Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip
Through the cleft rock, and chiming as they
fall

Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that with a livelier green
Betrays the secret of their silent course.
Nature inanimate displays sweet sounds,
But animated nature sweeter still,
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and

one

The livelong night; nor these alone whose

notes

Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain,

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

In still-repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for

me.

Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,

And only there, please highly for their sake. Couper.-Born 1731, Died 1800.

1080.-FROM "CONVERSATION."

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose,
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose,
As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz,
Touch'd with a magnet, had attracted his.
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large,
Proves after all a wind gun's airy charge-
An extract of his diary-no more-
A tasteless journal of the day before.
He walk'd abroad, o'ertaken in the rain,
Call'd on a friend, drank tea, stept home
again;

Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk
With one he stumbled on, and lost his walk;
I interrupt him with a sudden bow,
Adieu, dear sir, lest you should lose it now.
A graver coxcomb we may sometimes see,
Quite as absurd, though not so light as he:
A shallow brain behind a serious mask,
An oracle within an empty cask,
The solemn fop, significant and budge;
A fool with judges, amongst fools a judge;
He says but little, and that little said,
Owes all its weight, like loaded dice, to lead.
His wit invites you by his looks to come,
But when you knock, it never is at home:
'Tis like a parcel sent you by the stage,
Some handsome present, as your hopes pre-

sage;

'Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove An absent friend's fidelity of love;

But when unpack'd, your disappointment

groans

To find it stuff'd with brickbats, earth, and stones.

Some men employ their health-an ugly trick

In making known how oft they have been sick,

And give us in recitals of disease

A doctor's trouble, but without the fees; Relate how many weeks they kept their bed, How an emetic or cathartic sped;

Nothing is slightly touch'd, much less forgot; Nose, ears, and eyes seem present on the spot.

Now the distemper, spite of draught or pill, Victorious seem'd, and now the doctor's skill; And now-alas! for unforeseen mishaps! They put on a damp nightcap, and relapse; They thought they must have died, they were so bad,

Their peevish hearers almost wish they had.

Some fretful tempers wince at every touch, You always do too little or too much : You speak with life, in hopes to entertain, Your elevated voice goes through the brain; You fall at once into a lower key, That's worse, the drone-pipe of a humble bee. The southern sash admits too strong a light; You rise and drop the curtain-now 'tis night.

He shakes with cold-you stir the fire, and strive

To make a blaze-that's roasting him alive.
Serve him with venison, and he chooses fish;
With sole-that's just the sort he would not
wish.

He takes what he at first profess'd to loathe,
And in due time feeds heartily on both;
Yet still o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down.
Your hope to please him vain on every plan,
Himself should work that wonder, if he can.
Alas! his efforts double his distress.
He likes yours little and his own still less;
Thus always teasing others, always teased,
His only pleasure is to be displeased.

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute. We sometimes think we could a speech produce

Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose;

But being tried, it dies upon the lip,
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip;
Our wasted oil unprofitably burns,
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.

Cowper.-Born 1731, Died 1800.

1081.-ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd

With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smiles 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 (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the

same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st 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 learn'd that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unseen, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? It was. Where thou art
gone,

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting sound shall pass my lips no

more !

Thy maidens grieved themselves at my con

cern,

Oft gave me promise of a quick return:
What ardently I wish'd I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By disappointment 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 learn'd 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 wrapt
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we call'd the pastoral house our

own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness

there,

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy 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 bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:

All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,

That 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 pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd 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 prick'd them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Would softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Could those few pleasant hours again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's

Me howling winds drive devious, tempesttoss'd,

Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost;

And day by day some current's thwarting force

Sets me more distant from a prosperous

course.

But 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 birth

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth.
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now,
farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again :
To have renew'd 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.
Couper.-Born 1731, Died 1800.

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'st,
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld 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 know,
How oft the sadness that I show,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
Cowper.-Born 1731, Died 1800.

1082.-TO MARY (MRS. UNWIN).
The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah, would that this might be our 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 fulfil
The 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 art,
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like 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 sight Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

And king in England too, he may be weak,
And vain enough to be ambitious still;
May exercise amiss his proper powers,
Or covet more than freemen choose to grant:
Beyond that mark is treason. He is ours
To administer, to guard, to adorn the state,
But not to warp or change it. We are his
To serve him nobly in the common cause,
True to the death, but not to be his slaves.
Mark now the difference, ye that boast your
love

Of kings, between your loyalty and ours.
We love the man, the paltry pageant you;
We the chief patron of the commonwealth,
You the regardless author of its woes;
We for the sake of liberty, a king,
You chains and bondage for a tyrant's sake;
Our love is principle, and has its root
In reason, is judicious, manly, free;
Yours, a blind instinct, crouches to the rod,
And licks the foot that treads it in the dust.

Were kingship as true treasure as it seems,
Sterling, and worthy of a wise man's wish,
I would not be a king to be beloved
Causeless, and daub'd with undiscerning
praise,

Where love is mere attachment to the throne,
Not to the man who fills it as he ought.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil; hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science, blinds The eyesight of discovery, and begets In those that suffer it a sordid mind, Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit

To be the tenant of man's noble form.

Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,

With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed

By public exigence, till annual food

Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free.
My native nook of earth! thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than
mine :

Thine unadulterate manners are less soft
And plausible than social life requires,
And thou hast need of discipline and art
To give thee what politer France receives
From nature's bounty-that humane address
And sweetness, without which no pleasure is
In converse, either starved by cold reserve,
Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless
brawl.

Yet being free, I love thee: for the sake

Of that one feature can be well content, Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,

To seek no sublunary rest beside.

But once enslaved, farewell! I could endure Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home,

Where I am free by birthright, not at all.
Then what were left of roughness in the grain
Of British natures, wanting its excuse
That it belongs to freemen, would disgust
And shock me. I should then with double
pain

Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime;
And, if I must bewail the blessing lost,

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

I would at least bewail it under skies
Milder, among a people less austere ;

In scenes which, having never known me free,

Would not reproach me for the loss I felt.

Do I forebode impossible events,

And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant
I may !

But the age of virtuous politics is past,
And we are deep in that of cold pretence.

Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes

Deep in his soft credulity the stamp
Design'd by loud declaimers on the part
Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust,
Incurs derision for his easy faith,

And lack of knowledge, and with cauze enough:

For when was public virtue to be found Where private was not? Can he love the

whole

Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend,

Who is in truth the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake

That country, if at all, must be beloved?

'Tis therefore sober and good men are sad

For England's glory, seeing it wax pale And sickly, while her champions wear their hearts

So loose to private duty, that no brain,
Healthful and undisturb'd by factious fumes,
Can dream them trusty to the general weal.
Such were they not of old, whose temper'd
blades

Dispersed the shackles of usurp'd control,
And hew'd them link from link; then Albion's

sons

Were sons indeed; they felt a filial heart
Beat high within them at a mother's wrongs;
And, shining each in his domestic sphere,
Shone brighter still, once call'd to public
view.

"Tis therefore many, whose sequester'd lot
Forbids their interference, looking on,
Anticipate perforce some dire event;
And, seeing the old castle of the state,
That promised once more firmness, so assail'd
That all its tempest-beaten turrets shake,
Stand motionless expectants of its fall.
All has its date below; the fatal hour
Was register'd in heaven ere time began.
We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works
Die too: the deep foundations that we lay,
Time ploughs them up, and not a trace
remains.

We build with what we deem eternal rock :
A distant age asks where the fabric stood:
And in the dust, sifted and search'd in vain,
The undiscoverable secret sleeps.

Cowper.-Born 1731, Died 1800.

1084.-THE WINTER EVENING.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the Moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;—

He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destined inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass

on.

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's
cheeks

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent
swains,

Caymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But O th' important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both
his sides,

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not even critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive Attention, while I read,

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;

What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts Ambition. On the summit sce

The seals of office glitter in his eyes;

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dext'rous jerk soon twists him
down,

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
T' engross a moment's notice; and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this

praise;

The dearth of information and good sense,
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cat'racts of declamation thunder here:
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heav'n, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their
sweets,

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of
retreat,

To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her
gates

At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjured ear.
Thus sitting and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the

pride

And av'rice, that make man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy, of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return-a rich repast for me.
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;