Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew; 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 retreat, My fugitive years are all hasting away, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on. Fast as the periods from his fluent quill, Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains, Or nymphs responsive, equally affect His horse and him, unconscious of them all. Cowper's Summer House From a Drawing by J. D. Harding But O the important budget! usher'd in To MRS. UNWIN. [May 1793.] Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things, That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalises whom it sings. But thou hast little need. There is a book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, A chronicle of actions just and bright; Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast I passing swift and inattentive by, At the three kittens cast a careless eye, Not much concern'd to know what they did there, Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care. But presently a loud and furious hiss Caused me to stop, and to exclaim, "What's this?" When lo! upon the threshold met my view, With head erect and eyes of fiery hue, A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws, Darting it full against a kitten's nose, Who having never seen in field or house The like, sat still and silent as a mouse; Only projecting with attention due. Her whisker'd face, she ask'd him, "Who are you?" |