen upon the road,Thus seeing Gilpin fly,With postboy scampering in the rear,They raised the hue and cry:
¶'Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!'Not one of them was mute;And all and each that passed that wayDid join in the pursuit.
¶And now the turnpike gates againFlew open in short space;The toll-men thinking, as before,That Gilpin rode a race.
¶And so he did, and won it too,For he got first to town;Nor stopped till where he had got upHe did again get down.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan
¶Now let us sing, Long live the King!And Gilpin, long live he!And when he next doth ride abroadMay I be there to see!