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n 



'^ 



■V 



PROSPECTUS 



OF A 



HEW EDmOH OF THE ENGLISH FOETS, 



NOW IN C0UB8B OF PUBLICATION, 



BY 







' Kei^/^ tsr^y^^ (^^^^^y^^fe/'^-Z^^^H^-/*^ 



gcueral reading. As a sort of Thesaurus, or Body of English 
Poetry, Chalmers's collection will always be useful to the 
student, for the very reason that it contains a vast amount of 
forgotten literature that cannot be found elsewhere. But, if 
this edition embraces more of the obsolete and worthless 
poetry than the common reader desires, it is very scantily 
supplied with those historical and literary illustrations which 
almost every reader needs, while it omits a considerable 
amount of really excellent poetry. The same is true, in a 
still higher degree, of the earlier collections of the English 
Poets. 



) 



■- y^ 



V\^ 



2 NEW EDITION OP THE ENGLISn POETS 

The edition now proposed will differ from previous c 
lections in several important parti culai's. It will erabrr 
all that is of general interest and permanent value in Eiigli 
Poetry, from Chaucer to Wordsworth. The whole works 
the most distinguished authors will be given, and selcctio 
from the writings of the minor poets. Several volumes 
fugitive and anonymous poetry will be added, besides wl 
may be taken from the publications of Ritson, Percy, Ell 
Brydges, Park, &c., of the Percy Society, and other Printi 
Clubs. Particular care will be bestowed on Chaucer, and 
the English and Scotch Ballad Poetry. Pains will be tak 
to secure a correct text ; and each work will be accompani 
with biographical, historical, and critical notices, and wi 
glossaries where such assistance is needed. — An editi 
conducted on these principles will, it is thought, deserve 
be called, in all essential respects, a Complete Collection 
the English Poets. 

It is intended that the volumes of this collection sh 
invite perusal, as well by their form and appearance, as 
the character of their contents. The size and the style 
the volumes will be those of Pickering's Aldinc Poets, a 
such- of the works of that edition as fall entirely within i 
plan of the present collection will be embodied in it. 

Each separate work will be sold by itself, and the price 
each volume wall be 75 cts. 

The following volumes are now ready : — 



Butler 


. 2 vols. 


Milton 


. 3 vo 


Collins . 


1 vol. 


Parnell 


1 vo 


COWPER 


. 3 vols. 


Pope . 


. 3 vo 


Drtdeiv . 


5 vols. 


Prior . 


2 vo 


Goldsmith 


. 1 vol. 


Thomson . 


. 2 vo 


Gray . 


1 vol. 


Swift 


3 vo 



BY LITTLE, BROWK, AND COMPANY. 3 



NOTICES. 



The following are among the notices of this series, and of 
^•^e volumes already published : — 

. *l^^ enterprise of Messrs. Little, Brown, ^ Co. is about to give 
*^ *Qe American public the best edition of the British Poets, from 
P^nser to Moore, that has been isued in this country. It is re- 
Pnnted from, and is in fact a fac-simile of the celebrated Aldine 
®^ition, equal to it in the beauty of its typography, and in the 
^''•fceiieas and finish of the paper." — 5wjfa/o Courier, 

** There are few of the enterprises of publication that deserve to 

™^and 80 large a share of public liberality. It is almost in- 

^eaihjg that such a treasure as this can be purchased at the low 

, ^ fixed by the Boston publishers. The typography is beautiful, 

® Paper exceedingly good for the price, the engravings admirable, 

na e^ch pQgjj jg represented in the fulness of his writings. All 

. *Y ^Die has done to perfect a knowledge of their labors will find 

^»f recorded in this edition.'* — iiom*i;i7/« Journal. 

The edition of Gray we speak of adds a fascination to the 
poet*a verses, akin to that which is given to exquisite thoughts by 

® ^Xicurate and polished delivery of an elocutionist with a culti- 
g ^^ voice and perfect taste. The book feels precisely like an 
. ^^ish book, and a practised vision could not detect any difference 

r^^^en the tastefulness of the arrangement or the elegance of the 
^*^t.5ng, and the proverbial beauty of the English original." — 
^*«o» Transcript. 

.. The edition of the British Poets, now in the course of publica- 

j^l^ ^y Messrs. Little, Brown, A Co., will be an elegant series of 

j**i8, equal, if not superior, to the best English editions. The 

^^ volume issued is Goldsmith's Poems. It contains Mitford's 

^S^nt life of the poet and several collections of anecdotes, with a 

^^t.rait, and is worthy of the attention of lovers of really good 

V^}^8; and we cannot too highly commend this series to all who 

^sire to place on the shelves of their libraries the standard poets." 

^aton Post. 

*• The most complete as well as the most desirable collection of 

wj^ works of the English Poets. The volume before us is 80 beau- 

*^ully printed on the finest paper, and so handsomely finished in 

^▼ery manner, that we think we are fully warranted in asserting 

•hat the whole series is destined to be the most popular ever 

^'sued from the American press." — Binghampton Republic. 



I 



4 NEW EDITION OF THE ENGLISH POETS. 

" It 18 a reprint of Pickering's Aldine edition, with Mitford's 
notes, and his life of the poet; and is in type, paper, and external 
appearance, an exact reproduction of the London copy, with the 
advantage of greatly reduced price." — New York Albion. 

** We hope the publishers will find, as they dc?erve, a large sale 
"^ for this best edition of the Poets. It is, of all others, the most 
eligible library edition that can be procured." — Cincinnati Ga- 
zette, 

** They are issued in a style every way equal, and at a much 
less price than the English editions. We have compared a volume 
of this series with the Aldine copy; and, if there is any choice, 
our preference is certainly in favor of the American reprint. It 
is an exact fac-simile of the London edition, page by page the 
same. . . . This undertaking cannot fail to prove a most fortunate 
and successful one just at the present moment, when the produc- 
tions of the British poets are, to a great extent, out of print, or 
only to be possessed in expensive English editions; while the desire 
for them was perhaps never likely to be so great as at present.*' — 
Boston Atlas, 

** All persons whose standard of home-comfort embraces more 
than one single bookshelf must have the British Poets in some 
form; and they may be sure that they will never be able to pro- 
cure them in a^ more convenient and economical form than that 
which these volumes wear." — Christian Examiner, 

** They have already issued the Poems of Gray, Goldsmith, and 
Pope, in a style which challenges the attention of every admirer 
of beautiful editions, no less than of the lovers of standard English 
poetry. The whole series embraces over forty volumes, and in 
itself will form a rich poetical library." — New York Tribune, 

*• Such a series of fine books is highly creditable to the enter- 
prise of the well-known publishers, and shows a great advance 
in the art of bookmaking in America; while the cheap rate at 
which the volumes are offered to the public will enable many to 
possess the standard poetical works of the English tongue who 
have heretofore been unable to purchase them." — Soiuhem Lite- 
rary Messenger, 

" Too much praise cannot be awarded to Messrs. Little, Brown, 
and Co. for their enterprise in publishing this scries: it marks an 
epoch in American bookmaking. The reprints are fac-similes of 
Pickering's celebrated Aldine editions, and even eclipse them in 
clearness and distinctness of type, and snowy whiteness of paper. 
In every sense, they are * books that are books.* ... No book- 
buyer can make a better investment than in the purchase of the 
entire series, which, when completed, will be a superb addition to 
any library.'* — Yankee Blade, 



I 



/ 



THE POEMS OP COWPER 



VOLUME 1. 



Sicut aqnse tremulum labris uU lamen ahenis 
Sole repercussum, aut radiantis imagine lunae, ^ 
Omnia pervolitat late loca, jamque sub auras 
Erigitnr, summique ferit laquearia tecti. 

yiRO. MN, vra. 

So water, trembling in a polished vase ; 
Reflects the beam that plays upon its face ; 
The sportive light, uncertain where it falls, 
Now strikes the roof, now flashes on the walls. 



V. 



^tW^.^,-,^ 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 



WILLIAM COWPER. 



IN THREE VOLX/MES 



VOLUME I. 



BOSTON: 
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY. 

HJ)CCC.LIII. 



*•••• • •••■ 



• - • • • 

* • • • • 

• - • • • '. . 



THE Mii:v",' \'or.J{ 
PUBLIC Li bRAHY 

232944 

MTOR, LENOX AND 

lUOEN FOUNOATIONd. 

1901 



BiYSRsiDs, cambrid&k: 

PRINTED B7 H. O. HOUOHTON AND COMPACT. 



STEREOTYPED BT 8T0J1B AKD SMART. 



• • • 



to * 



• 3 • 






«« • f . ~ * • 






CONTENTS. 

VOL. I. 

Page 

Table Talk 1 

The Progress of Error 27 

Truth 48 

Expostulation . . « 68 

Hope 93 

Charity 119 

Ck>nversation 141 

Betlrement 172 

The Yearly Distress, or Tithing Time at Stock in Essex 200 

Sonnet addressed to Henry Cowper, Esq 203 

Lines addressed to Dr. Darwin 204 

On Mrs. Montagu's Feather-Hangings 205 

Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, 
during his solitary Abode in the Island of Juan Fer- 
nandez : 207 

On observing some Names of little Note recorded in the 

Biographia Britannica 209 

Report of an Adjudged Case, not to be found in any of 

the Books 210 

On the Promotion of Edward Thurlcuv, Esq. to the Lord 

High Chancellorship of England 212 

Ode to Peace 213 

Human Frailty 214 

The Modem Patriot 215 

On the Burning of Lord Mansfield's Library 216 

On the same 216 

The Love of the World reproved 217 



VI CONTENTS. 

Pag( 

On the Death of Lady Throckmorton*8 Bullfinch 21$ 

The Rose 221 

The Doves 22J 

A Fable 221 

Ode to Apollo 22( 

A C!omparison 221 

Another, addressed to a Young Lady 22i 

The Poet's New Year's Gift 22! 

Pairing Time anticipated, a Fable 23' 

The Dog and the Water Lily 23i 

The Winter Nosegay 23 

The Poet, the Oyster, and Sensitive Plant 23 

The Shrubbery 23 

Mutual Forbearance necessary to the Happiness of the 

married State 23 

The Negro's Complaint 24 

Pity for poor Africans 24 

The liloming Dream 24 

The History of John Gilpin 24 

The Nightingale and Glowworm 25 

Epistle to an afflicted Protestant Lady in France 26 

To the Rev. W. C. Unwin 26; 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. 



Formed by Nature, as by virtue form'd 

To polish, to instruct, improve thy age : 
To give to Poetry a sacred charm 
Unfelt before, — and in one hallowed theme. 
To blend the Seraph's with the Poet's fire ! 

TRIBUTE TO THE ME&IORY OP COWPER. 



'XViLLiAM CowPER was the eldest son of the 
ileverend John Cowper, Rector of Berkhamp- 
fitead, in Hertfordshire, and was bom at that 
place on the loth of November, O. S. 1731. 
His family, which was ancient and respectable, 
was settled in Sussex in the reign of Edward the 
Fourth; and in 1641 Sir William Cowper was 
created a baronet, which dignity descended to 
his grandson, who left issue two sons. Sir Wil- 
h'am Cowper, the eldest, became Lord Keeper 
of the Great Seal to Queen Anne, by whom he 
was raised to the peerage, and by George the 
First was created Earl Cowper. Spenser Cow- 
per, the Earl's younger brother, was bred to the 
bar, and was made Justice of the Common Pleas 
in 1727. He had three sons, namely, William 



VIU MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

Cowper, Clerk of the House of Lords; Johr 
the father of the Poet; and Ashley Cowper, 
barrister, and one of the Clerks of Parliamen 
who left two daughters his coheirs, of whoi 
Harriet was the wife of Sir Thomas Hesketh. 

The Reverend John Cowper, the second so 
of Judge Cowper, was chaplain in ordinary t 
the King, and married Ann, daughter of Roge 
Donne, of Ludham Hall, in Norfolk, Esq. a d( 
scendant, it is said, of the celebrated Dr. Donn« 
and by her had "William, the Poet, a son name 
John, who took orders, and other children wh 
died young. 

When in his sixth year Cowper lost his mothe 
who died in childbed, in 1737, an event whic 
is presumed to have had a fatal influence on h: 
happiness through life. The filial tendernes 
with which he revered her memory was manifeste 
many years afterwards, on receiving her portrai 
and in the affecting lines which he addressed t 
it. That poem contains also a pleasing notic 
of his childhood, and of his remembrance of h 
early home. 

Soon after his mother's death he was sent t 
the school of Dr. Pitman, at Market Street, i 
Hertfordshire.^ In no instance was the error o 
not attending to the peculiar mental organizatio 
of a child before a particular plan of educatio 

1 Hayley; but Cowper himself says, in a Memoir of h 
Early Life, tliat he was then sent to a considerable scho 
in Bedfordshire.— 8vo. 2nd Edit. 1816. 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. ix 

was pursued more serious tlian in the case of 
Cowper. Possessed of a mind that shrunk &om 
severity with a morbid sensitiveness, and endowed 
^th faculties that required the most gentle cul- 
ture to bring them to maturity, he was at once 
exposed to the discipline of a public school ; and, 
^ usual, was placed at the mercy of a stripling, 
^ho had purchased the right to be a tyrant by 
Wing first been a slave. "I was," he says, 
"singled out .from all the other boys, by a lad 
about fifteen years of age, as a proper object 
Upon whom he might let loose the cruelty of his 
temper, who, by his savage treatment of me, im- 
pressed such a dread of his figure upon my mind 
that I well remember being afraid to lift up my 
eyes upon him higher than his knees, and that 
I knew him by his shoe-buckles better than any 
other part of his dress." The boy's cruelty being 
at length discovered, he was expeUed from the 
school, and Cowper was removed from it at the 
same time. ^ 

Whatever may be said of the advantages of a 
public school, no reasonable person will assert 
that the same system of education is desirable in 
every case, without reference to the constitution, 
or capacity of the child; for the absurdity of 
such an argument would only be exceeded by 
pretending that a delicate exotic, if exposed to 
the wintry winds of our northern climate, will 
flourish with the same vigour as under its native 
sky. 

VOL. I. 2 



X MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

On quitting school he was placed under the 
care of an eminent surgeon and oculist for a 
complaint in his eyes, where he remained about 
twelve months, and was then sent to Westminster. 
He was at that time nine years of age, and 
even at this early period he was attacked with 
a depression of spirits, to which he became 
more or less the victim during the remainder of 
his life. 

In 1749, being about eighteen, he left? West- 
minster, and, after spending some months at 
home, was placed in the office of Mr. Chapman^ 
an attorney, where he remained for three years, 
being intended for the law, — a pursuit chosea 
without the slightest regard to his fitness or in- 
clination, and one for which nature had entirely 
disqualified him. Diffident, bashful, and soli- 
citous to avoid observation, he was expected to 
rise in a profession requiring immediately oppo- 
site qualities. 

He left the solicitor's office in his twenty-first 
year, and took chambers in the Middle Temple, 
of which society he was admitted a member on 
the 29th of April, 1748 ; and on the 14th of June, 
1754, he was called to the bar. Three years after- 
wards, on the 15th of April, 1757, he removed 
from the IMiddle, to the Inner Temple, possibly 
to enable him to hold chambers of that Society ; 
and about this period he obtained the situation 
of Commissioner of Bankrupts. But the law 
occupied little of his thoughts, for soon after he 



I 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. XI 

settled in the Temple he was, he says, in a me- 
moir written by himself, seized "with such a 
dejection of spirits as none but they who have 
felt the same can have the least conception of. 
Day and night I was upon the rack, lying down 
in horror, and rising up in despair. I presently 
lost all relish for those studies to which I had 
before been closely attached; the classics had 
DO longer any charms for me ; I had need of 
something more salutary than amusement, but 
I had no one to direct me where to find it. At 
length I met with Herbert's Poems ; and, gothic 
and uncouth as they are, I yet found in them a 
strain of piety which I could not but admire. 
This was the only author I had any delight in 
reading. I pored over him all day long; and 
though I found not in them what I might have 
found — a cure for my malady, yet it never 
seemed so much alleviated as while I was read- 
ing him. At length I was advised by a very near 
and dear relative to lay him aside, for he thought 
such an author more likely to nourish my dis- 
order than to remove it. In this state of mind 
I continued near a twelvemonth; when, having 
experienced the inefficacy of all human means, 
I at length betook myself to God in jfrayer." 

A change of scene being recommended to him, 
he went to Southampton, where he spent several 
months ; and soon after his arrival the weight 
of mental misery was suddenly removed, and 
he recovered his cheerfulness. The next -twelve 



Xn MEMOIE OP COWPER. 

years of his life were spent in the Temple ; not, 
however, in the study of jurisprudence, but in 
pursuits far more congenial to his elegant mind. 
Friendship, poesy, and love proved far more 
attractive, and to their charms he seems to have 
resifmed himself. The fruits of his intercourse 
with the Muses were given to the world as the 
offsprings of others, and though happy in his 
friends, he was, from objection being made to his 
want of fortune, disappointed in his attachmeni 
to a fair cousin, who, it may be inferred, was the 
lady that afterwards married Sir Thomas HesketL 
In July, 1756, Cowper lost his father, an event 
which does not appear to have affected him 
much ; but a short poem which he addressed to 
the lady alluded to, in which he noticed the 
death of his intimate friend Sir William Busselli 
presents a gloomy picture of his situation : 

" Doomed, as I am, in solitnde to waste 
The present moments, and regret the past; 
Deprived of every joy I valued most, 
My friend torn from me, and my mistress lost ; 
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien, 
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen ! 
Still, still I mourn, with each returning day, 
Him snatch' d by fate, in early youth away. 
And her, through tedious years of doubt and pain, 
Fix'd in her choice, and faithful, but in vain! 
0, prone to pity, generous, and sincere. 
Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; 
Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, 
Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes ; 
See me, ere yet my destined course half done, 
Cast forth a wanderer on a wild unknown ! 



I 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. XIU 

See me neglected on the world's nide coast, 

Each dear companion of my voyage lost ! 

Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow ! 

And ready tears wait only leave to flow ! 

Why all that soothes a heart, from anguish free, 

All that delights the happy, palls with me ! " 

His intimate friends, whilst in the Temple, were 
persons who became more or less distinguished in 
literature, particularly Colman, Bonnel Thornton, 
and Lloyd ; and from his regard to the two first 
^e contributed some papers to the Connoisseur, 
which they conducted. A sportive Epistle to 
I'loyd is printed among his miscellaneous pieces. 
Like most other poets, Cowper's talent for 
versification displayed itself early, and the first 
production which is extant is part of an Ode on 
reading Sir Charles Grandison, which was written 
when he was very young. 

Although always more or less the victim of hy- 
pochondriasis, which was at this time increased 
hy the fear that as his patrimony was nearly ex- 
hausted he might be reduced to poverty, it was 
not until he was called upon to appear before 
the public that his infirmity assumed the cha- 
racter of madness. Upon this painful subject 
it is distressing to dwell, and as he has himself 
written the history of his calamity,^ the details 
may with propriety be omitted. 

In 1762 the office of Clerk of the Journals, as 
well as the situations of Reading Clerk, and Clerk 

1 Memoir of the Early Life of Cowper, written by himself. 
12mo. 1816, 2d Edit. 



XIV MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

of the Private Committees, in the House of Lords, 
appointments of considerable emoluments, be- 
came vacant ; and his uncle, in whose gift they 
were, offered the two most profitable places to 
Cowper. " Dazzled," he observes, " by so splen- 
did a proposal, he at once accepted it without 
reflecting upon his incapacity to execute an office 
of so public a nature ; and the dread of appear- 
ing in so conspicuous a situation, induced him 
to exchange the appointments of Reading Clerk, 
and the Clerkship of the private Committees for 
the less valuable one of Clerkship of the Journals. 
This sacrifice was not however attended with 
the result which he expected. His friend's right 
of nomination was opposed, and his nominee 
was threatened with a public examination at the 
bar of the house as to his fitness for the office. 
Cowper's feelings upon the occasion are best 
described in his own words : 

" All the horror of my fears and perplexities 
now returned : a thunderbolt would have been as 
welcome to me as this intelligence. I knew, to 
demonstration, that upon these terms, the clerk- 
ship of the journals was no place for me. To 
require my attendance at the bar of the house, 
that I might there publicly entitle myself to the 
office, was, in effect, to exclude me from it. In 
the mean time, the interest of my friend, the 
causes of his choice, and my own reputation and 
circumstances, all urged me forward, all pressed 
me to undertake that which I saw to be imprac- 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. XV 

ticable. They whose spirits are formed like 
mine, to whom a public exhibition of themselves, 
on any occasion, is mortal poison, may have 
some idea of the horror of my situation ; others 
can have none. My continual misery at length 
brought on a nervous fever ; quiet forsook me by 
day, and peace by night ; a finger raised against 
me was more than I could stand against. 

" In this posture of mind I attended regularly 
at the office ; where, instead of a soul upon the 
rack, the most active spirits were essentially ne- 
cessary to my purpose. I expected no assistance 
from any one there, all the inferior clerks being 
under the influence of my opponent ; accordingly 
I received none. The journal books were indeed 
thrown open to me ; a thing which could not be 
refused; and from which, perhaps, a man in 
health, and with a head turned to business, might 
have gained all the information he wanted. But 
it was not so with me. I read without percep- 
tion, and was so distressed, that had every clerk 
in the office been my friend, it would have availed 
me little ; for I was not in a condition to receive 
instruction, much less to elicit it out of manu- 
scripts without direction. Many months went 
over me thus employed ; constant in the use of 
means, despairing as to the issue. The feelings 
of a man, when he arrives at the place of execu- 
tion, are, probably, much as mine were every 
time I set my foot in the office, which was every 
day for more than half a year together." 

He availed himself of the vacation to recruit his 



XVi MEMOIR OP COWPEK. 

spirits by a visit to Margate, where he withdrew 
his thoughts from the prospect which distressed 
him. "About the beginning of October, 1763,** 
he proceeds, " I was again required to attend the 
office, and to prepare for the push. This no 
sooner took place, than all my misery returned. 
Again I visited the scene of ineffectual labours ; 
again I felt myself pressed by necessity on either 
side, with nothing but despair in prospect To 
this dilemma was I reduced, either to keep pos- 
session of the office to the last extremity, and by 
so doing, expose myself to a public rejection for 
insufficiency ; (for the little knowledge I had ac- 
quired would have quite forsaken me at the bar 
of the House,) or else to fling it up at once, and 
by this means, run the hazard of ruining my be- 
nefactor's right of appointment, by bringing his 
discretion into question. In this situation, such 
a fit of passion has sometimes seized me, when 
alone in my chambers, that I have cried out 
aloud, and cursed the hour of my birth ; lifting 
up my eyes to heaven, at the same time, not as a 
suppliant, but in the hellish spirit of rancorous 
reproach, and blasphemy against my Maker." 

It would be painful to follow him further in 
his description of his wretchedness, and it is suffi- 
cient to state, that as his day of trial approached, 
he Igpked with eager hope to losing his senses, 
that he might avoid appearing at the bar of the 
house of Lords; but being disappointed in his 
expectation, despair made him contemplate self- 



MEMOIB OF COWPEE. XVU 

destmction as the onlj escape from his miseiy. 
" Pia brother, who was a clergjrman, and some 
other friends, endeavoured to soothe him by spi- 
ritual consolation, but in vain ; and in a violent 
paroxysm of his disease he suddenly lost his 
reason. After consulting with his family, his 
brother resolved to place him at St Albans, under 
the care of Dr. Cotton, who kept a house for in- 
sane patients, and to the skill and humanity of 
that gentleman he owed his recovery after a se- 
clusion of several months. The chief symptom 
of his disorder was a conviction of his unworthi- 
ness in reference to religion ; " a sense," to use 
his own expression, " of self-loathing and abhor- 
rence, united to a fear of instantaneous judg- 
ment." Cowper continued with Dr. Cotton about 
eigbteen months; and as his views of religion 
were still tinctured with fanaticism, he refused to 
return to London on account of its profligacy ; and 
that he might not be tempted to do so by pecuniary 
considerations, he resigned his Commissionership 
of Bankrupts, by which he reduced his income to 
an amount scarcely adequate to his maintenance. 
At the suggestion of his brother, he removed, 
in June, 1765, to Huntingdon ; and from that 
time Cowper may almost be considered his own 
biographer, in consequence of his voluminous cor- 
respondence, in which he mentions every thing in 
which he was concerned. His letters, which have 
long been before the world, are highly appre- 
ciated ; and copious extracts from such of then^ 



Xviii MEMOIB OP COWPEB. 

as throw light upon his character, his pursuits, 
his opinions, or which elucidate his history, wili 
be introduced into this Memoir. 

He had not been many months at Huntingdon, 
before he became known to the family of the 
Rev. William Unwin, the lecturer of two churches 
in that town ; and such was the mutual pleasure 
which the acquaintance produced, that Cowper 
became a permanent inmate with them. Mr. 
Unwin's establishment consisted of his wife — ^the 
Mary of the Poet — ^his son, who entered into holy 
orders, and a daughter. His first letter, after his 
arrival in Huntingdon, was addressed to Joseph 
Hill, Esq., an intimate friend who managed his 
pecuniary affairs, dated on the 24th June, 1765, 
in which he informed him that he was restored to 
perfect health both of mind and body ; and in 
October he thus spoke of the Unwins : 

" I have added another family to the number 
of those I was acquainted with, when you were 
here. Their name is Uliwin — the most agreeable 
people imaginable ; quite sociable, and as free 
from the ceremonious civility of country gentle- 
folks as any I ever met with. They treat me more 
like a near relation than a stranger, and their 
house is always open to me. The old gentleman 
carries me to Cambridge in his chaise. He is a 
man of learning and good sense, and as simple as 
Parson Adams. His wife has a very uncommon 
understanding, has read much to excellent pur- 
pose, and is more polite than a duchess. The son, 



/ 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. XIX 



^'^o belongs to Cambridge, is a most amiable 

JoUDg man, and the daughter quite of a piece 

^th the rest of the family. They see but little 

^otnpany, which suits me exactly ; go when I 

^ill, I find a house full of peace and cordiality in 

^ll its parts, and am sure to hear no scandal, but 

^Uch discourse instead of it, as we are all the 

l>^tter for. You remember Rousseau's description 

^£ an English morning ; such are the mornings 

X spend with these good people, and the evenings 

differ from them in nothing, except that they are 

^till more snug, and quieter. Now I know them, 

J wonder that I liked Huntingdon so well before 

^ knew them, and am apt to think, I should find 

€very place disagreeable, that had not an Unwin 

"belon^ng to it." 

In March, 1766, he observed in a letter to his 
cousin, Mrs. Cowper, of Park House, near Hert- 
ford : " I have great reason, my dear Cousin, to 
be thankful to the gracious Providence, that con- 
ducted me to this place. The lady, in whose 
house I live, is so excellent a person, and regards 
me with a friendship so truly Christian, that I 
could almost fancy my own mother restored to 
life again, to compensate to me for all the friends 
I have lost, and all my connexions broken. She 
has a son at Cambridge in all respects worthy of 
such a mother, the most amiable young man I 
ever knew. His natural and acquired endow- 
ments are very considerable, and as to his virtues, 
I need only say, that he is a Christian. It ought 



XX MEMOIR OP COWPEB. 

to be a matter of daily thanksgiving to me, tha 
I am admitted into the society of such persons 
and I pray God to make me, and keep me, woi 
thy of them." 

It appears, from the following description o\ 
the manner in which he passed his time, that h 
was encouraged in that religious abstraction frou 
the world, by the habits of the family with whid 
he resided. From the last paragraph, it is ma 
nifest that Cowper had entertained an idea oi 
taking orders, and that his mind was entire!] 
absorbed by spiritual considerations : 

" I am obliged to you for the interest you tak( 
in my welfare, and for your inquiring so particu 
larly after the manner in which my time passe 
here. As to amusements, I mean what the work 
calls such, we have none: the place indee( 
swarms with them, and cards and dancing an 
the professed business of almost all the gentl< 
inhabitants of Huntingdon. We refuse to tak< 
part in them, or to be accessaries to this way of 
murthering our time, and by so doing hav< 
acquired the name of Methodists. Having tok 
you how we do not spend our time, I will nex 
say how we do. We breakfast commonly be 
tween eight and nine ; till eleven, we read eithe: 
the Scripture, or the Sermons of some faithfu 
preacher of these holy mysteries : at eleven w< 
attend Divine Service, which is performed hen 
twice every day, and from twelve to three w< 
separate, and amuse ourselves as we please 



I 



MEMOIB OP COWPEB, Xxi 

During that interval I either read in my own 
apartment, or walk, or ride, or work in the gar- 
den. We seldom sit an hour after dinner, but 
if the weather permits, adjourn to the garden, 
where with Mrs. Unwin, and her son, I have 
generally the pleasure of religious conversation 
till tea time. If it rains, or is too windy for 
walking, we either converse within doors, or sing 
some Hymns of Martin's collection, and by the 
help of Mrs. Unwin's harpsichord, make up a 
tolerable concert, in which our hearts, I hope, are 
the best and most musical performers. After tea 
we sally forth to walk in good earnest. Mrs. 
Unwin is a good walker, and we have generally 
travelled about four miles before we see home 
again. "When the days are short, we make this 
excursion in the former part of the day, between 
church time and dinner. At night we read and 
converse as before, till supper, and commonly 
finish the evening either with hymns, or a sermon, 
and last of all the family are called to prayers.— 
I need not tell you, that such a life as this is con- 
sistent with the utmost cheerfulness, accordingly 
we are happy, and dwell together in unity as 
brethren. Mrs. Unwin has almost a maternal 
affection for me, and I have something very like 
a filial one for her, and her son and I are bro- 
thers. Blessed be the God of our salvation for 
such companions, and for such a life, above all 
for a heart to like it. 

^1 haVe had many anxious thoughts about 



XXll MEMOm OF COWPEB. 

taking Orders, and I believe every new convert is 
apt to think himself called upon for that purpose ; 
but it has pleased God, by means which there is 
no need to particularize, to give me full satisfac- 
tion as to the propriety of declining it : indeed 
they who have the least idea of what I have suf- 
fered from the dread of public exhibitions, will 
readily excuse my never attempting them here- 
after. In the mean time, if it please the Almighty, 
I may be an instrument of turning many to the 
truth in a private way, and hope that my endea- 
vours in this way have not been entirely unsuc- 
cessful. Had I the zeal of Moses, I should want 
an ^aron to be my spokesman." 

The happiness of the family with which he 
was domesticated sustained a severe blow in 
June, 1767, by the death of Mr. Unwin, who 
was thrown from his horse, and died within a 
few days. This event did not dissolve their little 
society, as he continued to reside with his widow ; 
but they removed to Olney, in Buckinghamshire, 
in October the same year, their motives for select- 
ing that place, being a desire to live near the 
Rev. John Newton, who evinced much sympathy 
for Mrs. Unwin's situation. For many years after 
Cowper came to Olney, religion was the princi- 
pal, if* not the exclusive, subject of his thoughts. 
Excepting that he occasionally indulged his taste 
for a garden, and in mechanical labour, all his time 
was given to writing hymns, to prayer meetings, 
or in spiritual conversations with Mr. Newton, 



I 



3!£EM0rB OF COWPEK, Xxiii 

whose opinions appear very closely to have resem- 
bled the Poet's ; and an intimacy arose which was 
only terminated by death. It can scarcely be 
doubted that this intercourse fostered Cowper's 
mental inilrmity. All his letters at that period 
show how entirely it was engrossed by one object, 
and form a remarkable contrast to the playful- 
ness by which his subsequent correspondence 
is distinguished. The letter which he wrote to 
]tfrs. Cowper is a sufficient exemplification of 
this remark : 

"mt dear cousin, 

"I HAVE not been behind hand in reproaching 
myself with neglect, but desire to take shame to 
myself for my unprofitableness in this, as well as 
^ all other respects. I take the next immediate 
opportunity however of thanking you for yours, 
^d of assuring you that instead of being sur- 
prised at your silence, I rather wonder that you, 
or any of my friends, have any room left for so 
^eless and negligent a correspondent in your 
Memories. I am obliged to you for the intelli- 
gence you send me of my kindred, and rejoice to 
^ear of their welfare. He who settles the bounds 
of our habitations has at length cast our lot at a 
great distance from each other, but I do not 
therefore forget their former kindness to me, or 
cease to be interested in their well being. You 
live in the centre of a world I know you do not 
dehght in. Happy are you, my dear friend, in 



XXIV MEMOIB OF COWPEB. 

being able to discern the insufficiency of all i 
can afford, to fill and satisfy the desires of aJ 
immortal soul. That God who created us for th< 
enjoyment pf himself has determined in mercj 
that it shall fail us here, in order that the blessed 
result of all our inquiries after happiness in the 
creature may be a warm pursuit, and a dose 
attachment to our true interest, in fellowship and 
communion with Him, through the name and 
mediation of a dear Redeemer. I bless his good- 
ness and grace that I have any reason to hope I 
am a partaker with you in the desire after better 
things, than are to be found in a world polluted 
with sin, and therefore devoted to destruction. 
May he enable us both to consider our present 
life in its only true light, as an opportunity put 
into our hands to glorify him amongst men, by a 
conduct suited to his word and will. I am 
miserably defective in this holy and blessed art, 
but I hope there is at the bottom of all my sinful 
infirmities a sincere desire to live just so long as 
I may be enabled, in some poor measure, to 
answer the end of my existence in this respect 
and then to obey the summons, and attend him 
in a world where they who are his servants here 
shall pay him an unsinful obedience for ever. 
Your dear mother is too good to me, and puts a 
more charitable construction upon my silence 
than the fact will warrant. I am not better em- 
ployed than I should be in corresponding with 
her. I have that within which hinders me wretch- 



HEMOIB OP COWPEB, XXV 

Ij in every thing that I ought to do, but is 
me to trifle, and let time, and every good thing 
m to waste. I hope however to write to her 
oon. 

" My love and best wishes attend Mr, Cowper, 
and all that inquire after me. May Grod be with 
you to bless you, and do you good by all his dis- 
pensations ; don't forget me when you are speak- 
ing to our best Friend before his mercy seat. 

"Yours ever, W. Cowpeb, 

"N. B. I am not married." 

The postscript was intended to contradict a 
rumour which was circulated, that Cowper had 
married Mrs. Unwin ; and as she was not more 
than ten years older than himself, nothing but 
their exemplary characters prevented the con- 
nexion from being viewed with suspicion. All his 
biographers have attributed their attachment to 
^endship, excepting one, who states that Cowper 
intended to marry her; that the recurrence of 
his malady alone prevented it ; and that he re- 
peatedly declared, that if he ever entered a church 
again, it would be for the purpose of making her 
his wife.^ 

In March^ 1770, Cowper lost his brother, the 
Beverend John Cowper, to whose affectionate 

1 Memoir of Cowper, by the Rev. S. Greathead, prefixed 
to an edition of his poems, 16mo. 1816. 

VOL. I. 8 



XXYl MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

care he was much indebted during his illness i 
St. Albans, and whose loss he deeply deplorei 
The Poet did homage to his worth both in prot 
and verse, and the following lines must be fam 
liar to his readers : 

I had a Brother once : 
Peace to the memory of a man of worth ! 
A man of letters, and of manners too ! 
Of manners, sweet as virtue always wears, 
When gay good humour dresses her in smiles ! 
He graced a college, in which order yet 
Was sacred, and was honour' d, loved, and wept 
By more than one, themselves conspicuous there. 

Towards the end of the year, 1770, Cowp 
again experienced a return of his calamity, whi 
Hayley says produced a chasm in his con 
spondence of ten years ; but this is not strici 
correct, for though he may have suffered to soi 
extent from 1770 to 1773, it was not until t 
last-mentioned year that his complaint render 
him incapable of writing. This is evident frc 
the statement of Hayley himself, as he says, tl 
until that time, he assisted Newton in writing t 
Olney Hymns; and some letters from him 
Mr. Hill, dated in August, 1771, and June, Ju 
and November, 1772, have been publishe* 
Though these letters show that he was then si 
fering from a heavy depression of spirits, th 

1 Private Correspondence of Cowper, edited by Dr. Jol 
son, 2 vols. 8yo. 1824. 



HEMOIB OF COWPER, XXVU. 

no indication of insanity. The latest of 
them was dated on the 5th November, 1772 : 

" Believe me, my dear friend, truly sensible of 
your invitation, though I do not accept it. My 
peace of mind is of so delicate a constitution, that 
the air of London will not agree with it. You 
have my prayers, the only return I can make 
you, for your many acts of still-continued friend- 
ship. If you should smile, or even laugh at my 
conclusion, and I were near enough to see it, I 
should not be angry, though I should be grieved. 
It is not long since I should have laughed at such 
a recompense myself. But glory be to the name 
of Jesus, those days are past, and, I trust, never 
to return!" 

Early in 1773, however, he experienced a se-^ 
vere paroxysm of despondency, and required all 
the zeal and tender firmness which he found in 
Mrs. Unwin. That admirable woman watched 
over him with the skill of a physician and the 
endearing kindness of a mother. For three years 
the sufferings of the patient and the vigilance 
0^ his nurse were extraordinary ; but towards 
the end of the year 1776 Mrs. Unwin had the 
Jiappiness to find her solicitude fully repaid by 
Ms gradual recovery. With that gentleness and 
tact which only a woman knows how to dis- 
play, she gradually drew his mind from the sub- 
ject that had overwhelmed it; and until he 
Was sufficiently restored to take pleasure in lite- 
rary pursuits, he found amusement in taming 



xxyiii memoib of cowpeb. 

some hares. His success he has himself de- 
scribed, and oijie of the group is inmiortalized ii 
« The Task." In November, 1776, Cowper re 
sumed his correspondence with Mr. Hill, an( 
that letter, simple as it is, shows a wonderfii 
improvement in the state of his mind* FroB 
that time his correspondence is marked by hu 
mour and playfulness, without any allusion t 
those solemn considerations to which every thin 
had hitherto given place. Hayley passes over th 
period between 1776 and 1780 in a few word 
and has not given any of his letters until th 
latter year. The deficiency is, however, supplie 
by the Collection edited by Dr. Johnson, whei 
his correspondence with Mr. Hill occurs. - 
related chiefly to literature, and contains Gov 
per*s criticism on various books which Hill ha 
lent him. 

In January, 1778, he wrote to Mr. Hill in n 
ference to his pecuniary affairs : " I shall be gls 
if you will let me know whether I am to unde 
stand by the sorrow you express, that any pa 
of my former supplies is actually cut off, < 
whether they are only more tardy in coming i 
than usual. It is useful, even to the rich, i 
know, as nearly as may be, the exact amount c 
their income ; but how much more so to a man c 
my small dimensions. K the former should I 
the case, I shall have less reason to be surprise< 
than I have to wonder at the continuance of thei 



MEMOIB OP COWPEB. ZXIZ 

80 long. Favours are favours indeed, when laid 
out upon so barren a soil, where the expense of 
sowing is never accompanied by the smallest hope 
of return. What pain there is in gratitude, I 
have often felt ; but the pleasure of requiting an 
obligation has always been out of my reach." 

In April in that year, he thus noticed the 
death of Sir Thomas Hesketh, the husband of his 
amiable cousin, who it seems bequeathed him a 
legacy : " Poor Sir Thomas ! I knew that I had 
a place in his affections, and from his own inform- 
ation, many years ago, a place in his will ; but 
little thought that after the lapse of so many 
years I should still retain it. His remembrance 
of me, after so long a season of separation, has 
done me much honour, and leaves me the more 
reason to regret his decease." 

Great part of Cowper's time was, at this period, 
spent in reading aloud to Mrs. Unwin ; but his 
garden, in which he took great delight, and ma- 
nual occupations also amused him. Early in 
1780, his friend, Mr. Newton, removed to Lon- 
don, where he obtained the living of St. Mary, 
Woolnoth. 

The state of Cowper's feelings are so well de- 
scribed in two letters' from him to Mrs. Cowper, 
the one dated 20th July, 1780, and the other on 
the 31st of the next month, that it is impossible 
to resist making some extracts from them : 

" You see me sixteen years older, at the least, 



atXX MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

than when I saw you last ; but the effects of time 
seem to have taken place rather on the outside of 
my head than within it. What was brown has 
become gray, but what was foolish remains foolish 
still. Green fruit must rot before it ripens, if the 
season is such as to afford it nothing but cold 
winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray 
of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and 
march on (as poor mad King Lear would have 
made his soldiers march), as if they were shod 
with felt ; not so silently but that I hear them ; 
yet were it not that I am always listening to their 
flight, having no infirmity that I had not when I 
was much younger, I should deceive myself with 
an imagination that I am still young. 

" I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but 
I do not always find it one. Being rather scan- 
tily furnished with subjects, that are good for 
any thing, and corresponding only with those who 
have no relish for such as are good for nothing ; 
I often find myself reduced to the necessity, the 
disagreeable necessity, of writing about myself. 
This does not mend the matter much, for though 
in a description of my own condition, I discover 
abundant materials to employ my pen upon, yet 
as the task is not very agfeeable to me, so I am 
sufficiently aware, that it is likely to prove irk- 
some to others. A painter who should confine 
himself in the exercise of his art to the drawing 
of his own picture, must be a wonderful coxcomb, 
if he did not soon grow sick of his occupation, 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. ^^^1 

and be peculiarly fortunate, if he did not make 
others as sick as himself." " Your time of life 
is comparatively of a youthful date. You may 
think of Death as much as you please (you can- 
not think of it too much) ; but I hope you will 
live to think of it many years. 

"It costs me not much difficulty to suppose 
that my friends who were already grown old, 
when I saw them last, are old still ; but it costs 
me a good deal sometimes to think of those who 
were at that time young, as being older than they 
were. Not having been an eye-witness of the 
change that time has made in them, and my for- 
mer idea of them not being corrected by observa- 
tion, it remains the same ; my memory presents ' 
me with this image unimpaired, and while it re- 
tains the resemblance of what they were, forgets 
that by this time the picture may have lost much 
of its likeness, through the alteration that suc- 
ceeding years have made in the original. I know 
not what impressions time may have made upon 
your person, for while his claws (as our grannams 
called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, 
he seems to sheathe them with much tenderness, 
as if fearful of doing injury to others. But 
though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to 
the mind, and you have found him so. Though 
even in this respect his treatment of us depends 
upon what he meets with at our hands ; if we use 
him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is ai 
friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, 



TgYii HEMOIB OP COWPEB. 

Vfho takes &om us daily sometMng that we yalnedf 
and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is 
well with them, who like you can stand a-tipto© 
on the mountain top of human life, look dowH 
with pleasure upon the valley they have passed-^ 
and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope 
of a happy flight into Eternity. Yet a little while^ 
and your hope will be accomplished.*' 

With the exception of fugitive pieces, which he 
sent in his letters to his correspondents, his muse 
had as yet produced nothing; and though he was 
now in his forty-ninth year, not the slightest in- 
dications were put forth of his becoming a regular 
author. In October, 1779, he forwarded to Hill 
his verses entitled, "The Pine Apple and the 
Bee," written a few weeks before that gentleman 
received his lines on the promotion of Lord 
Thurlow, on which occasion Cowper observed : 

"Your approbation of my last Heliconian pre- 
sent encourages me to send you another. I 
wrote it, indeed, on purpose for you ; for my 
subjects are not always such as I could hope 
would prove agreeable to you. My mind has 
always a melancholy cast, and is like some pools 
I have seen, which, though filled with a black 
and putrid water, will nevertheless, in a bright 
day, reflect the sunbeams from their surface." 

On sending Mr. Hill an enigma in July, 1780, 
he thus adverted to his habitual dejection : " My 
enigma will probably find you out, and you will 
find out my enigma at some future time. I am 



HEMOIB OF COWPEB. XXxlil 

^ in a humour to transcribe it now. Indeed 
J Wonder that a sportive thought should ever 
*nock at the door of my intellects, and still more 
^t it should gain admittance. It is as if har- 
lequin should intrude himself into the gloomy 
chamber where a corpse is deposited in state. 
^is antic gesticulations would be unseasonable 
^t any rate, but more especially so if they should 
distort the features of the mournful attendants 
^^to laughter. But the mind long wearied with 
"the sameness of a dull, dreary prospect, will 
gladly fix its eyes on any thing that may make a 
little variety in its contemplations, though it were 
l)ut a kitten playing with her tail." 

From that dejection, however, nothing so ef- 
fectually raised his spirits as poetry. Of tliis he 
was fully sensible, when he remarked to Mr. 
Newton, in December in the same year : 

"At this season of the year, and in this gloomy 
uncomfortable climate, it is no easy matter for the 
owner of a mind like mine to divert it from sad 
subjects, and to fix it upon such as may adminis- 
ter to its amusement. Poetry, above all things, 
is useful to me in this respect While I am held 
in pursuit of pretty images, or a pretty way of 
expressing them, I forget every thing that is irk- 
some, and like a boy that plays truant, determine 
to avail myself of the present opportunity to be 
amused, and to put by the disagreeable recollec- 
tion that I must, after all, go home and be whipt 
again. It will not be long, perhaps, before you 



XXXIV MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

will receive a poem, called the Progress of Error. 
That will be succeeded by another, in due time, 
called Truth. Don't be alarmed. I ride Pega- 
sus with a curb. He will never run away with 
me again. I have even convinced Mrs. Unwin 
that I can manage him, and make him stop when 
I please.'' 

This was the first notification to Mr. Newton 
of his intention to appear as an author, and when 
he found that IMr. Hill was apprised of his design, 
he expressed the greatest surprise ; but gave him 
the following account of his motive : 

" My labours are principally the production of 
the last winter ; all, indeed, except a few of the 
minor pieces. When I can find no other occu- 
pation, I think, and when I think, I am very apt 
to do it in rhyme. Hence it comes to pass that 
the season of the year which generally pinches off 
the flowers of poetry, unfolds mine, such as they 
are, and crowns me with a winter garland. In 
this respect, therefore, I and my cotemporary 
bards are by no means upon a par. They write 
when the dehghtful influences of fine weather, 
fine prospects, and a brisk motion of the animal 
spirit^ make poetry almost the language of na- 
ture ; and I, when icicles depend from all the 
leaves of the Parnassian laurel, and when a rea- 
sonable man would as little expect to succeed in 
verse, as to hear a blackbird whistle. This must 
be my apology to you for whatever want of fire 
and animation you may observe in what you will 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. XXXV 

shortly have the perusal of. As to the puhHc, 
if they like me not, there is no remedy." 

It was chiefly at the request of Mrs. Unwin 
that Cowper was induced to undertake a poetical 
piece of any extent. Affection is lynx-eyed in 
discovering whatever is beneficial to its object, 
and in pressing upon her friend an occupation for 
which nature had peculiarly adapted him, she 
displayed considerable judgment. The " Progress 
of Error" was suggested by her as his theme, and 
in treating on it, he says his sole object was to 
be useful. The Preface was written by Mr. 
Newton, at that gentleman's special desire, and 
the volume was published in 1783; but it was 
for some time treated with neglect, and it was 
not until his subsequent productions established 
his reputation that the beauties of his earUer 
pieces began to be appreciated. 

The next subject which engaged his attention 
was his Poem entitled "Truth;" but before he 
had fairly transcribed it for press, he commenced 
" Expostulation ; " and in a letter to Mr. Newton, 
in March, 1781, he says : " If a Board of Inquiry 
were to be established, at which poets were to 
undergo an examination respecting the motives 
that induced them to publish, and I were to be 
summoned to attend, that I might give an account 
of mine, I think I could truly say, what perhaps 
few poets could, that though I have no objec- 
tion to lucrative consequences, if any such should 
follow, they are not my aim ; much less is it my 



XXXVi MlAlOIE OP COWPER. 

ambition to exhibit myself to the world as a 
genius. What then, says Mr. President, can pos- 
sibly be your motive ? . I answer with a bow — 
Amusement. There is nothing but this — ^no occu- 
pation within the compass of my small sphere, 
Poetry excepted — that can do much towards di- 
verting that train of melancholy thoughts, which, 
when I am not thus employed, are for ever pour- 
ing themselves in upon me. And if I did not 
publish what I write, I could not interest myself 
sufficiently in my own success, to make an amuse- 
ment of it." 

Early in July, 1781, Cowper formed an ac- 
quaintance with Lady Austen, a woman of consi- 
derable talents and accomplishments, who pos- 
sessed great influence over him, and, for some 
time, added much to the happiness of his retire- 
ment. To her the world is mainly indebted for 
« The Task," « Johnny GOpin," and for the trans- 
lation of Homer, a circumstance which entitles 
her to be specially commemorated in a Hfe of the 
Poet. Lady Austen ^ was the widow of Sir Robert 
Austen, Baronet, and paying a visit to her sister 
Mrs. Jones, the wife of a clergyman, who lived 
at Clifton, Cowper observed her at a shop in 
Olney. He was so struck with her appearance 

1 Her maiden name was Richardson. She married Sir 
Robert Austen very early in life, and passed some years in 
France. Her ladyship subsequently married a Mons. De 
Tardif, a French gentleman, of poetical talents, and died at 
Paris on the 12th of August, 1802. 



HEMOm OF COWPEB. XXXVU 

that he requested Mrs. Unwin to make her ac- 

qviaintance, which soon ripened into intimacy, 

Und she was afterwards always designated by 

iiim as his " Sister Anne." Speaking of her first 

^isit, in a letter dated July 7, 1781, he says: 

" Lady Austen, waving all forms, has paid us 
"the first visit ; and not content with showing us 
that proof of her respect, made handsome apolo- 
gies for her intrusion. We returned the visit 
yesterday. She is a lively agreeable woman; 
has seen much of the world, and accounts it a 
great simpleton, as it is. She laughs and makes 
laugh, and keeps up a conversation without seem- 
ing to labour at it." 

On the 12th of July he wrote the following 
humorous letter to Mr. Newton, which is printed 
entire for the first time : 

"mt vert dear friend, 

** I AM going to send, what when you have read, 
you may scratch your head, and say, I suppose, 
there's nobody knows, whether what I have got, 
be verse or not: — ^by the tune and the time, it 
ought to be rhyme, but if it be, did you ever see, 
of late or of yore, such a ditty before? The 
thought did occur, to me and to her, as Madam 
and I, did walk not fly, over hills and dales, with 
spreading sails, before it was dark, to Weston 
Park. 

"The news at Oney, is little or noney, but 
such as it is, I send it, viz. Poor Mr. Peace, 



XXXVUl MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

cannot yet cease, addling his head, with what 
you said, and has left parish church, quite in the 
lurch, haying almost swore, to go there no more. 

" Page and his wife, that made such a strife, 
we met them twain, in Dog lane,^ we gave them 
the wall, and that was all. For Mr. Scot, we 
have seen him pot, except as he pass'd, in a 
wonderful haste, to see a friend, in Silver end,^ 
IVIrs. Jones proposes, e'er July closes, that she 
and her sister, and her Jones JVIister, and we that 
are here, our course shall steer, to dine in the 
Spinney,^ but for a guinea, if the weather should 
hold, so hot and so cold, we had better by far, 
stay where we are. For the grass there grows, 
while nobody mows (which is very wrong), so rank 
and long, that so to speak, 'tis at least a week, 
if it happens to rain, e'er it dries again. 

" I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but 
as well as I cou'd, in hopes to do good; and 
if the reviewer, should say, *to be sure, the 
gentleman's muse wears Methodist shoes, you 
may know by her pace, and talk about grace, 
that she and her bard have little regard for 
the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and 
hoydening play of the modem day; and though 
she assume a borrowed plume, and now and 
then wear a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to 
catch, if she can, the giddy and gay, as they go 

1 Close by Cowper's house at Olney. 
8 A lane adjoining Gowper*s house. 
* Sir J. Throckmorton's. 



/ 



/ 



MEMOIB OF COWPER. XXXIX 

4at way, by a production on a new construction : 
^he has baited her trap, in hopes to snap all 
that may come, with a sugar-plum.' — His opi- 
nion in this will not be amiss ; 'tis what I intend 
Hiy principal end; and if I succeed, and folks 
stould read, till a few are brought to a serious 
"tliought, I shall think I am paid, for all I have 
^aid, and all I have done, though I have run, 
Xhbhj a time, after a rhyme, as far from hence, 
"to the end of my sense, and, by hook or crook, 
"write another book, if I live and am here, another 
year. 

f'l have heard before of a room with a floor 
laid upon springs, and such like things, with so 
much art, in every part, that when you went in 
you was forced to begin a minuet pace, with an 
air and a grace, swim m ing about, now in and 
now out, with a deal of state, in a figure of eight, 
without pipe or string or any such thing; and 
now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what will 
make you dance, and, as you advance, will keep 
you still, though against your will, dancing away, 
alert and gay, till you come to an end of what I 
have penn'd; which that you may do, ere Madam 
and you are quite worn out with jigging about, 
I take my leave; and here you receive a bow 
profound, down to the ground, from your humble 
me— W. C. 

" P. S. When I concluded, doubtless you did 
think me right, as well you iifiight, in saying what 



MEMOIB OF COWPER. 

• 



I said of Scot ; and then it was true, but now it 
is due to Him to note, that since I wrote, EEim- 
self and He has visited we." 

He was at this time employed on his poem on 
Charity, which he considered would be a proper 
sequel to " Hope ; " and on the 22nd of the same 
month he told Mr. Newton he was "in the middle 
of an affair called, * Conversation,' which, as ' Ta- 
ble Talk' serves, in the present volume, by way 
of introductory fiddle to the band that follows, I 
design shall perform the same office in a second.** 

Neither constant occupation nor society was 
capable of entirely removing Cowper's constitu- 
tional dejection of spirits ; and though his letters 
at this period evince much cheerfulness, and oc- 
casionally sportive vivacity, the seeds of his ma- 
lady were far from eradicated. To Mr. Newton, 
in August, 1781, he observed: "My thoughts 
are clad in a sober livery, for the most part 
as grave as that of a bishop's servant's. They 
turn too upon spiritual subjects, but the tallest 
fellow, and the loudest amongst them all, is he 
who is continually crying, with a loud voice, 
Actum est de te, periisti. You wish for more 
attention, I for less. Dissipation itself would be 
welcome to me, so it were not a vicious one; but 
however earnestly invited, it is coy, and keeps 
at a distance. Yet with all this distressing gloom 
upon my mind, I experience, as you do, the slip- 
periness of the present hour, and the rapidity 



UEMOIB OF COWPER. xli 

with which time escapes me. Every thing around 
us, and every thing that befalls us, constitutes 
a variety, which, whether agreeable or otherwise, 
has still a thievish propensity, and steals from 
us days, months, and years, with such unpa- 
ralleled address, that even while we say they are 
here, they are gone. From infancy to manhood 
is rather a tedious period, chiefly, I suppose, be- 
cause at that time we act under the control of 
others, and are not suffered to have a will of our 
own. But thence downward into the vale of 
years, is such a declivity, that we have just an 
opportunity to reflect upon the steepness of it, 
and then find ourselves at the bottom." 

About this time Lady Austen became the tenant 
of the parsonage in Olney: as it communicated 
by a door in the garden wall with the Poet's resi- 
dence, a constant intercourse subsisted between 
the two families ; and they dined alternately with 
each other. Her Ladyship's musical acquire- 
ments induced Cowper to write several songs 
for her, and for three years his happiest hours 
were spent in her society. 

His letters to Mr. Newton, in the autumn of 
1781, related chiefly to the publication of his 
Poems, and their progress through the press. Of 
" Retirement" he gave him the subjoined account: 

" I have already begun and proceeded a little 
way in a poem called Retirement. My view in 
choosing that subject is to direct to the proper 
use of the opportunities it affords for the culti- 

VOL. I. 4 



Xlii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

vation of a man's best interests ; to censure the 
vices and the follies which people carry with 
them into their retreats, where they make no 
other use of their leisure than to gratify themselves 
with the indulgence of their favourite appetites, 
and to pay themselves, by a life of pleasure, for 
a life of business. In conclusion, I would en- 
large upon the happiness of that state, when dis- 
creetly enjoyed and religiously improved. But 
all this is, at present, in embryo. I generally 
despair of my progress when I begin; but if, 
like my travelling 'squire, I should kindle as I 
go, this likewise may make a part of the volume, 
for I have time enough before me." 

Cowper was peculiarly fortunate in having a 
publisher who, to the habits of a man of business, 
united considerable critical judgment and good 
taste. Since literature has degenerated into a 
mere calculation of profit and loss, publishers of 
this class have nearly become extinct, but of the 
valuable assistance which an intelligent bookseller 
may afford to an author, no one is more aware 
than the writer of the Memoirs which are prefixed 
to this, and the preceding volumes of the present 
edition of the Poets. 

Cowper repeatedly expresses to Mr. Newton 
and others his acknowledgments for his publisher 
Mr. Johnson's suggestions ; and the following let- 
ters to him, which have not before been printed, 
still farther evince the poet's obligations : 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. xliii 



to mr. johnson. 

Sir, 

I AM obliged to you for your queries, the poems 
will be the better for them. I wish you always 
to read me with the closest attention and to give 
Diy lines as strict a scrutiny as you can find time 
for: some things always escape a writer, which 
yet strike a judicious reader perhaps at the first 
view ; and while you allow me a right of decision 
in the last instance, if I go into public with any 
uncorrected faults upon my head, the blame and 
the disgrace will be all my own. You will per- 
ceive that I have made some use of the liberty 
I stipulated for beforehand, and though I have 
followed your advice in several passages, yet not 
in all. I proceed according to previous engage- 
ments to give my reasons. 

No man living abhors a louse, more than I do, 
but hermits are notoriously infested with these 
vennin ; it is even a part of their supposed meri- 
torious mortification to encourage the breed ; the 
fact being true becomes an important feature in 
the face of that folly I mean to expose, and having 
occasion to mention the loathsome animal, I 
cannot, I think, do better than call him by his 
loathsome name. It is a false delicacy that is 
offended by the mention of any thing God has 
soen fit to create, where the laws of modesty are 
not violated, and therefore we will not mind it. 

Die then. The word italicised to direct the 



Xliv MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

emphasis, the objection to that line I suppose 
must vanish, at least I can see none, the senti — 
ment I take to be unquestionably true. I con- 
fess the two lines that close the period are two 
of my favourites, they may possibly at first sight 
seem chargeable with some harshness of expres- 
sion, but that harshness is rather to be ascribed 
to the truth they convey, than to the terms 
in which it is conceived; every body knows 
that a final rejection of the Gospel must termi- 
nate in destruction; the words damnable and 
damned may be vehement indeed, but they are 
no more than adequate to the case, nor would 
any other words that I can think of do justice to 
the idea they intend ; that vehemence is indeed 
the very circumstance that gives them a peculiar 
propriety in the place they occupy, they bring up 
the rear of a whole clause of admonitions and 
cautions, and therefore cannot make too forcible 
an impression, they are the lead at the end of 
the bludgeon. 

You may draw on me when you please for 
about eight hundred lines, I have just finished a 
poem of that length, which I intended should 
take the lead in a second volume, upon proper 
encouragement to print again. But if you choose 
to begin with Table Talk and end with Conver- 
sation (for that is the title of it), I have no objec- 
tion : the last bears no affinity to the first except 
in the name of it. 
Olney, Augast 6, 1781. 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. xlv 

TO MB, JOHNSON, BOOKSELLEB. 

SlE, 

I KETURN the copy always by the first opportu- 

nitjy though sometimes I may seem to detain it 

longer than necessary. We have the post but 

three times a week. Mr. Newton writes me word 

he has received * Conversation/ which, therefore, 

I suppose will soon pay its respects to you. I am 

now writing, but whether what I write will be 

ready for the present volume, should you choose 

to insert it, I know not. I never write except 

when I can do it with facility, and am rather 

apprehensive that the muse is about to forsake 

me for the present ; ever since I could use a pen 

I have been subject to such vicissitudes. 

September 3, 1781. 

I have corrected no mistakes but my own. 

In a letter to Johnson, dated Feb. 17, 1782, 
he says, "I now reckon the book finished, and 
therefore once for aU and very unfeignedly return 
you my thanks for the many useful hints you 
have given me ; and if I were to prefix an ad- 
vertisement to the reader, would most willingly 
acknowledge myself indebted to my bookseller 
as my very judicious and only corrector." 

There is much novelty in Cowper's opinion of 
music, as conveyed in a letter to Mr. Newton, in 
September, 1781: "The lawfulness of music, 



Xlvi MEMOIR OF COAVPER. 

when used with moderation, and in its prop^ 
place, is unquestionable ; but I believe that wiP^ 
itself, though a man be guilty of habitual intoxi- 
cation, does not more debauch and befool the 
natural understanding, than music, always music, 
music in season and out of season, weakens and 
destroys the spiritual discernment. If it is not 
used with an unfeigned reference to the worship 
of God, and with a design to assist the soul in 
the performance of it, which cannot be the case 
when it is the only occupation, it degenerates 
into a sensual delight, and becomes a most power- 
ful advocate for the admission of other pleasures, 
grosser perhaps in degree, but in their kind the 
same." 

Cowper*s observations upon the Ocean, which 
occur in a letter, dated September, 1781, are ex- 
tremely poetical: "I think with you, that the 
most magnificent object, under heaven is the great 
deep; and cannot but feel an unpolite species 
of astonishment, when I consider the multitudes 
that view it without emotion, and even without 
reflection. In all its various forms, it is an object 
of all others the most suited to jvffect us with 
lasting impressions of the awful Power that created 
and controls it. I am the less inclined to think 
this negligence excusable, because at a time of 
life when I gave as Httle attention to religious 
subjects as almost any man, I yet remember that 
the waves would preach to me, and that in the 
midst of dissipation I had an ear to hear them. 



MEMOIB OF COWPER. xlvii 

%e of Shakspeare's characters says, *I am 
fiever merry when I hear sweet music/ The 
same effect that harmony seems to have had 
Upon him, I have experienced from the sight and 
sound of the ocean, which have often composed 
my thoughts into a melancholy not unpleasing, 
nor without its use." 

In the autumn of 1782 Cowper wrote the po- 
pular ballad of Johnny Gilpin, which originated 
in the following circumstance. With the hope 
of diverting his mind during an unusually severe 
attack of gloom. Lady Austen related to him the 
history of the renowned citizen, which she had 
heard in her childhood. The tale made a vivid 
impression, and the next morning he told her 
that the ludicrous incident had convulsed him 
with laughter during the night, and that he had 
embodied the whole into a ballad. It was first 
printed anonymously in the Public Advertiser; 
and Henderson, the comedian, having recited it 
in public, with the humorous expression of which 
it is susceptible, the poem soon attained the popu- 
larity it still enjoys. In a letter dated on the 4th 
November in that year, to Mr. Unwin, Cowper 
observed in reference to the ballad : 

"You tell me that John Gilpin made you 
laugh tears, and that the ladies at court are de- 
lighted with my Poems. Much good may they 
do them ! May they become as wise as the 
writer wishes them, and they will be much hap- 
pier than he ! I know there is in the book that 



xlviii MEMOIB OF COWPER. 

wisdom which cometh from above, because it was 
from above that I received it. May they receive 
it too ! For whether they drink it out of the 
cistern, or whether it falls upon them immediately 
from the clouds as it did on me, it is all one. It 
is the water of life, which whosoever drinketh 
shall thirst no morfe. As to the famous horseman 
above mentioned, he and his feats are an inex- 
haustible source of merriment. At least we find 
him so, and seldom meet without refreshing our- 
selves with the recollection of them. You are 
perfectly at liberty to deal with them as you 
please. Auctore tantum anonymo imprimantur ; 
and when printed send me a copy." 

Alluding to a fever with which he was attacked 
in August, 1783, Cowper remarked that wine 
never had any effect upon his head, and that a 
fever did not render him in any degree delirious, 
excepting when it was of a highly dangerous 
nature, facts as anomalous as many others, in re- 
lation to his physical and mental constitution. 
His correspondence, in the years 1782 and 1783, 
treated chiefly of religious topics and politics, 
and contains comparatively few allusions to him- 
self. It is manifest, from the following passage 
in a letter in November, 1782, that his situation, 
in relation to exterior circumstances, was one of 
happiness and contentment; and, but for the 
occasional attacks of his mental infirmity, that 
his lot was an enviable one : 

"I lead the life I always wished for; and, 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. xlix 

the single circumslance of dependence excepted, 
(which, between ourselves, is very contrary to 
my predominant humour and disposition), have 
no want left broad enough for another wish to 
stand upon." 

Indications of the presence of his malady are 
sometimes perceptible even in the most cheerful 
of his letters, and the conclusion of one, on 
miscellaneous subjects, to Mr. Newton, in Fe- 
bruary, 1783, is in these remarkable words ; " We 
truly love you both, think of you often, and one 
of us prays for you : — the other wiU, when he can 
pray for himself," The state of his mind, in April 
following, is thus beautifully, but affectingly 
described : 

" My device was intended to represent, not my 
own heart, but the heart of a Christian, mourn- 
ing and yet rejoicing, pierced with thorns, yet 
wreathed about with roses. I have the thorn 
without the rose. My brier is a wintry one, the 
flowers are withered, but the thorn remains. My 
days are spent in vanity, and it is impossible for 
me to spend them otherwise. No man upon 
earth is more sensible of the unprofitableness of a 
life like mine than I am, or groans more heavily 
under the burthen ; but this too is vanity, be- 
cause it is in vain ; my groans will not bring the 
remedy, because there is no remedy for me. The 
time when I seem to be most rationally employed 
is when I am reading." 
His view of his spiritual state was so wretched, 



1 MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

that, for many years, he thought himself' unworthy 
of gomg to church, or of addressing the Almighty 
in prayer. This appears in the fragment of a cu- 
rious letter written to Mr. Unwin in May, 1783 : 
" They that have found a God, and are per- 
mitted to worship him, have found a treasure, of 
which, highly as they may prize it, they have but 
very scanty and limited conceptions. Take my 
word for it, — the word of a man singularly well 
qualified to give his evidence in this matter, who 
having enjoyed the privilege some years, has 
been deprived of it more, and has no hope thtit 
he shall live to recover it. These are my Sunday 
morning speculations, — ^the sound of the bells 
suggested them, or rather, gave them such an 
emphasis that they forced their way into my pen, 
in spite of me ! for, though I do not often com- 
mit them to paper, they are never absent from 
my mind." 

In September following he observes : 
" I have been lately more dejected and more 
distressed than usual ; more harassed by dreams 
in the night, and more deeply poisoned by them 
in the following day. I know not what is por- 
tended by an alteration for the worse, after eleven 
years of misery ; but firmly believe that it is not 
designed as the introduction of a change for the 
better. I now see a long winter before me, and 
am to get through it as I can. I know the ground 
before I tread upon it. It is hollow ; it is agi- 
tated ; it suffers shocks in every direction ; it is 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. li 

like the soil of Calabria — all whirlpool and un- 
dulation. But I must reel through it ; at least, 
if I be not swallowed up by the way." 

In this strain does he frequently advert to him- 
self ; but in the early part of 1783, Lady Austen 
strove to allure him from his reflections by calling 
his poetic talents again into action, and urged 
him to try his powers in blank verse. After re- 
peated solicitations, he promised, if she would 
suggest a subject, he would comply with her 
request. " Oh," she replied, " you can never be 
in want of a subject, you can write upon any : 
write upon this sofa." Such was the origin of 
" The Sofa." As soon as it was completed he 
commenced the other pieces which form " The 
Task," and he was occupied upon the contents 
of that volume until September, 1784, when it 
was sent to press. His next piece was the Tiro- 
cinium, of which he gave the following account in 
a letter, in November, 1784 : 

^* The Task, as you know, is gone to the press : 
since it went I have been employed in writing 
lanother poem, which I am now transcribing, and 
which, in a short time, I design shall follow. It is 
intituled. Tirocinium, or a Eeview of Schools: 
the business and purpose of it are, to censure the 
want of discipline, and the scandalous inattention 
to morals, that obtain in them, especially in the 
largest ; and to recommend private tuition as a 
mode of education preferable on all accounts; 
to call upon fathers to become tutors of their own 



lii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

sons, where that is practicable ; to take home a 
domestic tutor where it is not ; and if neither can 
be done, to place them under the care of such a 
man as he to whom I am writing ; some rural 
parson, whose attention is limited to a few." 

It has been well observed, that the year 1784 
was an eventful one in Cowper's life, not only from 
his having completed " The Task," and commenced 
the translation of Homer, but from his losing the 
society of Lady Austen. The cause of the inter- 
ruption of their friendship is glossed over with 
Mr. Hayley's usual skill, nor have either of the 
other biographers of the poet explained the cir- 
cumstance. There can be no doubt that Mrs. 
Unwin became jealous of the influence which that 
lady possessed over him, and he was reduced to 
the alternative of sacrificing his intimacy with 
one of them. To his credit he did not permit the 
fascinating qualities of her ladyship to outweigh 
the claims of services and friendship, but wrote a 
farewell letter to her, explaining the painful .cir- 
cumstances which obliged him to renounce her 
society. Hayley says. Lady Austen confirmed 
him in his opinion, that a more admirable letter 
could not have been written, but admirable as it 
was, it wounded her feelings so much as to induce 
her to destroy it. From that moment they met 
no more ; and as the materials have been sup- 
pressed, which would elucidate the history of this 
unfortunate affair, no speculations on the subject 
will be hazarded. "The Task" appeared in 



MEMOm OF COWPER. liii 

1785, and its author presented a copy to the 
Xx)rd Chancellor Thurlow, and another personage, 
"with both o£ whom he was intimate in early life. 
[Neither of them acknowledged the gift, and the 
circumstance excited the Poet's resentment to 
fiuch a degree, that he alluded to it with some bit- 
terness in a future production. 

In February, 1784, he described himself in a 
manner which applies to many other literary 
persons : " The morning is my writing time, and 
in the morning I have no spirits. So much the 
worse for my correspondents. Sleep, that re- 
freshes my body, seems to cripple me in every 
other respect. As the evening approaches I grow 
more alert, and when I am retiring to bed, am 
more fit for mental occupation than at any other 
time. So it fares with us whom they call nervous. 
By a strange inversion of the animal economy, we 
are ready to sleep when we have most need to be 
awake, and go to bed just when we might sit up 
to some purpose. The watch is regularly wound 
up, it goes in the night when it is not wanted, and 
in the day stands stilL" i 

Cowper's reverence for the memory of his mo- 
ther has been already adverted to, but it is so 
pleasingly shown in a letter of condolence to Mr. 
Hill on the death of that gentleman's parent in 
November, 1784, that it would be improper to 
omit it : "To condole with you on the death of a 
mother aged eighty-seven would be absurd; rather 
therefore, as is reasonable, I congratulate you on 



liv MEMOIR OF COWPEB. 

the almost singular felicity of having enjoyed the 
company of so amiable and so near a relation so 
long. Your lot and mine, in this respect, have 
been very different, as indeed in almost every 
other. Your mother lived to see you rise, at least 
to see you comfortably established in the world. 
Mine dying when I was six years old, did not live 
to see me sink in it. You may remember with 
pleasure, while you live, a blessing vouchsafed to 
you so long, and I while I live must regret a com- 
fort of which I was deprived so early. I can truly 
say, that not a week passes (perhaps I might with 
equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think 
of her. Such was the impression her tenderness 
made upon me, though the opportunity she had 
for showing it was so short. But the ways of God 
are equal ; and when I reflect on the pangs she 
would have suffered had she been a witness of all 
mine, I see more cause to rejoice than to mourn 
that she was hidden in the grave so soon." 

Perhaps the following explanation of the notice 
of Bishop Bagot ought to form a note to the Poem 
on Public Schools : it places Cowper's love of 
justice in a strong light, and it would be unjust to 
him to pass it over : 

" I intended in my last to have given you my 
reasons for the compliment that I paid Bishop 
Bagot, lest knowing, that I have no personal 
connection with him, you should suspect me of 
having done it at rather too much at a venture. 
In the first place, then, I wished the world to 



f 



MEMOIB OF COWPER. Iv 

know that I have no objection to a bishop, quid 

bishop. In the second place, the brothers were 

aJl five my schoolfellows, and very amiable and 

'V"aluable boys they were. Thirdly, Lewis, the 

Tbishop, had been rudely and coarsely treated in 

the Monthly Review, on account of a sermon 

^hich appeared to me, when I read their extract 

from it, to deserve the highest commendations, as 

exhibiting explicit proof of both his good sense 

and his unfeigned piety. For these causes, me 

thereunto moving, I felt myself happy in an 

opportunity to do public honour to a worthy 

man, who had been publicly traduced." 

There is much playful sarcasm upon the man- 
ner in which persons in an elevated station some- 
times treat their inferiors in a letter which he wrote 
to Mr. Unwin in March, 1785 : "I was pleased 
too, to see my opinion of his Lordship's non- 
chalance upon a subject that you had so much 
at heart, completely verified. I do not know 
that the eye of a nobleman was ever dissected. 
I cannot help supposing, however, that were 
that organ, as it exists in the head of such a 
personage, to be accurately examined, it would 
be found to differ materially in its construction 
from the eye of a commoner ; so very different 
is the view that men in an elevated and in an 
humble station have of the same object. What 
appears great, sublime, beautiful, and important 
to you and to me, when submitted to my Lord, 
or his Grace, and submitted too with the utmost 



Ivi MEMOIB OP COWPER. 

humility, is either too minute to be visible at all, 
or, if seen, seems trivial and of no account." 

In tracing Cowper's career from his letters, a 
painful duty is continually forced upon his bio- 
grapher of noticing the occasional presence of 
that calamity which lay like an incubus upon 
his spirits. To have introduced all the allusions 
to the subject which occur in his correspondence 
would have needlessly wounded the reader's feel- 
ings, but the existence of that malady forms part 
of the Poet's history, and its occurrence, force, 
and duration, must necessarily be sometimes ad- 
verted to. It would be curious, were it possible, 
to examine the verses which were composed when 
the cloud was darkest with those which were writ- 
ten when he was free from the obscuration. In 
May, 1785, he says, in a letter to Mr. Newton, 

" I am sensible of the tenderness and affection- 
ate kindness with which you recollect our past 
intercourse, and express your hopes of my future 
restoration. I too, within the last eight months, 
have had my hopes, though they have been of short 
duration, cut off, like the foam upon the waters. 
Some previous adjustments, indeed, are necessary, 
before a lasting expectation of comfort can have 
place in me. There are those persuasions in my 
mind which either entirely forbid the entrance of 
hope, or, if it enter, immediately eject it. They 
are incompatible with any such inmate, and must 
be turned out themselves before so desirable a 
guest can possibly have secure possession. This 






HEMOm OP COWPER. Ivii 

yon say will be done. It may be, but it is not 
done yet ; nor has a single step in the course of 
God's dealings with me been taken towards it 
If I mend, no creature ever mended so slowly 
that recovered at last. I am like a slug or snail 
that has fallen into a deep well : slug as he is, he 
performs his descent with an alacrity propor- 
tioned to his weight : but he does not crawl up 
again quite so fast. Mine was a rapid plunge ; 
but my return to daylight, if I am indeed return- 
ing, is leisurely enough." 

A description of the place in which the greater 
part of the works of a favourite author were com- 
posed is interesting : 

" I write in a nook that I call my Boudoir. 
It is a summer-house not much bigger than a 
sedan-chair, the door of which opens into the 
garden, that is now crowded with pinks, roses, 
and honeysuckles, and the window into my neigh- 
bour's orchard. It formerly served an apothe- 
cary, now dead, as a smoking-room ; and under 
my feet is a trap-door, which once covered a hole 
in the ground where he kept his bottles. At pre- 
sent, however, it is dedicated to sublimer uses. 
Having lined it with garden-mats, and furnished 
it with a table and two chairs, here I write all 
that I write in summer time, whether to my friends 
or to the public. It is secure from all noise, and 
a refuge from all intrusion ; for intruders some- 
times trouble me in the winter evenings at Olney. 
But (thanks to my Boudoir!) I can now hide 
VOL. I. 5 



Iviii MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

myself from them. A poet's retreat is sacred. 
They acknowledge the truth of that proposition, 
and never presume to violate it." 

To the appearance of the second volume of his 
Poems, Cowper was indebted for a renewal of his 
friendship with his cousin Lady Hesketh. After 
her marriage she lived some time abroad, which, 
with other circumstances, interrupted their inter- 
course for many years, but the perusal of " The 
Task" recalled him to her memory, and she wrote 
him a very kind letter. In his reply, written in 
October, 1785, after expressing the delight which 
her communication had occasioned liim, he said, 

" I can truly boast of an affection for you, 
that neither years, nor interrupted intercouse, 
have at all abated. I need only recollect how 
much I valued you once, and with how much 
cause, immediately to feel a revival of the same 
value ; if that can be said to revive, which at the 
most has only been dormant for want of em- 
ployment, but I slander it when I say that it has 
slept. A thousand times have I recollected a 
thousand scenes, in which our two selves have 
formed the whole of the drama, with the greatest 
pleasure ; at times, too, when I had no reason to 
suppose that I should ever hear from you again. 
I have laughed with you at the Arabian Nights 
Entertainment, which afforded us, as you well 
know, a fund of merriment that deserves never to 
be forgot. I have walked with you to Netley 
Abbey, and have scrambled with you over hedges 



iiir-rr! 



^^n-i: 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. llX 

in every direction, and many other feats we have 
perfonned together, upon the field of my re- 
membrance, and all within these few years. 
Should I say vdthin this twelvemonth, I should 
not transgress the truth. The hours that I have 
spent with you were among the pleasantest of 
K-i:| my former days, and are therefore chronicled in 

my mind so deeply, as to feel no erp-sure. 
lb it^j ^QQj, Cousin, dejection of spirits, which, I 
suppose, may have prevented many a man from 
'^^ 3 becoming an author, made me one. I find con- 
^i-ici^ stant employment necessary, and therefore take 
care to be constantly employed. Manual occu- 
pations do not engage the mind sufl&ciently, as 
I know by experience, having tried many. But 
composition, especially of verse, absorbs it wholly. 
I write, therefore, generally three hours in a 
morning, and in an evening I transcribe. I read 
also, but less than I write, for I must have bodily 
exercise, and therefore never pass a day without 
ie 

Cowper's next letter to her, dated on the 9th 
of November following, is important, as it shows 
that Lady Hesketh had benevolently offered to 
increase his pecuniary resources : 

" My benevolent and generous Cousin, when 
I was once asked if I wanted any thing, and 
given delicately to understand that the inquirer 
was ready to supply all my occasions, I thank- 
fully and civilly, but positively, declined the 
favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any 



JOSr. 



IX MEMOIR OF COWPEK. 

such inconveniences as I had not much ra 
endure than come under obligations of that 
to a person comparatively with yourself a stra 
to me. But to you I answer othenvise. 1 1 
you thoroughly, and the liberality of your d 
sition, and have that consummate confidenc 
the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that 
vers me from all awkward constraint, and 
all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To 
therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever and wh 
ever, and in what manner soever you please ; 
add moreover, that my affection for the giv< 
such as will increase to me tenfold the sati 
tion that I shall have in receiving. It is n< 
sary, however, that I should let you a little 
the state of my finances, that you may not 
pose them more narrowly circumscribed 
they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I have ] 
at Olney, we had but one purse, although di 
the whole of that time, till lately, her income 
nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed 
now in some measure reduced, and do not r 
exceed my own ; the worst consequence of tb 
that we are forced to deny ourselves some tl 
which hitherto we have been better able to al 
but they are such things as neither Hfe, nor 
well being of life, depend upon. My own inc 
has been better than it is, but when it was 
it would not have enabled me to hve as my 
nexions demanded that I should, had it not " 
combined with a better than itself, at leaf 



MEMOIR OF C0T7PER. Ixi 

tiiis end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof 
daring three months that I spent in lodgings at 
Huntingdon, in which time, by the help of good 
management, and a clear notion of economical 
matters, I contrived to spend the income of a 
twelvemonth. Now, my beloved Cousin, you 
are in possession of the whole case as it stands. 
Strain no points to your own inconvenience or 
hurt, for there is no need of it, but indulge your- 
self in communicating (no matter what) that you 
can spare without missing it, since by so doing 
you will be sure to add to the comforts of my 
life one of the sweetest that I can enjoy — a token 
and proof of your affection." 

During the whole of the year 1785 Cowper 
was occupied upon the translation of Homer, and 
his letters prove that he was fully sensible of the 
magnitude of the effort. His mind was indeed 
nearly absorbed with the subject, and whatever 
may be the opinion of his success, no one can 
doubt that he taxed his powers to the uttermost 
to deserve it. The motive which induced him to 
undertake so Herculean a task was, he informed 
Mr. Newton in December, 1785, accidental : 

" For some weeks after I had finished the 
Task, and sent away the last sheet corrected, I 
was through necessity idle, and suffered not a 
little in my spirits for being so. One day, being 
in such distress of mind as was hardly support- 
able, I took up the Hiad ; and merely to divert 
attention, and with no more preconception of 



Ixii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

what I was then entering upon, than I have at 
this moment of what I shall be doing this day 
twenty years hence, translated the twelve fint 
lines of it. The same necessity pressing me 
again, I had recourse to the same expedient, and 
translated more. Every day bringing its occasion 
for employment with it, every day consequently 
added something to the work ; till at last I began 
to reflect thus : — The Iliad and the Odyssey to- 
gether consist of about forty thousand verses. 
To translate these forty thousand verses will fur- 
nish me with occupation for a considerable time. 
I have already made some progress, and I find it 
a most agreeable amusement. Homer, in point 
of purity, is a most blameless writer ; and, though 
he was not an enlightened man, has interspersed 
many great and valuable truths throughout both 
his poems. In short, he is in all respects a most 
venerable old gentleman, by an acquaintance 
with whom no man can disgrace himself. The 
literati are all agreed to a man, that, although 
Pope has given us two pretty poems under Ho- 
mer's titles, there is not to be found in them the 
least portion of Homer's spirit, nor the least re- 
semblance of his manner. I will try, therefore, 
whether I cannot copy him somewhat more hap- 
pily myself. I have at least the advantage of 
Pope's faults and failings, which, like so many 
buoys upon a dangerous coast, will serve me to 
steer by, and will make my chance for success 
more probable. These, and many other consi- 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. Ixiii 

derations, but especially a mind that abhorred a 
vacuum as its chief bane, impelled me so eifect- 
nally to the work, that ere long I mean to publish 
proposals for a subscription to it, having advanced 
so far as to be warranted in doing so. 

Intense occupation had not, however, the effect 
of totally banishing the enemy to his peace of 
mind. In May, 1786, when the revisal of the 
Iliad for the press employed every moment of 
his time, he told Mr. Newton, " Within this hour 
arrived three sets of your new publication,^ for 
which we sincerely thank you. We have bi'eak- 
fasted since they came, and consequently, as you 
may suppose, have neither of us had yet an op- 
portunity to make ourselves acquainted with the 
contents. I shall be happy (and when I say that, 
I mean to be understood in the fullest and most 
emphatical sense of the word) if my frame of 
mind shall be such as may permit me to study 
them. But Adam's approach to the tree of life, 
after he had sinned, was not more effectually pro- 
hibited by the flaming sword that turned every 
way, than mine to its great Antetypc has been 
now almost these thirteen years, a short interval, 
or three or four days, which passed about this 
time twelve month, alone excepted. For what 
reason it is that I am thus long excluded, if I am 
ever again to be admitted, is known to God only. 
I can say but this : that if he is still my Father, 
this paternal severity has, toward me, been such 

1 Messiah, 



Ixiv MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

as that I liave reason to account it unexample^^ 
For though others have suffered desertion, y^'^ 
few, I believe, for so long a time, and perhap ^ 
none a desertion accompained with such expert -" 
ences. But they have tliis belonging to them ^ 
that as they are not fit for recital, being made up^ 
merely of infernal ingredients, so neither are they 
susceptible of it ; for I know no language in which, 
they could be expressed. They are as truly things 
which it is not possible for man to utter, as those 
were which Paul heard and saw in the third 
heaf on. If the ladder of Christian experience 
reaches, as I suppose it does, to the very presence 
of God, it has nevertheless its foot in the abyss. 
And if Paul stood, as no doubt he did, in that 
experience of his to which I have just alluded, 
on the topmost round of it, I have been standing, 
and still stand on the lowest, in this thirteenth 
year that has passed since I descended. In such 
a situation of mind, encompassed by the midnight 
of absolute despair, and a thousand times filled 
with unspeakable horror, I first commenced an 
author. Distress drove me to it ; and the impos- 
sibihty of subsisting without some employment, 
still recommends it. I am not, indeed, so per- 
fectly hopeless as I was ; but I am equally in need 
of an occupation, being often as much, and some- 
times even more, worried than ever. I cannot 
amuse myself, as I once could, with carpenters' 
or with gardeners* tools, or with squirrels and 
guinea-pigs. At that time I was a child. But 



k 



MEMOm OP COT\rPER. Ixv 

since it has pleased Grod, whatever else he with- 
holds, to restore to me a man's mind, I have put 
away childish things. Thus far, therefore, it is 
plain that I have not chosen or prescribed to 
myself my own way, but have been providen- 
tially led to it ; perhaps I might say, with equal 
propriety, compelled and scourged mto it : for 
certainly, could I have made my choice, or were 
I permitted to make it even now, those hours 
which I spend in poetry I would spend with God. 
But it is evidently his will {hat I should spend 
them as I do, because every other way of em- 
ploying them he himself continues to make im- 
possible. If, in the course of such an occupa- 
tion, or by inevitable consequence of it, either 
my former connections are revived, or new ones 
occur, these things are as much a part of the dis- 
pensation as the leading pomts of it themselves ; 
the effect, as much as the cause. If his pur- 
poses in thus directing me are gracious, he will 
take care to prove them such in the issue ; and, 
in the mean time, will preserve me (for he is able 
to do that in one condition of life as in another) 
from all mistakes in conduct that might prove 
pernicious to myself, or give reasonable offence 
to others. I can say it as truly as it was ever 
spoken, — Here I am : let him do with me as 
seemeth him good." 

He was visited by Lady Heskcth at Olney, 
and at her suggestion he was induced to remove 
to the village of Weston in November following. 



Ixvi MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

Few of Cowper's pieces are better known than_ 
" the Rose," wliich is associated with the recol- 
lections of our earliest childhood. The author- 
ship of this poem being claimed by a lady, he 
informed Lady Hesketh of the circumstance 
which produced it : 

" I could pity the poor woman who has been 
weak enough to claim my song. Such pilferings 
are sure to be detected. I wrote it, I know not 
how long, but I suppose four years ago. The 
Rose in question was a rose given to Lady Austen 
by Mrs. Unwin, and the incident that suggested 
the subject occurred in the room in which you 
slept at the vicarage, which Lady Austen made 
her dining-room. Some time since Mr. Bull 
going to London I gave him a copy of it, which 
he undertook to convey to Nichols, the printer of 
the Gentleman's Magazine. lie showed it to a 

Mrs. C , who begged to copy it, and promised 

to send it to. the printer's by her servant. Three 
or four months afterwards, and when I had con- 
cluded it was lost, I saw it in the Gentleman's 
Magazine, with my signature, W. C. Poor sim- 
pleton ! She will find now perhaps that the 
Rose had a thorn, and that she has pricked her 
fingers with it." 

A lady of the name of King sought a corres- 
pondence with the poet in 1788, and at her re- 
quest he was induced to give her the following 
amusing account of his pursuits before he became 
an author : 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. Ixvii 

" There was a time, but that time was before I 
commenced writer for the press, when I amused 
myself in a way somewhat similar to yours ; allow- 
ing, I mean, for the difference between mascu- 
line and female operations. The scissors and 
the needle are your chief implements ; mine were 
the chisel and the saw. In those days you might 
have been in some danger of too plentiful a re- 
turn for your favours. Tables, such as they were, 
and joint-stools such as never were, might have 
travelled to Perton-hall in most inconvenient 
abundance. But I have long since discontinued 
this practice, and many others which I found it 
necessary to adopt, that I might escape the worst 
of all evils, both in itself and in its consequences 
— an idle life. Many arts I have exercised with 
this view, for which nature never designed me ; 
though among them were some in which I arrived 
at considerable proficiency, by mere dint of the 
most heroic perseverance. There is not a 'squire 
in all this country who can boast of having made 
better squirrel-houses, hutches for rabbits, or bird- 
cages, than myself; and in the article of cabbage- 
nets I had no superior. I even had the hardi- 
ness to take in hand the pencil, and studied a 
whole year the art of drawing. Many figures 
were the fruit of my labours, which had, at least, 
the merit of being unparalleled by any production 
either of art or nature. But before the year was 
ended, I had occasion to wonder at the progress 
that may be made, in despite of natural deficiency, 



Ixviii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

by dint alone of practice ; for I actually produced 
three landscapes, which a lady thought worthy 
to be framed and glazed. I then judged it high 
time to exchange this occupation for another, 
lest, by any subsequent productions of inferior 
merit, I should forfeit the honour I had so fortu- 
nately acquired. But gardening was, of all em- 
ployments, that in wliich I succeeded best; though 
even in this I did not suddenly attain perfection. 
I began with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them 
I proceeded to cucumbers; next to melons. I 
then purchased an orange-tree, to which, in due 
time, I added two or three myrtles. These served 
me day and night with employment during a 
whole severe winter. To defend them from the 
frost, in a situation that exposed them to its seve- 
rity, cost me much ingenuity and much attend- 
ance. I contrived to give them a fire heat ; and 
have waded night after night through the snow, 
with the bellows under my arm, just before going 
to bed, to give the latest possible puff to the em- 
bers, lest the frost should seize them before morn- 
ing. Very minute beginnings have sometimes 
important consequences. From nursing two or 
three little evergreens, I became ambitious of a 
greenhouse, and accordingly built one ; which, 
verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a 
longer time than any expedient of all the many 
to which I have fled for refuge from the misery 
of having nothing to do." 

It was scarcely possible, Tyithout exceeding the 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. Ixix 

necessary limits of this memoir, to insert extracts 
froai Cowper's letters on political subjects, and 
had it been possible, remarks on events of only 
temporary interest, however important the subject 
or clever the observations, would not be acceptable 
to readers, when the affairs adverted to have be- 
come mere matter of history. That he was a 
stanch whig is apparent from a letter written to 
Lady Hesketh in March, 1790: "I am neither 
Tory nor High Churchman, but an old Whig, 
as my father was before me : and an enemy, 
consequently, to all tyrannical impositions." 

A distant relation of the Poet, through his 
mother, a Mr. Johnson, and who subsequently 
took Orders, and has distinguished himself as the 
ablest of his biographers, inspired him with great 
affection. His letters to that gentleman, who 
was then a very young man, are among the most 
pleasing of his correspondence. There is much 
warmth of heart in the following, written in 
March, 1790 : 

" My boy, I long to see thee again. It has 
happened, -some way or other, that Mrs. Unwin . 
and I have conceived a great affection for thee. 
That I should is the less to be wondered at, be- 
cause thou art a shred of my own mother ; neither 
is the wonder great that she should fall into the 
same predicament, for she loves every thing that 
I love. You will observe that your own personal 
right to be beloved makes no part of the consider- 
ation. There is. nothing that I touch with so much 



IXX MEMOIR OF COWPEE. 

tenderness as the vanit v of a young man ; because 
I know how extremely susceptible he is of im- 
pressions that might hurt him in that particular 
part of his composition. If you should ever prove 
a coxcomb, from which character you stand just 
now at a greater distance than any young man I 
know, it shall never be said that I have made you 
one; no, you will gain nothing by me but the 
honour of being much valued by a i)oor poet, 
who can do you no good while he lives, and has 
nothing to leave you when he dies. If you can 
be contented to be dear to me on these conditions, 
60 you shall ; but other terms more advantageous 
than these, or more inviting, none have I to pro- 
jwse. Farewell. Puzzle not yourself about a 
subject when you write to either of us ; every 
thing is subject enough from those we love." 

In May in that year the Laureat died, and 
Lady Hesketh offered Cowper all her interest to 
get him nominated his successor. His reply 
indicates either that he was little influenced by 
ambition, or that he entertained a low opinion of 
the proposed distinction. 

" The Lodge, May, 28, 1790. 

" MT DEAREST COZ, 

" I THANK thee for the offer of thy best services on 
this occasion. But Heaven guard my brows from 
the wreath you mention, whatever wreath beside 
may hereafter adorn them ! It would be a leaden 
extinguisher, clapped on all the fire of my genius, 
and I should never more produce a line worth 



MEMOIB OP COWPER. Ixxi 

reading. To speak seriously, it would make me 
miserable, and therefore I am sure that thou, of 
all my friends, wouldst least wish me to wear it. 
*' Adieu, ever thine — ^in Homer-hurry, 

" W. C." 

There is so much good sense in the advice 
which he gave to his young kinsman, Mr. John- 
son, on the subject of academical distinctions, 
that it cannot be too widely circulated. How 
many young men are there who make University 
honours the goal of their ambition, and imagine 
that the fame which is produced by distinguish- 
ing themselves at College, is sufficient for the 
rest of their lives, and of whom consequently no 
more is known ! 

" You never pleased me more thaji when you 
told me you had abandoned your mathematical 
pursuits. It grieved me to think that you were 
wasting your time merely to gain a little Cam- 
bridge fame, not worth your having. I cannot 
be contented that your renown should thrive no 
where but on the banks of the Cam. Conceive 
a nobler ambition, and never let your honour be 
circumscribed by the paltry dimensions of a 
University ! " 

In July in that year he informed Mr. Johnson 
that he had finished the Iliad. Like Pope, he 
was accustomed to write parts of it on scraps of 
paper and backs of letters, as appears from a 
letter to Mrs. King, in which he inclosed his 



Ixxii MEMOIB OP COWPER. 

translation of some Latin letters by a Dutch 
clergyman at the Cape of Good Hope, which 
were published in 1792 : 

" I have hardly a scrap of paper belonging to 
me that is not scribbled over with blank verse ; 
and taking out your letter from a bundle of others, 
this moment, I find it thus inscribed on the seal 
side. 

meantime his steeds 



Snorted, by Myrmidions detain' d, and loosed 
From their own master's chariot, foam'd to fly. 

You will easily guess to what they belong ; and 
I mention the circumstance merely in proof of my 
perpetual engagement to Homer, whether at home 
or abroad ; for when I committed these lines to 
the back of your letter, I was rambling at a con- 
siderable distance from home. I set one foot on 
a mole-hill, placed my hat with the crown up- 
ward on my knee, laid your letter upon it, and with 
a pencil wrote the fragment that I have sent you. 
In the same posture I have written many and 
many a passage of a work which I hope soon to 
have done with. But all this is foreign to what 
I intended when I first took pen in hand. My 
purpose then was, to excuse my long silence as 
well as I could, by telling you that I am at pre- 
sent not only a labourer in verse, but in prose 
also, having been requested by a friend, to whom 
I could not refuse it, to translate for him a series 
of Latin letters received from a Dutch minister 
of the gospel at the Cape of Good Hope. With 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. Ixxiii 

this additional occupation you will be sensible 
that my hands are full ; and it is a truth that, 
except to yourself, I would, just at this time, 
have written to nobody." 

The principal reference in his con*espondence, 
w 1790, to his mental ailment, is in a letter to 
Mr. Newton, in October : 

" The only consolation left me on this subject 
^8, that the voice of the Almighty can in one mo- 
ment cure me of this mental infirmity. That He 
^an, I know by experience ; and there are rea- 
^ns for which I ought to believe that he will. 
-But from hope to despair is a transition that I 
*lave made so often, that I can only consider the 
l^ope that may come, and that sometimes I believe 
'Will, as a short prelude of joy to a miserable con- 
clusion of sorrow that shall never end. Thus are 
Xny brightest prospects clouded, and thus to me 
is hope itself become like a withered flower, that 
lias lost both its hue and its fragrance." 

Few authors will dispute the justice of the fol- 
lowing remark on the unwillingness of the Uni- 
versities to patronize ^terature by applying part 
of their funds to the purchase of books : 

"You have not, I hope, forgot to tell Mr. 
Frog,^ how much I am obUged to him for his 
kind, though unsuccessful attempt in my favour 
at Oxford. It seems not a little extraordinary 
that persons so nobly patronized themselves, on 

1 His familiar designation of his friend Mr. Throckmorton. 
VOL. I. 6 



Ixxiv MEMOIR OF COWFER. 

the score of literature, should resolve to ^ve no 
encouragement to it in return. Should I find a 
fair opportunity to thank them hereafter, I will 
not neglect it. 

" 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.' " 

In another letter Cowper says, the answer 
of the University of Oxford to the request was, 
" that they subscribe to nothing ! " 

The translation of the Iliad and Odyssey, on 
which he bestowed ^ve years, was published in 
two quarto volumes, in July, 1791. The Hiad 
was inscribed to his kinsman. Earl Cowper, and 
the Odyssey w^as dedicated to the Dowager Lady 
Spencer, who has shown him many marks of 
kindness. Success was not, however, the imme- 
diate reward of his toil, and the revisions which 
he made for the second edition were attended by 
scarcely less labour than the original composi- 
tion. 

Cowper had learnt from experience that intense 
literary application was the only remedy for his 
malady, and soon after his translation of Homer 
appeared, he gladly accepted the proposition of 
his publisher to superintend a new and splendid 
edition of Milton's works, with notes and a trans- 
lation of his Latin and Italian Poems. This 
undertaking accidently produced him the ac- 
quaintance of Hayley, who was then engaged 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. IXXV 

on a Life of that Poet. A correspondence com- 
menced, and the greatest intimacy was in a very 
short time the result : before they had ever seen 
each other, Cowper told him in a letter dated in 
April, 1792 : 

" God grant that this friendship of ours may be 
a comfort to us all the rest of our days, in a world 
where true friendships are rarities, and especially 
where suddenly formed they are apt soon to termi- 
nate ! But, as I said before, I feel a disposition 
of heart toward you, that I never felt for one 
whom I had never seen ; and that shall prove 
itself, I trust, in the event a propitious omen." 

In the next month, Hayley paid a visit to 
Weston, and was received with the warmest 
regard, but his reception is best described in his 
own words, because they afford a graphic idea of 
Cowper's home : 

" Our meeting, so singularly produced, was a 
source of reciprocal delight. We looked cheer- 
fully forward to the unclouded enjoyment of many 
social and literary hours. My host, though now 
in his sixty-first year, appeared as happily ex- 
empt from all the infirmities of advanced life as 
friendship could wish him to be : and his more 
elderly companion, not materially oppressed by 
age, discovered a benevolent alertness of charac- 
ter that seemed to promise a continuance of their 
domestic comfort. Their reception of me was 
kindness itself. I was enchanted to find that 
the manners and conversation of Cowper resem- 



Ixxvi MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

bled his poetry,— charming by unaffected ele- 
gance, and the graced of a benevolent spirit. I 
looked with affectionate veneration and pleasure 
on the lady who, having devoted her life and for- 
tune to the service of this tender and sublime 
genius, in watching over liim with maternal vigi- 
lance through many years of the darkest cala- 
mity, appeared to be now enjoying a reward 
justly due to the noblest exertions of friendship, 
in contemplating the health and the renown of the 
poet whom she had the happiness to preserve. 
It seemed hardly possible to survey human na- 
ture in a more touching and a more satisfactory 
point of view." 

During this visit a heavy calamity befell Cow- 
per, by Mrs. Unwin being seized with paralysis ; 
and his letters are full of the consolation which 
he derived from the sympathy and kindness of 
Hayley. 

A letter which he wrote at this period to his 
publisher, on the subject of his edition of Milton, 
is now published for the first time ; 

Weston Underwood, 
DEAR SIR, Jtily 8, 1792. 

Traditur dies die, 
Novaeque pergunt interire lunse. 

t 

Days, weeks, and months escape me, and nothing 
is done, nor is it possible for me to do any thing 
that demand study and attention in the present 
state of our family. I am the electrician ; I am 



MEMOIR OF OOWPER. Ixxvii 

tiie escort into the garden ; I am wanted, in short, 
6ii a hundred little occasions that occur every 
day in Mrs. Unwin's present state of infirmity ; 
and I see no probability that I shall be less occu- 
pied in the same indispensable duties for a long 
time to come. The time fixed in your proposals 
for publication meanwhile steals on ; and I have 
lately felt my engagement for Milton bear upon 
my spirits with a pressure which, added to the 
pressure of some other private concerns, is almost 
more than they are equal to. Tell me if you 
expect to be punctual to your assignation with 
the public, and that the artists will be ready with 
their part of the business so soon as the spring 
of '94 ? I cannot bear to be waited for, neither 
shall I be able to perform my part of the work 
with any success if I am hunted ; and I ask this 
question thus early lest my own distress should 
increase, and should ultimately prove a distress 
to you. My translations are finished, and when 
I have finished also the revisal of them, will be, 
I believe, tolerably well executed. They shall 
be heartily at your service, if by this unhappy 
interception my time should be so shortened as to 
forbid my doing more. 

Your speedy answer will oblige yours affec- 
tionately, Wm. Cowper. 

" There is one Richard Coleman in the world, 
whom I have educated from an infant, and who 
is utterly good for nothing ; but he is at present 



Ixxviii MEMOIR OF COWPEB. 

in great trouble, the fruit of his own folly. I 
send him, by this post, an order upon you for 
eight guineas." 

As a convincing proof of the influence which 
Hayley possessed over his mind, he alone, of all 
his friends, was able to persuade him to leave 
Weston, and visit him at Eartham, in Sussex. 
This journey, which took place in July, 1792, was 
the first which he had made for twenty years. 
Whilst under Hayley's roof their mornings were 
spent in revising Cowper's translation of Milton's 
Latin and Italian Poems, and after dinner they 
amused themselves with forming a metrical ver- 
sion of Andreini's Adamo ; but their chief occu- 
pation was in contributing to Mrs. Unwin's com- 
fort. Writing from Eartham to Lady Hesketh, 
Cowper observed : 

" I am, without the least dissimulation, in good 
health ; my spirits are about as good as you have 
ever seen them ; and if increase of appetite and 
a double portion of sleep be advantageous, such 
are the advantages that I have received from this 
migration. As to that gloominess of mind which 
I have had these twenty years, it cleaves to me 
even here ; and could I be translated to Paradise, 
unless I left my body behind me, would cleave to 
me even there also. It is my companion for life, 
and nothing will ever divorce us." 

After spending about six weeks with Hayley 
he returned to Weston, having on the road passed 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. Ixxix 

a day with his venerable kinsman, General Cow- 
per. 

Ck)wper's sentiments on the Established Church, 
as expressed in a letter to Mr. Hill, in December, 
1792, were extremely hberal : 

"As to the reformation of the church, I want 
none, unless by a better provision for the inferior 
clergy; and if that could be brought about by 
emaciating a little some of our too corpulent 
dignitaries, I should be well contented. The 
dissenters, I think. Catholics and others, have all 
a right to the privilege of all otlier Englishmen, 
because to deprive them is persecution ; and 
persecution on any account, but especially on a 
religious gne, is an abomination. But after all, 
valeat respuhlica, I love my Country, I love my 
King, and I wish peace and prosperity to Old 
England." 

In June, 1793, he contemplated writing a 
Poem, entitled, the Four Ages, but he only com- 
pleted a fragment. This work, he then observed, 
is the utmost that he aspired to, but he adds, 
" Heaven knows with how feeble a hope." 

Cowper's letters about September in that year 
contain notices of the late Sir Thomas Lawrence, 
which are of some interest. To Mr. Johnson he 
says, — " Here you will meet Mr. Rose, who comes 
on the 8 th, and brings with him Mr. Lawrence, 
the painter, you may guess for what purpose." 
On the 5th of October he told Mr. Hayley, " On 
Tuesday we expect company. Mr. Rose and 



IXXX MEMOIB OF COWPEB. 

Lawrence the painter. Yet once more is my 
patience to be exercised, and once more I am 
made to wish that my face had been movable, to 
put on and take off at pleasure, so as to be port- 
able in a l)andbox, and sent to the artist." To 
Mr. Rose he remarked in November following, 
" My hope was, that the fine frost would bring 
you, and the amiable painter with you. If, how- 
ever, you are prevented by the business of your 
respective professions, you are well prevented, 
and I will endeavour to be patient. When the 
latter was here, he mentioned one day the subject 
of Diomede's horses, driven under the axle of his 
chariot by the thunderbolt which fell at their feet, 
as a subject for his pencil. It is certainly a noble 
one, and therefore worthy of his study and atten- 
tion. It occurred to me at the moment, but I 
know not what it was that made me forget it 
again the next moment, that the horses of Achilles 
flying over the foss, with Patroclus and Autome- 
don in the chariot, would be a good companion 
for it. Should you happen to recollect this, when 
you next see him, you may submit it if you please, 
to his consideration. I stumbled yesterday on 
another subject, which reminded me of the said 
excellent artist, as likely to afford a fine oppor- 
tunity to the expression that he could give it. 
It is found in the shooting match in the twenty- 
third book of the Iliad, between Meriones and 
Teucer. The former cuts the string with which 
the dove is tied to the mast-head, and sets her at 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. IxXXI 

Kberty ; the latter standing at his side, in all the 
eagerness of emulation, points an arrow at the 
mark with his right hand, while with his left he 
snatches the bow from his competitor. He is a 
fine poetical figure, but Mr. Lawrence himself 
must judge whether or not he promises as well 
for the canvas." 

In November Hayley paid a second visit to 
Weston. He found Cowper apparently well, and 
enlivened by the society of Mr. Johnson and Mr. 
Rose. The latter arrived from Althorpe, the seat 
of Lord Spencer, and was charged to invite him 
to meet Gibbon at that place. He, however, de- 
clined the proffered civility, notwithstanding the 
earnest entreaties of his friends that he would 
accept it. Upon this occasion Hayley perceived 
the ai>proach of the storm which finally wTCcked 
his intellect : " He possessed, he says, completely 
at this period all the admirable faculties of his 
mind, and all his native tenderness of heart ; but 
there was something indescribable in his appear- 
ance, which led me to apprehend, that without 
some signal event in his favour to re-animate his 
spirits, they would gradually sink into hopeless 
dejection. The state of his aged infinn com- 
panion afforded additional ground for increasing 
solicitude. Her cheerful and beneficent spirit 
could hardly resist her own accumulated mala- 
dies, so far as to preserve ability sufficient to 
watch over the tender health of him, whom she 
had watched and guarded so long. Liibecility of 



Ixxxii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

body and mind must gradually render this t< 
and heroic woman unfit for the charge "whic" 
had so laudably sustained. The signs of 
imbecility were beginning to be painfully vi 
nor can nature present a spectacle more 
pitiable than imbecihty in such a shape, er 
grasping for dominion, which it knows not 
how to retain, or how to relinquish." 

In January, 1794, Cowper told a frient 
have just ability enough to transcribe, wli 
all that I have to do at present : God know 
I write, at this moment, under the pressu 
sadness not to be described." 

At that time his correspondence wit] 
friends ceased, and he again became a vie 
hypochondriasis, to an extent which was 
deplorable : his condition may be judged 
the account which Mr. Greathead gave o: 
in April in that year to Ilayley : 

" Lady Hesketh's correspondence acqu 
you with the melancholy relapse of our 
friend at Weston ; but I am uncertain w] 
you know, that in the last fortnight he h 
fused food of every kind, except now and 1 
very small piece of toasted bread, dipped 
rally in water, sometimes mixed with a 
wine. This her ladyship informs me, wf 
case till last Saturday, since when, he hi 
a little at each family meal. He persi 
refusing such medicines as are indispensa 
his state of body. In such circumstance 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. Ixxxiii 

long continuance in life cannot be expected. 
How devoutly to be wished is the alleviation 
of his danger and distress. You, dear Sir, who 
know so well the worth of our beloved and ad- 
mired friend, sympathize with his affliction, and 
deprecate his loss doubtless in no ordinary 
degree; you have abeady most effectually ex- 
pressed and proved the warmth of your friend- 
ship. I cannot think that any thing but your 
society would have been sufficient, during the in- 
firmity under which his mind has long been op- 
pressed, to have supported him against the shock 
of Mrs. Unwin's paralytic attack. I am certain 
that nothing else could have prevailed upon him 
to undertake the journey to Eartham. You have 
succeeded where his other friends knew they could 
not, and where they apprehended no one could. 
How natural, therefore, nay, how reasonable, is 
it for them to look to you, as most likely to be 
instrumental, under the blessing of God, for relief 
in the present distressing and alarming crisis ! It 
is, indeed, scarcely attemptable to ask any per- 
son to take such a journey, and involve himself 
in so melancholy a scene, with an uncertainty 
of the desired success : increased as the apparent 
difficulty is, by dear Mr. Cowper's aversion to 
all company, and by poor Mrs. Unwinds mental 
and bodily infirmities. On these accounts Lady 
Hesketh dares not ask it of you, rejoiced as she 
would* be at your arrival. Am not I, dear Sir, a 
very presumptuous person, who, in the face of 



Ixxxir MEMorR op cowper. 

all bpposition, dare do this ? I am emboldened 
by those two powerful supporters, conscience and 
experience. Was I at Eartham, I would cer- 
tainly undertake the labour I presume to recom- 
mend, for the bare possibility of restoring Mr. 
Cowper to himself, to his friends, to the public, 
and to God." 

Hayley promptly complied with this request, 
but even his presence failed to rouse the mind 
of the sufferer, " who seemed to shrink at times," 
says that writer, "from every human creature, 
except from the gentle voice of my son ; " and 
Dr. Willis was consulted but without any benefit. 
It was at this time that the effort of Cowper's 
friends obtained a pension of £300 per annum 
for him from the royal bounty, principally through 
the generous zeal of the present Lord Spencer. 
But he was too deeply absorbed in his own 
reflections to evince the slightest symptoms of 
satisfaction on the occasion. In July, 1795, it 
became absolutely necessary to make an effort 
with respect to him. Mrs. Unwin was fast sink- 
ing into second childhood, and nothing but a 
change of scene would, it was thought, save 
Cowper's life. Mr. Johnson generously under- 
took the care both of his afflicted relative and 
Mrs. Unwin, and on the 28th of July, 1795, they 
removed to North Tuddenham, in Norfolk. The 
last original effort of his pen was that beautiful 
plaintive ballad, addressed "to Mary," — Mrs. 
Unwin, — ^which their removal appears to have 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. IXXXV 

produced. Ffom Tuddenham they w6nt to 
Mtindsley, a viUage on the north coast for the 
benefit of the sea air, but without any advantage 
to Cowper. Whilst there, however, he recovered 
sufficient energy to write to a clergyman at Wes- 
ton, for tidings about his favourite village. 

They quitted Mundsley for East Dereham in 
October, and thence took up their residence at 
Dunham Lodge, four miles from Swaffham. For 
some months Cowper was incapable of using 
either his books or his pen, but by a little strata- 
gem he was induced in June, 1796, to open 
Wakefield's edition of Pope's Homer, which 
contained allusions to his own labours, and his 
Mends were gratified to find that he corrected 
his translation at the suggestion of some remarks 
in that work. In September Mr. Johnson and 
his interesting charge went again to Mundsley, 
but at the end of the following month they 
retired to Dereham. 

The principal tie which connected Cowper 
with the world was now severed by the death of 
Mrs. Unwin, who quietly expired on the 17th of 
December following ; but he evinced little emotion 
on the occasion. On viewing her corpse, how- 
ever, he uttered a vehement but unfinished excla- 
mation of passionate sorrow, started suddenly 
away, and from that moment never again men- 
tioned her name ! This amiable woman was 
buried in East Dereham Church, where the fol- 
lowing inscription is placed to her memory : 



Ixxxvi HEMOIB OP COWFEB. 

IN MEMORY OF 

MARY, 

WroOW OF THE KEV. MORLET UNWIN, 

AND 
MOTHER OF THE REV. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE XJJTWIN, 

BORN AT ELY, 1724. 
BURIED IN THIS CHURCH, 1798. 

Trusting iu God with all her heart and mind, 

This woman prov'd magnanimously kind; 

Endur'd affliction's desolating hail. 

And watch' d a Poet through misfortune's vale. 

Her spotless dust angelic guards defend ! 

It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend ! 

That single title in itself is fame, 

For all who read his verse revere her name. 

A very few lines will comprise all which it is 
necessary to relate of the remaining years of 
Cowper's life. The only alleviation of which his 
mind was for some time susceptible was in having 
works of fiction read to him ; but in the summer 
of 1797 he was induced once more to return to 
the revision of his Homer, which he completed 
on the 8th of March, 1799. Such however was 
the extent of his malady at this period, that 
though his friends, Lady Spencer and Sir John 
Throckmorton, rode many miles to visit him, he 
scarcely spoke to them. A few days afterwards 
he translated the Poem " Montcs Glaciales," and 
he soon afterwards produced " The Cast-away," 
which was founded on an incident in Anson's 
Voyages, a book he had not opened for nearly 
twenty years. In January, 1800, his health 



MEMOIR OF COWPER. IxXXVii 

^^clined so much that a physician was called 

^^j bj the aid of whose prescription and the daily 

^Xercise of a postchaise, his disorder was arrested. 

•*^owards the end of that month his attention 

^as recalled to his Homer by Mr. Hayley, who 

Wished him to re-write a passage in the Eiad. 

^his he did, and sent it to Hayley, which was 

the last effort of his pen. 

By the middle of February his weakness had 
increased to such a degree as to render him un- 
able to bear the motion of a carriage, and he now 
ceased to come down stairs, but daily removed 
from his bed-room to another apartment above 
it ; and before the end of March he was confined 
to his own chamber. His friend Mr. Rose then 
visited him, and though he betrayed little pleasure 
at his arrival, he was much grieved at his depart- 
ure. On the 19 th of April his dissolution ap- 
peared to be so close at hand, that Mr. Johnson 
ventured to apprise him of the fact. "After a 
pause," says that admirable friend, in his Life 
of Cowper, " of a few moments, which was less 
interrupted by the objections of his desponding 
relative than he had dared to hope, he proceeded 
to an observation more consolatory still ; namely, 
that in the world to which he was hastening, a 
merciful Redeemer had prepared unspeakable 
happiness for all his children, and therefore for 
him. To the first part of this sentence he had 
listened with composure, but the concluding 
words were no sooner uttered, than his passion- 



IxXXViii MEMOIR OF COWPER. 

ately expressed entreaties that his companion 
would desist from any further observations of ft 
similar kind, clearly proved, that though it wa3 
on the eve of being invested with angelic light, 
the darkness of delusion still veiled his spirit." 

In the early part of Monday, the 21st, he 
appeared to be dying, but he so far rallied as 
to partake slightly of dinner, and continued to 
sink gradually during Tuesday, Wednesday, and 
Thursday. In the course of Thursday night he 
seemed exhausted, and on Miss Perowne, whose 
assiduous attentions to the Poet for the last five 
years of his existence cannot be too highly 
praised, offering him some refreshment, he ob- 
served, "What can it signify?" which were the 
last words he uttered. At five in the morning 
of Friday, the 25th of April, a deadly change 
was observed in his countenance, and he con- 
tinued insensible from that time until about five 
minutes before ^ye in the afternoon, when he 
expired, being then in his seventieth year. ." In 
so mild and gentle a manner," says Mr. Johnson, 
who was present, " did his spirit take its flight, 
that the persons around him who had their eyes 
fixed on his countenance, did not perceive the 
precise moment of his departure." 

Cowper was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, 
in the Church of East Dereham, on Saturday 
the 3d of May ; and a monument is placed over 
his grave with this inscription by Hayley : 



MEMOIR OP COWPER. Ixxxix 

IN MEMORY 

Op WILLIAM COWPER, Esq. 

BORN IN HERTFORDSHIRE 1731. 
BURIED IN THIS CHURCH 1800. 

Ye, who with warmth the public triumph feel 
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal, 
Here, to devotion's Bard devoutly just, 
Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust! 
England, exulting in his spotless fame. 
Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name ; 
Sense, fancy, wit, suflfice not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise : 
His highest honours to the heart belong; 
His virtues form'd the magic of his song. 

Hajley thus describes Cowper's person and 
deportment : 

**From his figure, as it first appeared to me 
in his sixty-second year, I should imagine that 
he must have been very comely in his youth ; and 
little had time injured his countenance, since his 
features expressed at that period of life all the 
powers of his mind, and all the sensibility of his 
heart He was of a middle stature, rather strong 
than delicate in the form of his limbs : the colour 
of his hair was a light brown, that of his eyes a 
bluish gray, and his complexion ruddy. In his 
dress he was neat, but not finical; in his diet 
temperate, and not dainty. He had an air of 
pensive reserve in his deportment, and his ex- 
treme shyness sometimes produced in his man- 
ners an indescribable mixture of awkwardness 
and dignity; but no being could be more truly 
VOL. I. 7 



XC MEMOIR OP COWPER. 

graceful when he was in perfect health and per- 
fectly pleased with his society. Towards women 
in particular, his behaviour and conversation was 
delicate and fascinating in the highest degree." 

Cowper's talents and character are so fully 
displayed in his correspondence and poems, that 
it is unnecessary in this place to say any thing 
upon either. His works have attained a popu- 
larity which is irresistible evidence of their merit, 
and the readers of this edition do not require a 
long essay pointing out faults which they cannot 
fail to perceive, or by noticing beauties which they 
are sure to discover. It is certainly proper that 
disquisitions on the pecuhar genius of Poets 
should be written; but upon Cowper's produc- 
tions numerous essays already exist, and it would 
be as needless to repeat what has been before 
said, as it would be ridiculous to labour after 
original ideas when the subject has been ex- 
hausted by far abler critics. 



I 



PREFACE.! 

When an Author, by appearing in print, re- 
quests an audience of the Public, and is upon 
the point of speaking for himself, whoever pre- 
sumes to step before him with a preface, and 
to say, "Nay, but hear me first," should have 
something worthy of attention to offer, or he will 
be justly deemed officious and impertinent. The 
judicious reader has probably, upon other oc- 
casions, been beforehand with me in this reflec- 
ticm : and I am not very willing it should now 
be applied to me, however I may seem to ex- 
pose myself to the danger of it. But the 
thought of having my own name perpetuated 
in connection with the name in the title page is 
so pleasing and flattering to the feelings of my 
heart, that I am content to risk something for 
the gratification. 

This Preface is not designed to commend the 
Poems to which it is prefixed. My testimony 
would be insufficient for those who are not 
qualified to judge properly for themselves, and 
unnecessary to those who are. Besides, the rea- 
sons which render it improper and unseemly 
for a man to celebrate his own performances, or 

1 Published with the first volume. 



XCU PREFACE. 

those of his nearest relatives, will have some in- 
fluence in suppressing much of what he migM 
otherwise wish to say in favour of a friend, when 
that friend is indeed an alter idem, and excites 
almost the same emotions of sensibility and 
affection as he feels for himself. 

It is very probable these Poems may come 
into the hands of some persons, in whom the 
sight of the author's name will awaken a recol- 
lection of incidents and scenes, which through 
length of time they had almost forgotten. They 
will be reminded of one, who was once the com- 
panion of their chosen hours, and who set out 
with them in early life in the paths which lead 
to literary honours, to influence and affluence, 
with equal prospects of success. But he was 
suddenly and powerfully withdrawn from those 
pursuits, and he left them without regret ; yet 
not till he had sufficient opportunity of counting 
the cost, and of knowing the value of what he 
gave up. If happiness could have been found 
in classical attainments, in an elegant taste, in 
the exertions of wit, fancy, and genius, and in 
the esteem and converse of such persons, as in 
these respects were most congenial with himself, 
he would have been happy. But he was not— 
He wondered (as thousands in a similar situation 
still do) that he should continue dissatisfied, with 
all the means apparently conducive to satisfac- 
tion within his reach. But in due time the cause 
of his disappointment was discovered to him — 



PBEFACE. XCm 

He had lived without God in the world. In a 
memorable hour the wisdom which is from above^ 
visited his heart. Then he felt himself a wan- 
derer, and then he found a guide. Upon this 
change of views, a change of plan and conduct 
followed of course. When he saw the busy and 
the gay world in its true light, he left it with as 
little reluctance as a prisoner, when called to 
liberty, leaves his dungeon. Not that he became 
a Cynic or an Ascetic — ^A heart filled with love 
to God wiU assuredly breathe benevolence to 
men. But the turn of his temper inclining him 
to rural life, he indulged it, and the providence 
of Grod evidently preparing his way and marking 
out liis retreat, he retired into the country. By 
these steps, the good hand of God, unknown to 
me, was providing for me one of the principal 
blessings of my life ; a friend and a counsellor, 
ID whose company for almost seven years, though 
we were seldom seven successive waking hours 
separated, I always found new pleasure. A friend 
who was not only a comfort to myself, but a 
blessing to the affectionate poor people among 
whom I then lived. 

Some time after inclination had thus removed 
him from the hurry and bustle of life, he was 
still more secluded by a long indisposition, and 
my pleasure was succeeded by a proportionable 
degree of anxiety and concern. But a hope, 
that the God whom he served would support him 
under his affliction, and at length vouchsafe him 



\ 

XCIV PREFACE. 

a happy deliverance, never forsook me. The de- 
Birable crisis, I trust, is now nearly approaching. 
The dawn, the presage of returning day, is already 
arrived. lie is again enabled to resume his pen, 
and some of the first fruits of his recovery are 
here presented to the pubhc. In his principsd 
subjects the same acumen, which distinguished 
him in the early period of life, is happily em- 
ployed in illustrating and enforcing the truths, 
of which he received such deep and unalterable 
impressions in his maturer years. His satire, if 
it may be called so, is benevolent, (like the oper- 
ations of the skilful and humane surgeon, who 
wounds only to heal) dictated by a just regard 
for the honour of God, and indignant grief excited 
by the profligacy of the age, and a tender com- 
passion for the souls of men. 

His favourite topics are least insisted on in the 
piece entitled Table Talk ; which therefore, with 
some regard to the prevailing taste, and that 
those, who are governed by it, may not be dis- 
couraged at the very threshold from proceeding 
farther, is placed first. In most of the large 
Poems which follow, his leading design is more 
explicitly avowed and pursued. He aims to 
communicate his own perceptions of the truth, 
beauty, and influence of the rehgion of the Bible 
— a religion, which, however discredited by the 
misconduct of many, who have not renounced 
the Christian name, proves itself, when rightly 
understood, and cordially embraced, to be the 



PREFACE. XCV 

grand desideratum, which alone can relieve the 
mind of a man from painful and unavoidable 
anxieties, inspire it with stable peace and solid 
hope, and furnish those motives and prospects 
which, in the present state of things, are abso- 
lutely necessary to produce a conduct worthy of 
a rational creature, distinguished by a vastness 
of capacity which no assemblage of earthly good 
can satisfy, and by a principle and preintimation 
of immortality. 

At a time when hypothesis and conjecture in 
philosophy are so justly exploded, and little is 
considered as deserving the name of knowledge, 
which will not stand the test of experiment, the 
very use of the term experimental in religious 
concernments is by too many unhappily rejected 
with disgust. But we well know, that they, who 
affect to despise the inward feelings which reli- 
gious persons speak of, and to treat them as 
enthusiasm and folly, have inward feelings of 
their own, which, though they would, they cannot 
suppress. We have been too long in the secret 
ourselves, to account the proud, the ambitious, 
or the voluptuous happy. We must lose the 
remembrance of what we once were, before we 
can believe that a man is satisfied with himself, 
merely because he endeavours to appear so. A 
smile upon the face is often but a mask worn 
occasionally and in company, to prevent, if 
possible, a suspicion of what at the same time is 
passing in the heart. We know that there are 



XCVl PREFACE. 

people who seldom smile when they are alone, 
who therefore are glad to hide themselves in a 
throng from the violence of their own reflections ; 
and who, while by their looks and their language 
they wish to persuade us they are happy, would 
be glad to change their conditions with a dog. 
But in defiance of all their efforts they continue 
to think, forebode, and tremble. This we know, 
for it has been our own state, and therefore W6 
know how to commiserate it in others. From 
this state the Bible relieved us. When we were 
led to read it with attention, we found ourselves 
described — we learnt the causes of our inquie- 
tude — we were directed to a method of relief—^ 
we tried, and we were not disappointed. 

Deus nobis haec otia fecit. 

We are now certain that the Gospel of Christ 
is the power of God unto salvation to every one 
that believeth. It has reconciled us to God, and 
to ourselves, to our duty, and our situation. It 
is the balm and cordial of the present life, and 
a sovereign antidote against the fear of death. 

Sed hactenus haec. Some smaller pieces upon 
less important subjects close the volume. Not 
one of them, I believe, was written with a view 
to publication, but I was unwilling they should 
be omitted. 

JoHx Newton. 

Charles Square, Hoxton, 
February 18, 1782. 



TABLE TALK. 

Si te fortfe meae gravis uret sarcina chartae, 

AbjicitO. HOB. LIB. I. EP. 13. 

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built 
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt : 
The deeds, that men admire as half divine, 
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. 
Strange doctrine this ! that without scruple tears 
The laurel that the very lightning spares ; 
Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, 
And eats into his bloody sword like rust 

B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, 
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war. 
And never meant the rule should be applied 

To him that fights with justice on his side. 

Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews. 
Reward his memory, dear to every muse, 
Who, with a courage of unshaken root, 
In honour's field advancing his firm foot, 
Plants it upon the line that Justice draws. 
And will prevail or perish in her cause. 
'Tis to the virtues of such men man owes 
His portion in the good that heaven bestows. 



2 TABLE TALK. 

And when recording history displays 
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, 
Tells of a few stout hearts that fought and died, 
Where duty placed them, at their country's side; 
The man that is not moved with what he reads, 
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, 
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave, 
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. 

But let eternal infamy pursue 
The wretch to nought but his ambition true. 
Who, for the sake of filHng with one blast 
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. 
Think yourself stationed on a towering rock, 
To see a people scattered like a flock, 
Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, 
With all the savage thirst a tiger feels ; 
Then view him self-proclaim*d in a gazette 
Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. 
The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced. 
Those ensigns of dominion, how disgraced ! 
The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour. 
And Death's own scythe would better speak his 

power ; 
Then grace the bony phantom in their stead 
With the king's shoulderknot and gay cockade ;- 
Clothe the twin bretliren in each other's dressj 
The same their occupation and success. 

A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man ; 
Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan : 
Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn. 
Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. 



TABLE TALK. 3 

B. Seldom, aJas ! the power of logic reigns 
With much sufficiency in royal brains ; 
Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone, 
Wanting its proper base to stand upon. 
Man made for kings ! those optics are but dim 
That tell you so — say, rather, they for him. 
That were indeed a king-ennobling thought. 
Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. 
The diadem, with mighty projects lined. 
To catch renown by ruining mankind. 
Is worth, with all its gold and glittering store. 
Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. 

Oh ! bright occasions of dispensing good. 
How seldom used, how little understood ! 
To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward ; 
Keep Vice restrained behind a double guard ; 
To quell the faction, that affronts the throne. 
By silent magnanimity alone ; 
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts ; / 
Watch every beam philosophy imparts ; 
To give religion her unbridled scope. 
Nor judge by statute a believer's hope ; 
With close fidelity and love unfeign'd 
To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd ; 
Covetous only of a virtuous praise ; 
His life a lesson to the land he sways ; 
To touch the sword with conscientious awe, 
Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw ; 
To sheathe it in the peace-restoring close 
With joy beyond what victory bestows ; 



1 



4 TABLE TALK* 

Blest country, where these kingly glories shine! 
Blest England, if this happiness be thine ! 

A. Guard what you say ; the patriotic tribe 
Will sneer, and charge you with a bribe. — ^b. A 
The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, [bribe? 
To lure me to the baseness of a lie. 
And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast), 
The lie that flatters I abhor the most. 
Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign. 
But he that loves him has no need to feign* 

A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown ad- 
Seems to imply a censure on the rest [dress'd, 

B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, 
Ask'd, when in hell, to see the royal jail ; 
Approved their method in all other things : 
But where, good sir, do you confine your kings ? 
There — said his guide — the group is full in view. 
Indeed ? — ^replied the don — ^there are but few. 
His black interpreter the charge disdain'd — 
Few, fellow ? — there are all that ever reign'd. 
Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike 

The guilty and not guilty both alike : 

I grant the sarcasm is too severe. 

And we can readily refute it here ; 

While Alfred's name, the father of his age, 

And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. 

A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all : 
By their own conduct they must stand or fall. 

B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays 
His quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise ; 



TABLE TALK. i 

nd many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, 
Ldds, as he can, his tributary mite : 
i. subject's faults a subject may proclaim, 
\ monarch's errors are forbidden game !. 
Thus free from censure, overawed by fear, 
And praised for virtues that they scorn to wear, 
The fleeting forms of majesty engage 
Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage ; 
Then leave their crimes for history to scan, 
And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man ? 

I pity kings, whom worship waits upon 
Obsequious from the cradle to the throne ; 
Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, 
And binds a wreath about their baby brows : 
"Whom education stiffens into state, 
And death awakens from that dream too late. 
Oh ! if servility with supple knees. 
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please ; 
If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace 
A devil's purpose "svith an angel's face ; 
If smiling peeresses, and simpering peers, 
Encompassing his throne a few short years ; 
If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed. 
That wants no driving, and disdains the lead ; 
If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks. 
Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks. 
Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone, 
While condescending majesty looks on ; 
If monarchy consist in such base things. 
Sighing, I say again, I pity kings ! 



6 TABLE TALK. 

To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, 
E'en when he labours for his country's good ; 
To see a band, call'd patriot for no cause, 
But that they catch at popular applause 
Careless of all the anxiety he feels. 
Hook disappointment on the public wheels ; 
With all their flippant fluency of tongue. 
Most confident, when palpably most wrong ; 
If this be kingly, then farewell for me 
-tVll kingship ; and may I be poor and free ! 

To be the Table Talk of clubs up stairs. 
To which the unwash'd artificer repairs, 
To indulge his genius after long fatigue, 
By diving into cabinet intrigue ; 
(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may, 
To him is relaxation and mere play,) 
To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail, 
But to be rudely censured w hen they fail ; 
To doubt the love his favourites may pretend. 
And in reality to find no friend ; 
If he indulge a cultivated taste. 
His galleries with the works of art well graced, 
To hear it calUd extravagance and waste ; 
If these attendants, and if such as these, 
Must follow royalty, then welcome ease ; 
However humble and confined the sphere, 
Happy the state that has not these to fear. 

A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative 
have dwelt 
On situations that they never felt, 



I 



TABLE TALE. 



Start up sagaxiious, cover'd with the dust 
W dreammg study and pedantic rust, 
And prate and preach about what others prove, 
As if the world and they were hand and glove. 
■Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares ; 
They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs ; 
■^oets, of all men, ever least regret 
^creasing taxes and the nation's debt, 
^ould you contrive the payment, and rehearse 
-^e mighty plan, oracular, in verse, 
^0 bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, 
Should claim mj fix'd attention more than you. 
B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay 
To turn the course of Helicon that way ; 
■N"or would the Nine consent the sacred tide 
Should purl amidst the traflfic of Cheapside, 
Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse 
The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. . 

A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme 
To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. 
When ministers and ministerial arts ; 
Patriots, who love good places at their hearts ; 
When admirals, extoll'd for standing still, 
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill ; 
Generals, who will not conquer when they may, 
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay ; 
When Freedom, wounded almost to despair, 
Though discontent alone can find out where ; 
When themes like these employ the poet's tongue, 
I hear as mute as if a syren sung. 



8 TABLE TALK. 

Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains 
A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains ? 
That were a theme might animate tlie dead, 
And move the lips of poets cast in lead. 

B. The cause, though worth the search, may yet 
Conjecture and remark, however shrewd, [elude 
They take perhaps a well-directed aim. 
Who seek it in his climate and his frame. 
Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here 
"With stern severity deals out the year. 
Winter invades the spring, and often pours 
A chilling flood on summer's drooping flowers; 
Unwelcome vapours quench autumnal beams, 
Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams : 
The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork 
With double toil, and shiver at their work ; 
Thus with a rigour, for his good designed. 
She rears her favourite man of all mankind. 
His form robust and of elastic tone, 
Proportion'd well, half muscle and half bone. 
Supplies with warm activity and force 
A mind well lodged, and masculine of course. 
Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires 
And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. 
Patient of constitutional control, 
He bears it with meek manliness of soul ; 
But if authority grow wanton, woe 
To him that treads upon his free-bom toe : 
One step beyond the boundary of the laws 
Fires him at once in Freedom's glorious cause. 



TABLE TALK. 9 

IS proud prerogative, not much revered, 
eldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard ; 
i in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, 
cept to strut, look big, and talk away, 
^om in a climate softer far than ours, 
; formed like us, with such Herculean powers, 
i Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, 
e him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, 
Iways happy, reign whoever may, 
I laughs the sense of misery far away : 
drinks his simple beverage with a gust ; 
I, feasting on an onion and a crust, 
never feel the alacrity and joy 
h which he shouts and carols Vive le Roy, 
'd with as much true merriment and glee 
if he heard his king say — Slave, be free, 
lius happiness depends, as Nature shows, 
s on exterior things than most suppose, 
ilant over all that he has made,, 
id Providence attends with gracious aid ; 
s equity throughout his works prevail, 
i weighs the nations in an even scale ; 
can encourage slavery to a smile, 
d fill with discontent a British isle. 
L. Freeman and slave then, if the case be such, 
nd on a level ; and you prove too much : 
ill men indiscriminately share 
i fostering power, and tutelary care, 
well be yoked by despotism's hand, 
dwell at large in Britain's chartered land. 
VOL. I. 8 



10 TABLE TALK. 

B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to show, 
That slaves, however contented, never know. 
The mind attains beneath her happy reign 
The growth that Nature meant she should attain ; 
The varied fields of science, ever new. 
Opening and wider opening on her view. 
She ventures onward with a prosperous force, 
WhUe no base fear impedes her in her course : 
Religion, richest favour of the skies. 
Stands most reveal'd before the freeman's eyes ; 
No shades of superstition blot the day. 
Liberty chases all that gloom away ; 
The soul emancipated, unoppress*d. 
Free to prove all things and hold fast the best. 
Learns much ; and to a thousand listening minds 
Communicates with joy the good she finds ; 
Courage in arms, and ever prompt to show 
His manly forehead to the fiercest foe ; 
Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace, 
His spirits rising as his toils increase. 
Guards well what arts and industry have won, 
And Freedom claims him for- her first-bom son. 
Slaves fight for what were better cast away — 
The chain that binds them, and a tyrant's sway ; 
But they that fight for freedom undertake 
The noblest cause mankind can have at stake :— 
Religion, virtue, truth, whatever we call 
A blessing — ^freedom is the pledge of all. 
O Liberty ! the prisoner's pleasing dream. 
The poet's muse, his passion, and his theme ; 



TABLE TALK. 11 

^ius is thine, and thou art Fancy's nurse ; 

■'^t without thee the ennobling powers of verse ; 

"eroic song from thy free touch acquires 

"^^ clearest tone, the rapture it inspires : 

*^lace me where "Winter breathes his keenest air, 

And I will sing, if Liberty be there ; 

And I will sing at Liberty's dear feet. 

In Afric's torrid clime, or India's fiercest heat. 

A. Sing where you please ; in such a cause I grant 
•An English poet's privilege to rant ; 
But is not Freedom — ^at least, is not ours 
Too apt to play the wanton with her powers, 
Grow freakish, and, o'erleaping every mound, 
Spread anarchy and terror all around ? 

B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horse 
For bounding and curvetting in his course ? 
Or if, when ridden with a careless rein. 
He break away, and seek the distant plain ? 
No. Hig- high mettle, under good control, 
Gives him Olympic speed, and shoots him to the 
goal. 
Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts ; 
Let magistrates alert perform their parts, 
Not skulk or put on a prudential mask. 
As if their duty were a desperate task ; 
Let active laws apply the needful curb. 
To guard the peace that riot would disturb ; 
And Liberty, preserved from wild excess. 
Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. 
When tumult lately burst his prison door. 
And set plebeian thousands iu a roar ; 



12 TABLE TALK. 

When he usurp'd authority's just place, 
And dared to look his master in the face ; 
When the rude rabble's watchword was — ^Destroy, 
And blazing London seem'd a second Troy ; 
Liberty blush'd, and hung her drooping head, 
Beheld their progress with the deepest dread ; 
Blush'd, that effects like these she should produce, 
Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose. 
She loses in such storms her very name, 
And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame. 

Incomparable gem ! thy worth untold ; 
Cheap, though blood-bought, and thrown away 

when sold ; 
May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend 
Betray thee while professing to defend ! 
Prize it, ye ministers ; ye monarch's, spare ; 
Ye patriot's, guard it with a miser's care. 

A. Patriots, alas ! the few that have been found. 
Where most they flourish upon English* ground, 
The country's need have scantily supplied, 

And the last left the scene when Chatham died. 

B. Not so — ^the virtue still adorns our age, 
Though the chief actor died upon the stage. 
Li him Demosthenes was heard again ; 
Liberty taught him her Athenian strain ; 
She clothed him with authority and awe, 
Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. 
His speech, his form, his action, full of grace, 
And all his country beaming in his face. 

He stood, as some inimitable hand 

Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. 



TABLE TALK. 13 

^0 sycophant or slave, that dared oppose 
Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose ; 
-And every venal stickler for the yoke 
iPelt himself crush'd at the first word he spoke. 

Such men are raised to station and command, 
"WTien Providence means mercy to a land. 
He speaks, and they appear ; to him they owe 
Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow ; 
To manage with address, to seize with power 
The crisis of a dark decisive hour. 
So Gideon eam'd a victory not his own ; 
Subserviency his praise, and that alone. 

Poor England ! thou art a devoted deer. 
Beset with every ill but that of fear. 
The nations hunt ; all mark thee for a prey ; 
They swarm around thee, and thou ^tand'st at bay ; 
Undaunted still, though wearied and perplex'd, 
Once Chatham saved thee ; but who saves thee 
Alas ! the tide of pleasure sweeps along [next ? 
All that should be the boast of British song. 
'Tis not the wreath that once adorn'd thy brow, 
The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. 
Our ancestry, a gallant christian race, 
Patterns of every virtue, every grace. 
Confessed a God ; they kneel'd before they fought, 
And praised him in the victories he wrought. 
Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth 
Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth ; 
Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, 
Is but the fire without the sacrifice. 



14 TABLE TALK. 

The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heart 
Not more invigorates life's noblest part, 
Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine 
The powers that sin hath brought to a decline. 

A. The inestimable estimate of Brown 
Rose like a paper-kite, and charm'd the town ; 
But measures, plann'd and executed well, 
Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell. 
He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, 
And victory refuted all he said. 

B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss; 
Its error, if it err'd, was merely this — 

He thought the dying hour already come. 
And a complete recovery struck him dumb. 
But that effeminacy, folly, lust, 
Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must ; 
And that a nation shamefully debased 
Will be despised and trampled on at last, 
Unless sweet penitence her powers renew ; 
Is truth, if history itself be true. 
There is a time, and justice marks the date, 
For long forbearing clemency to wait ; 
That hour elapsed, the incurable revolt 
Is punish'd, and down comes the thunderbolt. 
If Mercy then put by the threatening blow, 
Must she perform the same kind office now ? 
May she ! and, if offended Heaven be still 
Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. 
'Tis not, however, insolence and noise. 
The tempest of tumultuary joys, 



TABLE TALK. 15 

l^or is it yet despondence and dismay 
"Will win her visits or engage her stay ; 
l*rayer only, and the penitential tear, 
Can call her smiling down, and ^k her here. 

But when a country (one that I could name) 
In prostitution sinks the sense of shame ; 
When infamous venality, grown bold. 
Writes on his bosom. To be let or sold ; 
When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice, 
Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price, 
Stamps God's own name upon a lie just made, 
To turn a penny in the way of trade ; 
When avarice starves (and never hides his face) 
Two or three millions of the human race, 
And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when, 
Though conscience will have twinges now and 
When profanation of the sacred cause [then ; 
In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws. 
Bespeaks a land, once christian, fallen and lost. 
In all that wars against that title most ; 
What follows next let cities of great name. 
And regions long since desolate, proclaim. 
Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome 
Speak to the present times, and times to come ; 
They cry aloud in every careless ear. 
Stop, while ye may ; suspend your mad career ; 
learn, from our example and our fate. 
Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late. 

Not only vice disposes and prepares 
The mind, that slumbers sweetly in her snares, 



16 TABLE TALK. 

To stoop to tyranny's usurp'd command, 

And bend her polish'd neck beneath his hand 

(A dire effect, by one of Nature's laws 

Unchangeably connected with its cause) ; 

But Providence himself will intervene, 

To throw his dark displeasure o'er the scene. 

All are his instruments ; each form of war. 

What burns at home, or threatens from afar, 

Nature in arms, her elements at strife, 

The storms that overset the joys of life, 

Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land, 

And waste it at the bidding of his hand. 

He gives the word, and mutiny soon roars 

In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores ; 

The standards of all nations are unfurl'd ; 

She has one foe, and that one foe the world. 

And if he doom that people with a frown. 

And mark them with a seal of wrath press'd down, 

Obduracy takes place ; callous and tough, 

The reprobated race grows judgment proof: 

Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars 

above ; 
But nothing scares them from the course they love 
To the lascivious pipe and wanton song. 
That charm down fear, they frolic it along, 
With mad rapidity and unconcern, 
Down to the gulf from which is no return. 
They trust in navies, and their navies fail — 
God's curse can cast away ten thousand sail ! 
They trust in armies, and their courage dies ; 
In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies ; 



TABLE TALK. 17 

^ut all they trust in withers, as it must, 
VVLen he commands in whom they place no trust. 
Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast 
-A long despised, but now victorious^ host ; 
Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge 
The noble sweep of all their privilege ; 
Gives liberty the Ifist, the mortal shock ; 
Slips the slave's collar on, and snaps the lock. 

A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, 
Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach ? 

B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire 
The muse imparts, and can command the lyre, 
Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, 
"WTiate'er the theme, that others never feel. 

If human woes her soft attention claim, 

A tender sympathy pervades the frame, 

She pours a sensibility divine 

Along the nerve of every feeling line. 

But if a deed not tamely to be borne 

Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, 

The strings are swept with such a power, so loud. 

The storm of music shakes the astonish'd crowd. 

So, when remote futurity is brought 

Before the keen inquiry of her thought, 

A terrible sagacity informs 

The poet's heart ; he looks to distant storms ; 

He hears the thunder ere tlie tempest lowers ; 

And arm'd with strength surpassing human powers. 

Seizes events as yet unknown to man. 

And darts his soul into the dawning plan. 



18 TABLE TALK- 

Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name 
Of prophet and of poet was the same ; 
Hence British poets too the priesthood shared, 
And every hallow'd druid was a bard. 
But no prophetic fires to me belong ; 
I play with syllables, and sport in song. 

A. At Westminster, where little poets strive 
To set a distich upon six and five. 

Where discipline helps opening buds of sense, 
And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, 
I was a poet too : but modeni taste 
Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste, 
That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, 
Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. 
Thus all success depending on an ear. 
And thinking I might purchase it too dear, 
If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, 
And truth cut short to make a period round, 
I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse, 
Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. 

B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit. 
And some wits flag through fear of losing it. 
Give me the line that ploughs its stately course 
Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force ; 
That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart. 
Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. 

When labour and when dulness, club in hand. 
Like the two figures at St. Dunstan's stand, 
Beating alternately, in measured time. 
The clockwork tintinabulum of rhyme, 



TABLE TALK. 19 

Exact and regular the sounds will be ; 

But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. 
From him who rears a poem lank and long, 

To him who strains his all into a song ; 

Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, 

All birks and braes, tliough he was never there ; 

Or, having whelp'd a prologue with great pains, 

Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains ; 

A prologue interdash'd with many a stroke — 

An art contrived to advertise a joke. 
So that the jest is clearly to be seen. 
Not in the wprds — but in the gap between ; 
Manner is all in all, whatever is writ. 
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. 

To dally much with subjects mean and low 
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. 
Neglected talents rust into decay. 
And every effort ends in pushpin play. 
The man that means success should soar above 
A soldier's feather, or a lady's glove ; 
Else, summoning the muse to such a theme. 
The fruit of all her labour is whipp'd cream. 
As if an eagle flew aloft, and then — 
Stooped from his highest pitch to pounce a wren. 
As if the poet, purposing to wed. 
Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. 
Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appear'd, 
And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard : 
To carry nature lengths unknown before, 
To give a Milton birth, ask'd ages more. 



20 TABLE TALK. 

Thus genius rose and set at order'd times, 
And shot a dayspring into distant climes, 
Ennobling every region that he chose ; 
He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose ; 
And, tedious years of Gothic darkness pass'd, 
Emerged all splendour in our isle at last. 
Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main. 
Then show far off their shining plumes again, 

A. Is genius only found in epic lays ? 
Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. 
Make their heroic powers your own at once, 
Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. 

B. These were the chief ; each interval of night 
Was graced with many an undulating light. 

In less illustrious bards his beauty shone 
A meteor, or a star ; in these, the sun. 

The nightingale may claim the topmost bought 
While the poor gi'asshopper must chirp below, 
Like him unnoticed, I, and such as I, 
Spread Httle wings, and rather skip than fly ; 
Perch'd on the meagre produce of the land. 
An ell or two of prospect we command ; 
But never peep beyond the thorny bound. 
Or oaken fence, that hems the paddock round. 

In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart 
Had faded, poetry was not an art ; 
Language, above all teaching, or if taught. 
Only by gratitude and glowing thought. 
Elegant as simplicity, and warm 
As ecstasy, unmanacled by form, 



TABLE TALK. 21 

3^ot prompted, as in our degenerate days, 

]Bj low ambition and the thirst of praise. 

Was natural as is the flowing stream. 

And yet magnificent — a God the theme ! 

That theme on earth exhausted, though above 

'Tis found as everlasting as his love, 

Man lavished all his thoughts on human things — 

The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings ; 

But still, while virtue kindled his delight, 

The song was moral, and so far was right. 

'Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind 

To joys less innocent, as less refined ; 

Then genius danced a bacchanal ; he crowned 

The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound 

His brows with ivy, rush*d into the field 

Of wild imagination, and there reeled. 

The victim of his own lascivious fires, 

And, dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred wires : 

Anacreon, Horace play'd in Greece and Rome 

This bedlam part ; and others nearer home. 

When Cromwell fought for power, and while he 

reign'd 
The proud protector of the power he gain'd, 
Religion harsh, intolerant, austere. 
Parent of manners like herself severe, 
Drew a rough copy of the Christian face 
Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace ; 
The dark and sullen humour of the time 
Judged every effort of the muse a crime ; 
Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast. 
Was lumber in an age so void of taste. 



22 TABLE TALK. 

But when the second Charles assumed the sway, 
And arts revived beneath a softer day, 
Then, like a bow long forced into a curve, 
The mind, released from too constrained a nerve, 
Flew to its first position with a spring, 
That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. 
His court, the dissolute and hateful school 
Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, 
Swarm'd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid 
With brutal lust as ever Circe made. 
From these a long succession, in the rage 
Of rank obscenity, debauch'd their age : 
Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress 
The abuses of her sacred charge, the press, 
The muse instructed a well-nurtured train 
Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain. 
And claim the palm for purity of song. 
That lewdness had usurp'd and worn so long. 
Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense. 
That neither gave nor would endure offence. 
Whipped out of sight, with satire just and keen, 
The puppy pack that had defiled the scene. 
In front of these came Addison. In him 
Humour in holiday and sightly trim, 
Sublimity and attic taste combined. 
To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. 
Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, 
In verse well disciplined, complete, compact, 
Gave virtue and morality a grace. 
That, quite eclipsing pleasure's painted face, 
Levied a tax of wonder and applause. 



TABLE TALK. 23 

E'en on the fools that trampled on their laws. 

But he (his musical finesse was such, 

So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) 

Made poetry a mere mechanic art ; 

And every warbler has his tune by heart. 

Nature imparting her satiric gift. 

Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, 

With droll sobriety they raised a smile 

At folly's cost, themselves unmoved the while. 

That constellation set, the world in vain 

Must hope to look upon their like again. 

A. Are we then left^ — ^b. Not wholly in the dark ; 
Wit now and then, struck smartly, shows a spark, 
Sufficient to redeem the modern race 
From total night and absolute disgrace. 
While servile trick and imitative knack 
Confine the million in the beaten track. 
Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, 
Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. 

Contemporaries all surpassed, see one ; 
Short his career indeed, but ably run ; 
Churchill ; himself unconscious of his powers, 
In penury consumed his idle hours ; 
And, like a scattered seed at random sown, 
Was left to spring by vigour of his own. 
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought 
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot. 
He laid his head in luxury's soft lap. 
And took, too often, there his easy nap. 
If brisrhter beams than all he threw not forth, 
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. ^ 



24 TABLE TALK. 

Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse, 
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, 
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit. 
Always at speed, and never drawing bit, 
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, 
And so disdain'd the rules he understood, 
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command ; 
He snatch'd it rudely from the muses' hand. 
Nature, exerting an unwearied power, 
Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower ; 
Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads 
The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads : 
She fills profuse ten thousand little throats 
With music, modulating all their notes ; [known, 
And charms the woodland scenes, and wilds un- 
With artless airs and concerts of her own : 
But seldom (as if fearful of expense) 
Vouchsafes to man a poet's just pretence- 
Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, 
Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought ; 
Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky 
Brings colours, dipp'd in Heaven, that never die ; 
A soul exalted above earth, a mind 
Skill'd in the characters that form mankind ; 
And as the sun, in rising beauty dress'd. 
Looks to the westward from the dappled east, 
And marks whatever clouds may interpose. 
Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close ; 
An eye like his to catch the distant goal ; 
Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll. 
Like his to shed illuminating rays 



TABLE TALK. 25 

On every scene and subject it surveys : 
Thus graced, the man asserts a poet's name, 
And the world cheerfully admits the claim. 
Pity Religion has so seldom found 
A skilful guide into poetic ground 1 
The flowers would spring where'er she deign'd to 
And every muse attend her in her way. [stray, 
Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, 
And many a compliment politely penn*d ; 
But, unattired in that becoming vest 
Beligion weaves for her, and half undress'd. 
Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, 
A wintry figure, like a withered thorn. 
The shelves are full, all other themes are sped ; 
Hackney'd and worn to the last flimsy thread, 
Satire has long since done his best ; and curst 
And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst, 
Fancy has sported all her powers away 
In tales, in trifles, and in children's play ; 
And 'tis the sad complaint, and almost true, 
Whate'er we write, we bring forth nothing new. 
'Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, [lyre, 
Touch'd with a coal from Heaven, assume the 
And tell the world, still kindling as he sung. 
With more than mortal music on his tongue. 
That He, who died below, and reigns above. 
Inspires the song, and that his name is love. 

For, after all, if merely to beguile, 
By flowing numbers and a flowery style, 
The taedium that the lazy rich endure, 

VOL. I. 9 



26 TABLE TALK. 

Wliicli now and then sweet poetry may cure ; 
Or, if to see the name of idle self, 
Stamp'd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf. 
To float a bubble on the breath of fame. 
Prompt his endeavour, and engage his aim. 
Debased to servile purposes of pride. 
How are the powers of genius misapplied ! 
The gift, whose office is the giver's praise. 
To trace him in his word, his works, his ways I 
Then spread the rich discovery, and invite 
Mankind to share in the divine delight ; 
Distorted from its use and just design, 
To make the pitiful possessor shine. 
To purchase at the fool-frequented fair 
Of vanity a wreath for self to wear, 
Is profanation of the basest kind — 
Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. 

A. Hail, Stemhold, then ; and, Hopkins, hail— 
B. Amen. 
If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen ; 
If acrimony, slander, and abuse. 
Give it a charge to blacken and traduce ; 
Though Butler's wit. Pope's numbers. Prior's ease, 
With all that fancy can invent to please. 
Adorn the polish'd periods as they fall. 
One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. 

A. 'Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe. 
To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. 

B. No matter — we could shift when they were 

not ; 
And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 
Si quid loquar andiendum. hob. lib. iv. OD. 2. 

Sd^g, muse (if such a theme, so dark, so long, ' 
ifciy find a muse to grace it with a song), 
By what unseen and unsuspected arts 
The serpent Error twines round human hearts ; 
Tell where she lurks, beneath what flowery shades, 
That not a glimpse of genuine light pervades, 
tlie poisonous, black, insinuating worm 
Juccessftilly conceals her loathsome form. 
Dake, if ye can, ye careless and supine, 
Ilounsel and caution from a voice like mine ! 
Truths, that the theorist could never reach, 
\nd observation taught me, I would teach. 
Not all, whose eloquence the fancy fills. 
Musical as the chime of tinkling rills, 
Weak to perform, though mighty to pretend, 
Can trace her mazy windings to their end ; 
Discern the fraud beneath the specious lure. 
Prevent the danger, or prescribe the cure, 
rhe clear harangue, and cold as it is clear. 
Falls soporific on the listless ear ; 
Like quicksilver, the rhetoric they display 
Shines as it runs, but grasp'd at, slips away. 



\ 



28 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

Placed for his trial on this bustling stage, 
From thoughtless youth to ruminating age, 
Free in his will to choose or to refuse, 
Man may improve the crisis, or abuse ; 
Else, on the fatalist's unrighteous plan, 
Say to what bar amenable were man ? 
With nought in charge he could betray no trust; 
And, if he fell, would fall because he must ; 
If love reward him, or if vengeance strike, 
His recompense in both unjust alike. 
Divine authority within his breast 
Brings every thought, word, action, to the test; 
Warns him or prompts, approves him or restrains, 
As reason, or as passion, takes the reins 
Heaven from above, and conscience from within, 
Cries in his startled ear — Abstain from sin ! 
The world around solicits his desire, 
And kindles in his soul a treacherous fire ; 
While, aU his purposes and steps to guard. 
Peace follows virtue as its sure reward ; 
And pleasure brings as surely in her train 
Remorse, and sorrow, and vindictive pain. 

Man, thus endued with an elective voice, 
Must be supplied with objects of his choice. 
Where'er he turns, enjojnnent and delight, 
Or present, or in prospect, meet his sight : 
Those open on the spot their honey'd store ; 
These call him loudly to pursuit of more. 
His unexhausted mine the sordid vice 
Avarice shows, and virtue is the price. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 29 

iere various motives his ambition raise — [praise ; 
^ower, pomp, and splendour, and the thirst of 
C'here beauty woos him with expanded arms ; 
2'en bacchanalian madness has its charms. 

Nor these alone, whose pleasures less refined 
^ght well alarm the most unguarded mind, 
^eek to supplant his inexperienced youth, 
)r lead him devious from the path of truth ; 
fourly allurements on his passions press, 
>afe in themselves, but dangerous in the excess. 

Hark ! how it floats upon the dewy air ! 
' what a dying, dying close was there ! 
!& harmony from yon sequester'd bower, 
sveet harmony, that soothes the midnight hour ! 
ong ere the charioteer of day had run ' 

is morning course the enchantment was begun ; 
nd he shall gild yon mountain's height again, 
re yet the pleasing toil becomes a pain. 

Is this the rugged path, the steep ascent, 

hat virtue points to ? Can a life thus spent 

ead to the bliss she promises the wise, 

•etach the soul from earth, and speed her to the 

e devotees to your adored employ, [skies ? 

nthusiasts, drunk with an unreal joy, 

ove makes the music of the blest above, 

heaven's harmony is universal love ; 

nd earthly sounds, though sweet and well com- 

nd lenient as soft opiates to the mind, [bined, 

eave vice and folly unsubdued behind. 

Gray dawn appears ; the sportsman and his 
Deckle the bosom of the distant plain ; [train 



30 THE PROGRESS OP ERROR. 

'Tis he, the Nimrod of the neighbourmg lairs ; 
Save that his scent is less acute than theirs,^ 
For persevering chase, and headlong leaps, 
True beagle as the staunchest hound he keeps. 
Charged with the folly of his life's mad scene, 
He takes offence, and wonders what you mean ; 
The joy the danger and the toil o'erpays-7- 
'Tis exercise, and health, and length of days. 
Again impetuous to the field he flies ; 
Leaps every fence but one, there falls and dies ; 
Like a slain deer, the tumbrel brings him home, 
Unmiss'd but by his dogs and by his groom. 
Ye clergy, while your orbit is your place, 
Lights of the world, and stars of human race ; 
But if eccentric ye forsake your sphere, 
Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear : 
The comet's baneful influence is a dream ; 
Yours real, and pernicious in the extreme. 
What then ! — are appetites and lusts laid down 
With the same ease that man puts on his gown ? 
Will avarice and concupiscence give place, 
Charm'd by the sounds — Your Reverence, or 

your Grace? 
No. But his own engagement binds him fast ; 
Or, if it does not, brands him to the last. 
What atheists call him — a designing knave, 
A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave. 
Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest, 
A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest 1 
He from Italian songsters takes his cue : 
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 31 

He takes the field, the master of the pack 
Cries — ^Well done, saint! and claps him on the 
Is this the path of sanctity ? Is this [back. 

To stand a waymark in the road to bliss ? 
Himself a wanderer from the narrow way, 
His silly sheep what wonder if they stray ? 
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet, 
Send your dishonoured gown to Monmouth Street ! 
The sacred function in your hands is made — 
Sad sacrilege ! no function, but a trade ! 

Occiduus is a pastor of reno^vn, [down. 

When he has pray'd and preached the sabbath 
With wire and catgut he concludes the day. 
Quavering and semiquavering care away. 
The full concerto swells upon your ear ; 
All elbows shake. Look in, arid you would swear 
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod 
Had summoned them to serve his golden god. 
So weU that thought the employment seems to 
Psaltery and sackbut, dulcimer and flute. [suit, 
O fie ! 'tis evangelical and pure : 
Observe each face, how sober and demure ! 
Ecstasy sets her stamp on every mien ; 
Chins fallen, and not an eyeball to be seen. 
Still I insist, though music heretofore 
Has charm'd me much (not e'en Occiduus more). 
Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet 
For sabbath evenings, and perhaps as sweet. 

Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock 
Resort to this example as a rock ; 



32 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

There stand, and justify the foul abuse 
Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse ; 
If apostolic gravity be free 
To play the fool on Sundays, why not we? 
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards 
As inoffensive, what offence in cards ? 
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay ! 
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play. 

Oh Italy ! — Thy sabbaths will be soon 
Our sabbaths, closed with mummery and buffoon. 
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene, 
Ours parceird out, as thine have ever been, 
God's worship and the mountebank between. 
What says the prophet ? Let that day be blest 
With holiness and consecrated rest 
Pastime and business both it should exclude, 
And bar the door the moment they intrude ; 
Nobly distinguished above all the six 
By deeds in which the world must never mix. 
Hear him again. He calls it a delight, 
A day of luxury observed aright, 
When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome 

guest. 
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast. 
But triflers are engaged and cannot come ; 
Their answer to the call is — ^Not at home. 

O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, 
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again ! 
Cards with what rapture, and the polish'd die, 
The yawning chasm of indolence supply ! 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 33 

) the dance, and make the sober moon' 
3 of joys that shun the sight of noon, 
cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball, 
ig close party, or the splendid hall, [throne, 
Night, down stooping from her ebon 
constellations brighter than her own. 
ocent, and harmless, and refined, 
m of care, Elysium of the mind, 
t ! Oh, if venerable Time 

the foot of Pleasure be no crime, 
ith his silver beard and magic wand, 
nus rise archbishop of the land ; 

your rubric and your feasts prescribe, 
netropolitan of all the tribe, 
inners rough, and coarse athletic cast, 
k debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste. 
, exquisitely form'd by rule, 
he moral but the dancing school, 
s at Clodio's follies, in a tone 
ical, as others at his own. 
jot drink five bottles, bilk the score, 
11 a constable, and drink five more ; 
3an draw a pattern, make a tart, 
1 the ladies' etiquette by heart. 
; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead 
use before a bar you little dread ; 
w the law that bids the drunkard die 
o just to pass the trifler by. 
by-featured, and of infant size, 
from a distance, and with heedless eyes, 



34 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

Folly and innocence are so alike, 
The difference, though essential, fails to strike. 
Yet Folly ever has a vacant stare, , 

A simpering countenance, and a trifling air ; 
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect, 
Delights us, by engaging our respect. 
Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet, 
Receives from her both appetite and treat ; 
But if he play the glutton and exceed. 
His benefactress blushes at the deed. 
For Nature, nice, as liberal to dispense. 
Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. 
Daniel ate pulse by choice — example rare ! 
Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresh 

and fair. 
Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan, 
Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan : 
He snuffs far off the anticipated joy ; 
Turtle and venison all his thoughts employ ; 
Prepares for meals as jockeys take a sweat, 
Oh, nauseous ! — ^an emetic for a whet ! 
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good ? 
Temperance were no virtue if he could. 

That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call, 
Are hurtful is a truth confessed by all. 
And some, that seem to threaten virtue less, 
Still hurtful in the abuse, or by the excess. 

Is man then only for his torment placed 
The centre of delights he may not taste ? 
Like fabled Tantalus, condemned to hear 
The precious stream still purling in his ear, 



THE FBOGRESS OF ERROR. 35 

Lip-deep in what lie longs for, and yet curst 
With prohibition and perpetual thirst ? 
!No, wrangler — destitute of shame and sense, 
The preempt, that enjoins him abstinence, 
Porbids him none but the licentious joy, 
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy. 
Kemorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid 
In every bosom where her nest is made, 
Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest. 
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. 
No pleasure ? Are domestic comforts dead ? 
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled ? 
Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame. 
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and 

good fame ? 
All these belong to virtue, and all prove 
That virtue has a title to your love. . 
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor 
Stand starved at your inhospitable door ? 
Or if yourself, too scantily supplied. 
Need help, let honest industry provide. 
Earn, if you want ; if you abound, impart : 
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. 
No pleasure ? has some sickly eastern waste 
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast ? 
Can British Paradise no scenes afford 
To please her sated and indifferent lord ? 
Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run 
Quite to the lees ? And has religion none ? 
Brutes capable would tell you 'tis a lie, 
And judge you from the kennel and the sty. 



36 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

Delights like these, ye sensual and profane. 
Ye are bid, begg'd, besought to entertain ; 
Caird to these crystal streams, do ye turn off 
Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough ? 
Envy the beast, then, on whom Heaven bestows 
Your pleasures with no curses in the close. 

Pleasure admitted in undue degree 
Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 
'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice 
Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use ; 
Ambition, avarice, and the lust of fame, 
And woman, lovely woman, does the same. 
The heart, surrender'd to the ruling power 
Of some ungovem'd passion every hour. 
Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, 
And all their deep impressions, wear away ; 
So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, 
Till Caesar's image is effaced at last. 

The breach though small at first, soon opening 
In rushes folly with a full- moon tide, [wide, 

Then welcome errors, of whatever size, 
To justify it by a thousand lies. 
As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, 
And hides the ruin that it feeds upon ; 
So sophistry cleaves close to and protects 
Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects. 
Mortals,. whose pleasures are their only care, 
First wish to be imposed on, and then are. 
And, lest the fulsome artifice should fail, 
Themselves wiU hide its coarseness with a veiL 



THE PROGRESS OE ERROR. 37 

Not more industrious are the just and true 
To give to Virtue what is Virtue's due — 
The praise of wisdom, comeliness, and worth, 
And call her, charms to public notice forth — 
Than Vice's mean and disingenuous race 
To hide the shocking features of her face. 
Her form with dress and lotion they repair ; 
Then kiss their idol, and pronounce her fair. 

The sacred implement I now employ 
Might prove a mischief, or at best a toy ; 
A trifle, if it move but to amuse ; 
But, if to wrong the judgment and abuse, 
Worse than a poniard in the basest hand, 
It stabs at once the morals of a land. 

Ye writers of what none with safety reads. 
Footing it in the dance that Fancy leads ; 
Ye novelists, who mar what ye would mend. 
Snivelling and drivelling folly without end ; 
Whose corresponding misses fill the ream 
With sentimental frippery and dream. 
Caught in a delicate soft silken net 
By some lewd earl, or rakehell baronet : 
Ye pimps who, under virtue's fair pretence, 
Steal to the closet of young innocence, 
And teach her, unexperienced yet and green, 
To scribble as you scribbled at fifteen ; 
Who, kindling a combustion of desire, 
With some cold moral think to quench the fire ; 
Though all your engineering proves in vain, 
The dribbling stream ne'er puts it out again : 



38 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

Oh that a verse had power, and could oonunand 
Far, far away, these flesh-flies of the land, 
Who fasten without mercy on the fair, 
And suck, and leave a craving magot there ! 
Howe'er disguised the inflammatory tale. 
And cover'd with a fine-spun specious veil ; 
Such writers, and such readers, owe the gust 
And relish of their pleasures all to lust. 

But the muse, eagle-pinion'd, has in view 
A quarry more important still than you ; 
Down, down the wind she swims, and sails away, 
Now stoops upon it, and now grasps the prey. 

Petronius ! all the muses weep for thee ; 
But every tear shall scald thy memory : 
The graces too, while Virtue at their shrine 
Lay bleeding under that soft hand of thine, 
Felt each a mortal stab in her own breast, 
Abhorr'd the sacrifice, and cursed the priest. 
Thou polish'd and high-finisfi'd foe to truth, 
Graybeard corrupter of our listening youth. 
To purge and skim away the filth of vice. 
That so refined it might the more entice. 
Then pour it on the morals of thy son, 
To taint his heart was worthy of thine own ! 
Now, while the poison all high life pervades. 
Write, if thou canst, one letter from the shades. 
One and one only, charged with deep regret. 
That thy worst part, thy principles, live yet ; 
One sad epistle thence may cure mankind 
Of the plague spread by bundles left behind. 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 39 

anted, and no plainer truth appears 
ost important are our earliest years ; 
ind, impressible and soft, with ease 
!S and copies what she hears and sees, 
rough life's labyrinth holds fast the due 
Mucation gives her, false or true, 
raised with tenderness are seldom strong ; 
coltish disposition asks the thong ; 
ithout discipline the favourite child, 
neglected forester runs wild. 
;, as if good qualities would grow 
neous, take but little pains to sow ; 
e some Latin, and a smatch of Greek ; 
him to fence and figure twice a week ; 
iving done, we think, the best we can, 
his proficiency, and dub him man. 
a school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; 
ence with all convenient speed to Rome, 
everend tutor, clad in habit lay, 
,e for cash, and quarrel with all day ; 
lemorandum book for every town, 
ery post, and where the chaise broke down ; 
ck, a few French phrases got my heart, 
mch to learn, but nothing to impart, 
uth, obedient to his sire's conmiands, 
a wanderer into foreign lands, 
ed at all they meet, the gosling pair, 
vkward gait, stretch'd neck, and silly stare, 
r huge cathedrals built with stone, 
eples towering high much like our own ; 



40 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

But show peculiar light by many a grin 
At popish practices observed within. 

Ere long some bowing, smirking, smart abbe 
Remarks two loiterers that have lost their way ; 
And, being always primed with politesse 
For men of their appearance and address, 
With much compassion undertakes the task 
To tell them more than they have wit to ask ; 
Points to inscriptions wheresoe'er they tread, 
Such as, when legible, were never read, 
But being canker'd now and half worn out, 
Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt ; 
Some headless hero, or some Caesar shows — 
Defective only in his Roman nose ; 
Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, 
Models of Herculean pots and pans ; 
And sells them medals, which if neither rare 
Nor ancient, will be so preserved with care. 

Strange the recital ! from whatever cause 
His great improvement and new light he draws, 
The squire, once bashful, is shamefaced no more, 
But teems with powers he never felt before ; 
Whether increased momentum, and the force 
With which from clime to clime he sped his course 
(As axles sometimes kindle as they go), 
Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow ; 
Or whether clearer skies and softer air. 
That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, 
Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran. 
Unfolded genially, and spread the man ; 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 41 

Etetuming, he proclaims, by many a grace, 
By shrugs and strange contortions of his face. 
How much a dunce, that has been sent to roam. 
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home. 

Accomplishments have taken virtue's place, 
And wisdom falls before exterior grace : 
We slight the precious kernel of the stone, 
And toil to polish its rough coat alone. 
A just deportment, manners graced with ease. 
Elegant phrase, and figure form'd to please, 
Are qualities that seem to comprehend 
Whatever parents, guardians, schools, intend ; 
Hence an unfumish'd and a Hstless mind. 
Though busy, trifling ; empty, though refined 
Hence all that interferes, and dares to clash 
With indolence and luxury, is trash ; 
While learning, once the man's exclusive pride, 
Seems verging fast towards the female side. 
Learning itself, received into a mind 
By nature weak, or viciously inclined. 
Serves but to lead philosophers astray. 
Where children would with ease discern the way. 
And of all arts sagacious dupes invent. 
To cheat themselves and gain the world's assent. 
The worst is — Scripture warp'd from its intent. 

The carriage bowls along, and all are pleased 
If Tom be sober, and the wheels well greased ; 
But if the rogue be gone a cup too far. 
Left out his linchpin, or forgot his tar. 
It suflfers interruption and delay, 

TOL. I. 10 



42 THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 

And meets with hindrance in the smoothest way. 
When some hypothesis absurd and vain 
Has fiird with all its fumes a critic's brain, 
The text that sorts not with his darling whim, 
Though plain to others, is obscure to him. 
The will made subject to ^ lawless force, 
All is irregular, and out of course ; 
And Judgment drunk, and bribed to lose his way. 
Winks hard, and talks of darkness at noonday. 

A critic on the sacred book should be 
Candid and learn'd, dispassionate and free ; 
Free from the wayward bias bigots feel, 
From fancy's influence, and intemperate zeal ; 
But above all (or let the wretch refrain, 
Nor touch the page he cannot but profane), 
Free from the domineering power of lust ; 
A lewd interpreter is never just. 

How shall I speak thee, or thy power address, 
Thou god of our idolatry, the Press ? 
By thee religion, liberty, and laws, 
Exert their influence and advance their cause : 
By thee worse plagues than Pharaoh's land befell, 
Diffused, make Earth the vestibule of Hell; 
Thou fountain, at which drink the good and wise ; 
Thou ever-bubbling spring of endless lies ; 
Like Eden's dread probationary tree. 
Knowledge of good and evil is from thee. 

No wild enthusiast ever yet could rest 
Till half mankind were like himself possess'd. 
Philosophers, who darken and put out 
Eternal truth by everlasting doubt ; 



THE PROGRESS OP ERROR. 43 

Uurch quacks, with passions under no command, 
Tio fill the world with doctrines contraband, 
iscoverers of they know not what, confined 
Ithin no bounds — ^the blind that lead the blind ; 
3 streams of popular opinion drawn, 
eposit in those shallows all their spawn, 
le wriggling fry soon fiU the creeks around, 
)isoning the waters where their swarms abound, 
om'd by the nobler tenants of the flood, 
innows and gudgeons gorge the unwholesome 

food. 
16 propagated myriads spread so fast, 
en Leuwenhoeck himself would stand aghast, 
nploy'd to calculate the enormous sum, 
ad own his crab-computing powers overcome, 
this hyperbole ? The world well known, 
OUT sober thoughts will hardly find it one. 
Fresh confidence the speculatist takes 
rom every hair-brain'd proselyte he makes ; 
Qd therefore prints : himself but half deceived, 
iU others have the soothing tale believed. 
ence comment after comment spun as fine 
3 bloated spiders draw the flimsy line, 
ftnce the same word, that bids our lusts obey, 
misapplied to sanctify their sway, 
stubborn Greek refuse to be his friend, 
ebrew or Syriac shall be forced to bend ; 
languages and copies all cry. No — 
jmebody proved it centuries ago. 
ike trout pursued, the critic in despair 
arts to the mud, and finds his safety there : 



44 ^THE PB06BESS OF EBROB. 

Women, whom custom has forbid to fly 
The scholar's pitch (the scholar best knows why), 
With all the simple and unlettered poor, 
Admire his learning, and almost adore. 
Whoever errs, the priest can ne'er be wrong, 
With such fine words familiar to his tongue. 

Ye ladies I (for, indifferent in your cause, 
I should deserve to forfeit all applause) 
Whatever shocks or gives the least offence 
To virtue, delicacy, truth, or sense 
(Try the criterion, 'tis a faithful guide), 
Nor has, nor can have. Scripture on its side. 

None but an author knows an author's cares, 
Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 
Conmiitted once into the public arms. 
The baby seems to smile with added charms. 
Like something precious ventured far from shor 
'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more. 
He views it with complacency supreme, 
Solicits kind attention to his dream'; 
' And daily, more enamour'd of the cheat, 
Kneels, and asks Heaven to bless the dear dece: 
So one, whose story serves at least to show 
Men loved their own productions long ago, 
Woo'd an unfeeling statue for his wife, 
Nor rested till the gods had given it life. 
If some mere driveller suck the sugar'd rib, 
One that still needs his leading-string and fib, 
And praise his genius, he is soon repaid 
In praise applied to the same part — ^his head ; 



THE PROGRESS OF ERROR. 45 

^op 'tis a rule that holds for ever true, 
Grrant me discernment, and I grant it you. 

Patient of contradiction as a child, 
Affable, humble, diffident, and mild ; 
Such was Sir Isaac, and such Boyle and Locke ; 
Vour blunderer is as sturdy as a rock, 
the creature is so sure to kick and bite, 
A muleteer's the man to set him right, 
t'irst Appetite enlists him Truth's sworn foe. 
Then obstinate Self-will confirms him so. 
Tell him he wanders ; that his error leads 
To fatal ills ; that, though the path he treads 
Be flowery, and he see no cause of fear, 
Death and the pains of hell attend him there : 
In vain ; the slave of arrogance and pride, 
He has no hearing on the prudent side. 
His still refuted quirks he still repeats ; 
New raised objections with new quibbles meets ; 
Till sinking in the quicksand he defends, 
He dies disputing, and the contest ends — 
But not the mischiefs ; they, still left behind. 
Like thistle-seeds, are sown by every wind. 

Thus men go wrong with an ingenious skill ; 
Bend the straight rule to their own crooked will ; 
And with a clear and shining lamp supplied. 
First put it out, then take it for a guide. 
Halting on crutches of unequal size. 
One leg by truth supported, one by lies ; 
They sidle to the goal with awkward pace. 
Secure of nothing — ^but to lose the race. 



46 THE PROGRESS OP ERROR. 

Faults in the life breed errors in the brain, 
And these reciprocally those again. 
The mind and conduct mutually imprint 
And stamp their image in each other's mint; 
Each sire and dam, of an infernal race, 
Begetting and conceiving all that's base. 

None sends his arrow to the mark in view, 
Whose hand is feeble, or his aim untrue. 
For though, ere yet the shaft is on the wing, 
Or when it first forsakes the elastic string. 
It err but little from the intended line, 
It falls at last far wide of his design ; 
So he who seeks a mansion in the sky, 
Must watch his purpose with a steadfast eye ; 
That prize belongs to none but the sincere. 
The least obliquity is fatal here. 

With caution taste the sweet Circean cup ; 
He that sips often, at last drinks it up. 
Habits are soon assumed ; but when we strive 
To strip them off, 'tis being flay'd alive. 
Call'd to the temple of impure delight, 
He that abstains, and he alone, does right. 
If a wish wander that way, call it home ; 
He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam. 
But if you pass the threshold, you are caught ; 
Die then, if power Almiglity save you not. 
There hardening by degrees, till double steel'd. 
Take leave of nature's God, and God reveal'd ; 
Then laugh at all you trembled at before ; 
And, joining the freethinker's brutal roar. 
Swallow the two grand nostrum's they dispense— 



THE FBOGBESS OF ERROR. 47 

That Scripture lies, and blasphemy is sense. 
-ff clemency revolted by abuse 
■^e damnable, then damn'd without excuse. 
Some dream that they can silence, when they 

will, 
iTie storm of passion, and say. Peace, be still : 
iut, " Thus far and no farther," when address'd 
T^o the wild wave, or wilder human breast. 
Implies authority that never can. 
That never ought to be the lot of man. 

But, muse, forbear ; long flights forebode a fall ; 
Strike on the deep-toned chord the sum of all. 

Hear the just law — ^the judgment of the skies ! 
He that hates truth shall be the dupe of lies ; 
And he that wiU be cheated to the last. 
Delusions strong as hell shall bind him fast. 
But if the wanderer his mistake discern. 
Judge his own ways, and sigh for a return, 
Bewildered once, must he bewail his loss 
For ever and for ever ? No — ^the cross ! 
There and there only (though the deist rave, 
And atheist, if Earth bear so base a slave) ; 
There and there only is the power to save. 
There no delusive hope invites despair ; 
No mockery meets you, no deception there. 
The spells and charms, that blinded you before, 
All vanish there, and fascinate no more. 

I am no preacher, let this hint suffice — 
The cross once seen is death to every vice ; 
Else he that hung there suiFer'd all his pain, 
Bled^ groan'd, and agoniz'd, and died in vain. 



TRUTH. 

Pensantur tratin^. hor. lib. n. ep. 1. 

Man, on the dubious waves of error toss'd, 
His ship half foundered, and his compass lost, 
Sees, far as human opfics may command, 
A sleeping fog, and fancies it dry land ; 
Spreads all his canvas, every sinew plies ; 
Pants for it, aims at it, enters it, and dies ! 
Then farewell all self-satisfying schemes, 
His well-built systems, philosophic dreams; 
Deceitful views of future bliss, farewell I 
He reads his sentence at the flames of HelL 

Hard lot of man — to toil for the reward 
Of virtue, and yet lose it ! Wherefore hard?— 
He that would win the race must guide his horse 
Obedient to the customs of the course ; 
Else, though unequal'd to the goal he flies, 
A meaner than himself shall gain the prize. 
Grace leads the right way ; if you choose the wrong, 
Take it and perish ; but restrain your tongue ; 
Charge not, with light sufficient and left free, 
Your wilful suicide on Grod's decree. 

Oh how unlike the complex works of fiaan 
Heaven's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan ! 
No meretricious graces to beguile. 
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile ; 



TRUTH. 49 

From ostentation, as from weakness, free, 

It stands like the cerulean arch we see, 

Majestic in its own simplicity. 

Inscribed above the portal, from afar 

Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, 

Xegible only by the light they give. 
Stand the soul-quickening words — ^believe and 
LIVE. [most, 

Too many, shock'd at what should charm them 
Despise the plain direction, and are lost. 

' Heaven on such terms ! (they cry with proud 
Incredible, impossible, and vain ! — [disdain) 
Rebel, because 'tis easy to obey ; 
And scorn, for its own sake, the gracious way. 
These are the sober, in whose cooler brains 
Some thought of immortality remains ; 
The rest too busy or too gay to wait 
On the sad theme, their everlasting state, 
Sport for a day, and perish in a night ; 
The foam upon the waters not so light. 

Who judged the Pharisee ? What odious cause 
Exposed him to the vengeance of the laws ? 
Had he seduced a virgin, wrong'd a friend. 
Or Btabb'd a man to serve some private end ? 
Was blasphemy his sin ? Or did he stray 
From the strict duties of the sacred day ? 
Sit long and late at the carousing board ? [Lord.) 
(Such were the sins with which he charged his 
No — ^the man's morals were exact, what then ? 
'Twas his ambition to be seen of men ; 



50 TRUTH. 

His virtues were his pride ; and that one vice 
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price ; 
He wore them as fine trappings for a show, 
A praying, synagogue-frequenting beau. 

The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see — 
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he ! 
Meridian sunbeams tempt him to unfold 
His radiant glories, azure, green, and gold : 
He treads as if, some solemn music near, 
His measured step were governed by his ear ; 
And seems to say — Ye meaner fowl, give place, 
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace ! 

Not so the pheasant on his charms presumes, 
Though he too has a glory in his plumes. 
He, Christianhke, retreats with modest mien 
To the close copse, or far sequestered green, 
And shines without desiring to be seen. 
The plea of works, as arrogant and vain. 
Heaven turns from with abhorrence and disdain ; 
Not more affronted by avow'd neglect, 
Than by the mere dissembler's feign'd respect. 
What is all righteousness that men devise ? 
What — ^but a sordid bargain for the skies ? 
But Christ as soon would abdicate his own, 
As stoop from heaven to sell the proud a throne. 

His dwelling a recess in some rude rock ; 
Book, beads, and maple dish, his meagre stock ; 
In shirt of hair and weeds of canvas dress'dj 
Girt with a bell-rope that the pope has bless'd ; 
Adust with stripes told out for every crime, 
And sore tormented long before his time ; 



TRUTH. 51 

His prayer preferred to saints that cannot aid ; 
His praise postponed, and never to be paid ; 
See the sage hermit, by mankind admired, 
With all that bigotry adopts inspired, 
Wearing out life in his religious whim. 
Till his religious whimsey wears out him. 
His works, his abstinence, his zeal allowed. 
You think him humble — God accounts him proud. 
High in demand, though lowly in pretence. 
Of all his conduct this the genuine sense — 
My penitential stripes, my streaming blood. 
Have purchased heaven, and prove my title good. 

Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply 
To your weak sight her telescopic eye. 
The bramin kindles on his own bare head 
The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade ! 
His voluntary pains, severe and long. 
Would give a barbarous air to British song ; 
No grand inquisitor could worse invent. 
Than he contrives to suffer well content. 

Which is the saintlier worthy of the two 
Past all dispute, yon anchorite, say you. 
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name ? 
I say the bramin has the fairer claim. 
If sufferings, scripture no where recommends. 
Devised by self to answer selfish ends. 
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree 
Ten starveling hermits suffer less than he. 

The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear, 
And prejudice have left a passage clear) 
Pride has attained its most luxuriant growth, 



52 TBUTH. 

And poison'd every virtue in them both. 
Pride may be pamper'd while the flesh grows lean ; 
Humility may clothe an English dean ; 
That grace was Cowper's — ^his, confessed by ail- 
Though placed in golden Durham's second stall 
Not all the plenty of a bishop's board, 
His palace, and his lacqueys, and " My Lord," 
More nourish pride, that condescending vice, 
Than abstinence, and beggary, and lice ; 
It thrives in misery, and abundant grows : 
In misery fools upon themselves impose. 

But why before us protestants produce 
An Indian mystic, or a French recluse ? 
Their sin is plain ; but what have we to fear, 
Reformed and well instructed ? You shall hear. 

Yon ancient prude, whose withered features show 
She might be young some forty years ago. 
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips, 
Her head erect, her fan upon her lips, 
Her eyebrows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray 
To watch yon amorous couple in their play, 
With bony and unkerchief 'd neck defies 
The rude inclemency of wintry skies. 
And sails with lappet head and mincing airs 
Duly at clink of bell to morning prayers. 
To thrift and parsimony much inclined, 
She yet allows herself that boy behind ; 
The shivering urchin, bending as he goes. 
With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nose, 
His predecessor's coat advanced to wear, 



TBUTH. 53 

Which future pages yet are doom'd to share, 
Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm, 
And hides his hands to keep his fingers tfarm. 

She, half an angel in her own account, 
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount. 
Though not a grace appears on strictest search, 
But that she fasts, and, item, goes to church. 
Conscious of age, she recollects her youth, 
And tells, not always with an eye to truth, 
Who spanned her waist, and who, where'er he came, 
ScrawFd upon glass Miss Bridget's lovely name ; 
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay 
And drank the little bumper every day. 
Of temper as envenom'd as an asp. 
Censorious, and her every word a wasp ; 
In faithful memory she records the crimes 
Or real, or fictitious, of the times ; 
Laughs at the reputations she has torn. 
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. 

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride. 
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified : 
Take, Madam, the reward of all your prayers. 
Where hermits and where bramins meet with 

theirs ; 
Your portion is with them. — ^Nay, never frown. 
But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 

Artists, attend — your brushes and your paint — 
Produce them — take a chair — ^now draw a saint. 
Oh sorrowful and sad I the streaming tears 
Channel her cheeks— a Niobe appears ! 



54 TRUTH. 

Is this a saint ? Throw tints and all away — 
True piety is cheerfiil as the day, 
Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan 
For others' woes, but smiles upon her own. 

What purpose has the King of saints in view? 
Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew ? 
To call up plenty from the teeming earth, 
Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth ? 
Is it that Adam's offspring may be saved 
From servile fear, or be the more enslaved ? 
To loose the links that gall'd mankind before. 
Or bind them faster on, and add still more ? 
The freebom Christian has no chains to prove, 
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love : 
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires, 
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires. 
Shall he, for such deliverance freely wrought, 
Recompense ill ? He trembles at the thought. 
His master's interest and his own combined 
Prompt every movement of his heart and mind : 
Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, 
His freedom is the freedom of a prince. 

Man's obligations infinite, of course 
His life should prove that he perceives their force ; 
His utmost he can render is but small — 
The principle and motive all in all. 
You have two servants — ^Tom, an arch, sly rogue, 
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue, 
Genteel in figure, easy in address. 
Moves without noise, and swift as an express, 
Reports a message with a pleasing grace, 



TRUTH. 55 

Expert in all the duties of his place ; 

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move ? 

Has he a world of gratitude and love ? 

No, not a spark — 'tis aU mere sharper's play ; 

He likes your house, your housemaid, and your 

Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, [pay ; 

Tom quits you, with — Your most obedient. Sir. 

The dinner served, Charles takes his usual stand, 
Watches your eye, anticipates command ; 
Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail ; 
And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale ; 
Consults all day your interest and your ease, 
Richly rewarded if he can but please ; 
And, proud to make his firm attachment known, 
To save your life would nobly risk his own. 

Now which stands highest in your serious 
thought ? 
Charles, without doubt, say you — and so he ought ; 
One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, 
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds. 

Thus Heaven approves as honest and sincere 
The work of generous love and filial fear ; 
But with averted eyes the omniscient Judge 
Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge. 

Where dwell these matchless saints ? old Curio 
cries. 
E'en at your side. Sir, and before your eyes. 
The favour'd few — ^the enthusiasts you despise. 
And pleased at heart because on holy ground 
Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found. 
Reproach a people with his single fall. 



56 TBnTH««» 

And cast his filthy raiment at them alL 
Attend ! an apt similitude shall show 
Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. 
See where it smokes along the sounding plain, 
Blown all aslant, a driving, dashing rain, 
Peal upon peal redoubling all around, 
Shakes it again and faster to the ground ; 
Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, 
Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. 
Ere yet it came the traveller urged his steed. 
And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed ; 
Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, 
He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. 
Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, 
Long hid by interposing hill or wood, 
Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd. 
By some kind hospitable heart possessed. 
Offer him warmth, security, and rest ; 
Think with what pleasure, safe and at his ease. 
He hears the tempest howling in the trees ; 
What glowing thanks his lips and heart employ. 
While danger pass'd is tum'd to present joy. 
So fares it with the sinner, when he feels 
A growing dread of vengeance at his heels : 
His conscience, like a glassy lake before, 
Lash'd into foaming waves begins to roar ; 
The law grown clamorous, though silent long, 
Arraigns him„ charges him with every wrongs 
Asserts the rights of his offended Lord, 
And death or restitution is the word : 



' TRUTH. 57 

The last impossible, he fears the first, 
And having well deserved, expects the worst 
Then welcome refuge, and a peaceful home ; 
Oh for a shelter from the wrath to come ! 
Crush me, ye rocks ; ye falling mountains, hide. 
Or bury me in ocean's angry tide. — 
The scrutiny of those all-seeing eyes 
I dare not — ^And you need not, God replies ; 
The remedy you want I freely give ; 
The book shall teach you — ^read, believe, and live ! 
'TIS done — ^the raging storm is heard no more, 
Mercy receives him on her peaceful shore : 
And Justice, guardian of the dread command. 
Drops the red vengeance from his willing hand, 
A soul redeemed demands a life of praise ; 
Hence the complexion of his future days. 
Hence a demeanour holy and unspeck'd. 
And the world's hatred, as its sure effect 
Some lead a life unblamable and just. 
Their own dear virtue their unshaken trust : 
They never sin— or if (as all offend) 
Some trivial slips their daily walk attend. 
The poor are near at hand, the charge is small, 
A slight gratuity atones for all. 
For though the pope has lost his interest here. 
And pardons are not sold as once they were. 
No papist more desirous to compound. 
Than some grave sinners upon English ground. 
That plea refuted, other quirks they seek — 
Mercy is infinite, and man is weak ; 
VOL. I. 11 



58 TBUTH. 

The future shall obliterate the past, 

And heaven, no doubt, shall be their home at last 

Come then — ^a still, small whisper in your «ur— 
He has no hope who never had a fear ; 
And he that never doubted of his state. 
He may perhaps — ^perhaps he may — ^too late. 

The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; 
Learning is one, and wit, however rare. 
The Frenchman, first in literary fame, 
(Mention him if you please. Voltaire ? — ^The same.) 
With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, 
Lived long, wrote much, laugh'd heartily, and died; 
The Scripture was his jest book, whence he drew, 
Bon mots to gall the Christian and the Jew ; 
An infidel in health, but what when sick ? 
Oh — ^then a text would touch him at the quick : 
View him at Paris in his last career, 
Surrounding throngs the demigod revere, 
Exalted on his pedestal of pride. 
And fumed with frankincense on every side, 
He begs their flattery with his latest breath, 
And, smother'd in't at last, is praised to death. 

Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, 
Pillow and bobbins all her little store, 
Content though mean, and cheerfiil if not gay, 
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day, 
Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night 
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light ; 
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit> 
Has little understanding, and no wit, 



TRUTH. ^ 59 

Receives no praise ; but, though her lot be such 
(Toilsome and indigent), she renders much ; 
Just knows and knows no more, her Bible true— 
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes 
Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
Oh happy peasant I Oh, unhappy bard ! 
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward ; 
He praised perhaps for ages yet to come. 
She never heard of half a mile fi*om home : 
He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers. 
She, safe in the simplicity of hers. 

Not many wise, rich, noble, or profound 
In science, win one inch of heavenly ground. 
And is it not a mortifying thought 
The poor should gain it, and the rich should not ? 
No— the voluptuaries, who ne'er forget 
One pleasure lost, lose heaven without regret ; 
Regret would rouse them, and give birth to prayer. 
Prayer would add faith, and faith would £x them 

Not that the Former of us all in this, [there. 
Or aught he does, is govem'd by caprice ; 
The supposition is replete with sin. 
And bears the brand of blasphemy burnt in. 
Not so — ^the silver trumpet's heavenly call 
Sounds for the poor, but sounds alike for aU : 
Kings are invited, and would kings obey. 
No slaves on earth more welcome were than they ; 
But royalty, nobility, and state, 
Are such a dead preponderating weight, 



60 TRUTH. 

That endless bliss (how strange soe'er it seem). 
In counterpoise, flies up and kicks the beam. 
'Tis open, and ye cannot enter — ^why ? 
Because ye will not, Conyers would reply — 
And he says much that many may dispute 
And cavil at with ease, but none refute. 
Oh, bless'd effect of penury and want, 
The seed sown there, how vigorous is the plant! 
No soil like poverty for growth divine. 
As leanest land supplies the richest wine. 
Earth gives too little, giving only bread, 
To nourish pride, or turn the weakest head : 
To them the sounding jargon of the schools 
Seems what it is — a. cap and bells for fools : 
The light they walk by, kindled from above, 
Shows them the shortest way to life and love : 
They, strangers to the controversial field, 
Where deists, always foiFd, yet scorn to yield, 
And never check'd by what impedes the wise, 
Believe, rush forward, and possess the prize. 

Envy, ye great, the dull unlettered small: 
Ye have much cause for envy — ^but not alL 
We boast some rich ones whom the Gospel sways, 
And one who wears a coronet and prays; 
Like gleanings of an olive tree they show, 
Here and there one upon the topmost bough. 

How readily, upon the Gospel plan, 
That question has its answer — ^What is man ? 
Sinful and weak, in every sense a wretch ; 
An instrument, whose chords upon the stretch. 



TRUTH. 61 

"^4 strain'd to the last screw that he can bear, 
^i^ld only discord in his Maker's ear : 
^ce the blest residence of truth divine, 
Glorious as Solyma's interior shrine. 
Where, in his own oracular abode, 
I)welt visibly the light-creating Grod ; 
Sat made long since, like Babylon of old, 
A den of mischiefs never to be told : 
And she, once mistress of the realms around. 
Now scattered wide and no where to be found. 
As soon shall rise and reascend the throne. 
By native power and energy her own. 
As nature, at her own peculiar cost. 
Restore to man the glories he has lost. 
Gk)— bid the winter cease to chill the year. 
Replace the wandering comet in his sphere. 
Then boast (but wait for that unhoped for hour) 
The self-restoring arm of human power. 
But what is man in his own proud esteem ? 
Hear Imn — ^himself the poet and the theme : 
A monarch clothed with majesty and awe, 
EUs mind his kingdom, and his will his law ; 
Grace in his mien, and glory in his eyes, 
Supreme on earth, and worthy of the skies. 
Strength in his heart, dominion in his nod. 
And, thunderbolts excepted, quite a God ! [form, 
So sings he, charm'd with his own mind and 
The song magnificent — the theme a worm ! 
Himself so much the source of his delight. 
His Maker has no beauty in his sight. 



62 TRUTH. 

Sec where he sits, contemplative and fix'd, 
Pleasure and wonder in his features mix'd, 
His passions tamed and all at his control, 
How perfect the composure of his soul ; 
Complacency has breathed a gentle gale 
O'er all his thoughts, and swelFd his easy sail : 
His books well trimm'd, and m the gayest style, 
Like regimental coxcombs rank and file, 
Adorn his intellects as well as shelves. 
And teach him notions splendid as themselves : 
The Bible only stands neglected there. 
Though that of all most worthy of his care ; , 
And, like an infant troublesome awake, 
Is left to sleep for peace and quiet sake. 

What shall the man deserve of humankind; 
Whose happy skill and industry combined 
Shall prove (what argument could never yet) 
The Bible an imposture and a cheat ? 
The praises of the libertine profess'd. 
The worst of men, and curses of the best 
Where should the living, weeping o'er his woes ; 
The dying, trembling at the awful close ; 
Where the betray'd, forsaken, and oppress'd, 
The thousands whom the world forbids to rest^ 
Where should they find (those comforts at an end 
The Scripture yields), or hope to find, a friend? 
Sorrow might muse herself to madness then, 
And, seeking exile from the sight of men, 
Bury herself in sohtude profound. 
Grow frantic with her pangs, and bite the ground. 



TRUTH. 63 

Thus often Unbelief, grown sick of life, 

Flies to the tempting pool, or felon knife. 

The jury meet, the coroner is short. 

And lunacy the verdict of the court. 

Reverse the sentence, let the truth be known. 

Such lunacy is ignorance alone ; 

They knew not, what some bishops may not know. 

That Scripture is the only cure of woe ; 

That field of promise, how it flings abroad 

Its odour o'er the Christian's thorny road ! 

The soul, reposing on assured relief. 

Feels herself happy amidst all her grief. 

Forgets her labour as she toils along. 

Weeps tears of joy, and bursts into a song. 

But the same word, that, like the polish'd share. 
Ploughs up the roots of a believer's care. 
Kills too the flowery weeds, where'er they grow. 
That bind the sinner's Bacchanalian brow. 
Oh, that unwelcome voice of heavenly love, 
Sad messenger of mercy from above ! 
How does it grate upon his thankless ear, 
CrippHng his pleasures with the cramp of fear ! 
His will and judgment at continual strife. 
That civil war embitters all his life ; 
In vain he points his powers against the skies. 
In vain he closes or averts his eyes. 
Truth will intrude — she bids him yet beware ; 
And shakes the sceptic in the scomer's chair. 
Though various foes against the truth combine, 
Pride above all opposes her design ; 



64 TRUTH. 

Pride, of a growth superior to the rest, 
The subtlest serpent with the loftiest crest, 
Swells at the thought, and, kindling into rage, 
Would hiss the cherub Mercy from the stage. 

And is the soul indeed so lost ? — she cries. 
Fallen from her glory, and too weak to rise ? 
Torpid and dull, beneath a frozen zone. 
Has she no spark that may be deem'd her own ? 
Grant her indebted to what zealots call 
Grace undeserved, yet surely not for all ! 
Some beams of rectitude she yet displays. 
Some love of virtue, and some power to praise ; 
Can lift herself above corporeal things. 
And, soaring on her own unborrow'd wings, 
Possess herself of all that's good or true, 
Assert the skies, and vindicate her due. 
Past indiscretion is a venial crime, 
And if the youth, unmellow'd yet by time. 
Bore on his branch, luxuriant then and rude. 
Fruits of a blighted size, austere and crude, 
Maturer years shall happier stores produce, 
And meliorate the well-concocted juice. 
Then, conscious of her meritorious zeal. 
To Justice she may make her bold appeal, 
And leave to Mercy, with a tranquil mind, 
The worthless and unfruitful of mankind. 
Hear then how mercy, slighted and defied. 
Retorts the affront against the crown of pride. 

Perish the virtue, as it ought, abhorr'd. 
And the fool with it, who insults his Lord. 



TEUTH. 65 

3nement a Redeemer's love has wrought 
for you — ^the righteous need it not. 
hou yon harlot, wooing all she meets, 
om-out nuisance of the public streets, 
f from mom to night, from night to mom, 
vn abhorrence, and as much your scorn : 
-acious shower, unlimited and free, 
'all on her, when Heaven denies it thee, 
that wisdom dictates this the drifl, 
lan is dead in sin, and life a gift, 
irtue then, unless of Christian growth, 
'allacy, or foohshness, or both ? 
lOusand sages lost in endless woe, 
norance of what they could not know ? 
peech betrays at once a bigot's tongue, 
e not a God with such outrageous wrong, 
not I — the partial light men have, 
eed persuades me, well employ'd, may save ; 
he that scorns the noonday beam, perverse, 
ind the blessing unimproved a curse. 
;athen worthies, whose exalted mind 
3nsuality and dross behind, 
;s for me their undisputed lot, 
ike unenvied the reward they sought, 
ill in virtue of a Saviour's plea, 
ind by choice, biit destined not to see. 
fortitude and wisdom were a flame 
ial, though they knew not whence it came, 
3d from the same source of light and grace, 
ruides the Christian in his swifter race ; 



66 TBUTH. 

Their judge was conscience, and lier rule their law. 
That rule, pursued with reverence and with awe, 
Led them, however faltering, faint, and slow. 
From what they knew to what they wish'd to know. 
But let not him that shares a brighter day 
Traduce the splendour of a noontide ray, 
Prefer the twiUght of a darker time. 
And deem his base stupidity no crime ; 
The wretch, who slights the bounty of the skies. 
And sinks, while favoured with the means to rise, 
Shall find them rated at their full amount, 
The good he scom'd all carried to account. 

Marshalling all his terrors as he came. 
Thunder, and earthquake, and devouring flame, 
From Sinai's top Jehovah gave the law. 
Life for obedience, death for every flaw. 
When the great Sovereign would his will express, 
He gives a perfect rule, what can he less ? 
And guards it with a sanction as severe 
As vengeance can inflict, or sinners fear : 
Else his own glorious rights he would disclaim, 
And man might safely trifle with his name. 
He bids him glow with unremitting love 
To all on Earth, and to himself above ; 
Condemns the injurious deed, the slanderous 

tongue. 
The thought that meditates a brother's wrong : 
Brings not alone the more conspicuous part, 
His conduct, to the test, but tries his heart. 

Hark ! universal nature shook and groan'd, 



TRUTH. 67 

'Twas tlie last trumpet — see the Judge enthroned: 
Bouse all your courage at your utmost need, 
Now summon every virtue, stand and plead. 
What ! silent ? Is your boasting heard no more ? 
That self-renouncing wisdom, learn'd before, 
Had shed immortal glories on your brow. 
That all your virtues cannot purchase now. 

All joy to the believer ! He can speak — 
Trembling yet happy, confident yet meek. 

Since the dear hour that brought me to thy foot, 
And cut up all my follies by the ix)ot, 
I never trusted in an arm but thine. 
Nor hoped, but in thy righteousness divine : 
My prayers and alms, imperfect and defiled, 
Were but the feeble efforts of a child ; 
Howe'er perform'd, it was their brightest part. 
That they proceeded from a grateful heart : 
Cleansed in thine own all-purifying blood. 
Forgive their evil, and accept their good : 
I cast them at thy feet — ^my only plea 
Is what it was, dependence upon thee : 
While struggling in the vale of tears below. 
That never &il'd, nor shall it fail me now. 
Angelic gratulatigns rend the skies. 
Pride falls unpitied, never more to rise. 
Humility is crown'd, and Faith receives the prize. 



EXPOSTULATION. 

Tantane, tam patiens, nullo certamine tolli 
Dona sines ? 

Why weeps the muse for England? What 

appears 
In England's case to move the muse to tears ? 
From side to side of her delightful isle 
Is she not clothed with a perpetual *smile ? 
Can Nature add a charm, or Art confer 
A new found luxury, not seen in her ? 
Where under Heaven is pleasure more pursued, 
Or where does cold reflection less intrude? 
Her fields a rich expanse of wavy com, 
Pour*d out from Plenty's overflowing horn ; 
Ambrosial gardens, in which art supplies 
The fervour and the force of Indian skies ; 
Her peaceful shores, where busy Commerce waits 
To pour his golden tide through all her gates ; 
Whom fiery suns, that scorch the russet spice 
Of eastern groves, and oceans floor'd with ice 
Forbid in vain to push his daring way 
To darker climes, or climes of brighter day ; 
Whom the winds waft where'er the billows roll, 
From the World's girdle to the frozen pole ; 
The chariots bounding in her wheel-worn streets, 
Her vaults below, where every vintage meets ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 69 

Her theatres, her revels, and her sports ; 
The scenes to which not youth alone resorts, 
But age, in spite of weakness and of pain. 
Still haunts, in hope to dream of youth again ; 
All speak her happy : let the muse look round 
From East to West, no sorrow can be found ; 
Or only what, in cottages confined, ' 
Sighs unregarded to the passing wind. 
Then wherefore weep for England ? What appears 
In England's case to move the muse to tears ? 

The prophet wept for Israel ; wish'd his eyes 
Were fountains fed with infinite supplies ; 
For Israel dealt in robbery and wrong ; [tongue ; 
There were the scomer's and the slanderer's 
Oaths, used as playthings or convenient tools, 
As interest bias'd knaves, or fashion fools ; 
Adultery, neighing at his neighbour's door ; 
Oppression, labouring hard to grind the poor ; 
The partial balance and deceitful weight ; 
The treacherous smile, a mask for secret hate ; 
Hypocrisy, formality in prayer, 
And the dull service of the lip were there. 
Her women, iosolent and self-caressed, 
By vanity's unwearied finger dress'd, 
Forgot the blush that virgin fears impart 
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art ; 
Were just such trifles, without worth or use. 
As silly pride and idleness produce ; 
Curl'd, scented, furbeloVd, and flounced around. 
With feet too delicate to touch the ground. 



70 EXPOSTULATION. 

They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye, 
And sigh'd for every fool that fluttered by. 

He saw his people slaves to every lust, 
Lewd, avaricious, arrogant, unjust ; 
He heard the wheels of an avenging God 
Groan heavily along the distant road ; 
Saw Babylon set wide her two-leaved brass 
To let the military deluge pass ; 
Jerusalem a prey, her glory soil'd, 
Her princes captive, and her treasures spoil'd ; 
Wept tiU all Israel heard his bitter cry, 
Stamp'd with his foot, and smote upon his thigh ; 
But wept, and stamp'd, and smote his thigh in vain. 
Pleasure is deaf when told of future pain. 
And sounds prophetic are too rough to suit 
Ears long accustom'd to the pleasing lute : 
They scom'd his inspiration and his theme, 
Pronounced him frantic, and his fears a dream ; 
With self-indulgence wing'd the fleeting hours, 
Till the foe found them, and down fell the towers. 

Long time Assyria bound them in her chain. 
Till penitence had purged the public stain. 
And Cyrus, with relenting pity moved, 
Retum'd them happy to the land they loved ; 
There, proof against prosperity, awhile 
They stood the test of her ensnaring smile, 
And had the grace in scenes of peace to show 
The virtue they had leam'd in scenes of woe. 
But man is frail, and can but ill sustain 
A long immunity from grief and pain ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 71 

And aflber all the joys that Plenty leads. 
With tiptoe step Vice silently succeeds. 

When he that ruled them with a shepherd's 
In form a man, in dignity a God, [rod, 

Came, not expected in that humble guise, 
To sift and search them .dth unerring eyes, 
He found, concealed beneath a fair outside. 
The filth of rottenness and worm of pride ; 
Their piety a system of deceit. 
Scripture employed to sanctify the cheat ; 
The pharisee the dupe of his own art, 
Self-idolized, and yet a knave at heart 

When nations are to perish in their sins, 
Tis in the church the leprosy begins ; 
The priest, whose office is, with zeal sincere. 
To watch the fountain and preserre it clear. 
Carelessly nods and sleeps upon the brink. 
While others poison what the fiock must drink ; 
Or, waking at the call of lust alone. 
Infuses lies and errors of his own : 
His unsuspecting sheep believe it pure ; 
And, tainted by the very means of cure. 
Catch from each other a contagious spot, 
The foul forerunner of a general rot. 
Then Truth is hush'd, that Heresy may preach ; 
And all is trash that reason cannot reach ; 
Then God's own image on the soul impress'd 
Becomes a mockery and a standing jest ; 
And faith, the root whence only can arise 
The graces of a life that wins the skies. 



72 EXPOSTULATION. 

Loses at once all value and esteem, 
Pronounced by graybeards a pernicious dream : 
Then Ceremony leads her bigots forth, 
Prepared to fight for shadows of no worth ; 
While truths, on which eternal things depend, 
Find not, or hardly find, a single friend : 
As soldiers watch the signal of command, 
They learn to bow, to kneel, to sit, to stand ; 
Happy to fill religion's vacant place 
With hollow form, and gesture, and grimace. 

Such, when the teacher of his church was there) 
People and priest, the sons of Israel were ; 
Stiff in the letter, lax in the design 
And import, of their oracles divine ; 
Their learning legendary, false, absurd, 
And yet exalted above God's own word ; 
They drew a curse from an intended good, 
Puff 'd up with gifts they never understood. 
He judged them with as terrible a frown. 
As if not love, but wrath, had brought him doTm: 
Yet he was gentle as soft sunmier airs, 
Had grace for others' sins, but none for theirs ; 
Through aU he spoke a noble plainness ran— 
Rhetoric is artifice, the work of man ; 
And tricks and turns, that fancy may devise, 
Are far too mean for Him that rules the skies. 
The astonish'd vulgar trembled while he tore 
The mask from faces never seen before ; 
He stripp'd the impostors in the noonday sun, 
Show'd that they follow'd all they seem'd to shun; 



EXPOSTULATION. 73 

Their prayers made public, their excesses kept 
As private as the chambers where they slept ; 
The temple and its holy rites profaned 
By mummeries He that dwelt in it disdain'd ; 
Uplifted hands, that at convenient times 
Could act extortion and the worst of crimes, 
Wash'd with a neatness scrupulously nice, 
And free from every taint but that of vice. 
Judgment, however tardy, mends her pace 
When obstinacy once has conquer'd grace. 
They saw distemper heal'd, and life restored. 
In answer to the fiat of his word ; 
Confessed the wonder, and with daring tongue 
Blasphemed the authority from which it sprung. 
They knew, by sure prognostics seen on high, 
The future tone and temper of the sky ; 
But, grave dissemblers ! could not understand 
That sin let loose speaks punishment at hand. 

Ask now of history's authentic page, 
And call up evidence from every age ; 
Display with busy and laborious hand 
The blessings of the most indebted land ; 
What nation will you find, whose annals prove 
So rich an interest in Almighty love ? 
Where dwell they now, where dwelt in ancient day 
A people planted, water'd, blest as they ? 
Let Egypt's plagues and Canaan's woes proclaim 
The favours pour'd upon the Jewish name ; 
Their freedom purchased for them at the cost 
Of all their hard oppressors valued most ; 
VOL. I- 12 



74 EXPOSTULATION. 

Their title to a country not their own 
Made sure by prodigies till then unknown ; 
For them the states they left made waste and void ; 
For them the states to which they went destroyed; 
A cloud to measure out their march by day, 
By night a fire to cheer the gloomy way ; 
That moving signal summoning, when best, 
Their host to move, and, when it stay'd, to rest. 
For them the rocks dissolved into a flood. 
The dews condensed into angelic food. 
Their very garments sacred, old yet new. 
And time forbid to touch them as he flew ; 
Streams, swell'd above the bank, enjoin'd to stand 
While they pass'd through to their appointed land ; 
Their leader arm'd with meekness, zeal, and love, 
And graced with clear credentials from above ; 
Themselves secured beneath the Almighty wing; 
Their God their captain,^ lawgiver, and king^; 
Crown'd with a thousand victories, and at last 
Lords of the conquered soil, there rooted fast, 
In peace possessing what they won by war, 
Their name far published, and rever'd as far ; 
Where will you find a race like theirs, endowed 
With all that man e'er wish'd, or heaven bestow*d? 

They, and they only, amongst all mankind, 
Received the transcript of the Eternal Mind : 
Were trusted with his own engraven laws. 
And constituted guardians of his cause ; 

1 Vide Joshua, v. 14. 



EXPOSTULATION. 75 

Theirs were the prophets, theirs the priestly call, 
And theirs by birth the Saviour of us all. 
In vain the nations, that had seen them rise 
With fierce and envious yet admiring eyes, 
Had sought to crush them, guarded as they were 
,By power divine, and skill that could not err. 
Had they maintained allegiance firm and sure, 
And kept the faith immaculate and pure. 
Then the proud eagles of all-conquering Rome 
Had found one city not to be o'ercome ; 
And the twelve standards of the tribes unfurl'd 
Had bid defiance to the warring world. 
But grace abused brings forth the foulest deeds, 
As richest soil the most luxuriant weeds. 
Cured of the golden calves, their fathers' sin, 
They set up self, that idol god within ; 
View'd a deliverer with disdain and hate, 
Who left them still a tributary state ; 
Seized fast his hand, held out to set them free 
From a worse yoke, and nail'd it to the tree : 
There was the consummation and the crown, 
The flower of Israel's infamy full blown ; 
Thence date their sad declension, and their faU, 
Their woes, not yet repealed, thence date them all. 

Thus fell the best instructed in her day. 
And the most favoured land, look where we may. 
Philosophy indeed on Grecian eyes 
Had pour'd the day, and cleared the Roman skies ; 
In other climes perhaps creative art. 
With power surpassing theirs, performed her part ; 



76 EXPOSTULATION. 

Might give more life to marble, or might fill 
The glowing tablets with a juster skill, 
Might shine in fable, and grace idle themes 
With all the embroidery of poetic dreams ; 
'Twas theirs alone to dive into the plan 
That truth and mercy had reveal'd to man ; 
And, while the world beside, that plan unknown, 
Defied useless wood or senseless stone. 
They breathed in faith their well-directed prayers 
And the true God, the God of truth, was theirs. 

Their glory faded, and their race dispersed, 
The last of nations now, though once the first ; 
They warn and teach the proudest, would they leant, 
Keep wisdom, or meet vengeance in your turn: 
If we escaped not, if Heaven spared not us, 
Peel'd, scattered, and exterminated thus ; 
If vice received her retribution due, 
When we were visited, what hope for you ? 
When God arises with an awful frown 
To punish lust, or pluck presumption down ; 
When gifts perverted, or not duly prized, 
Pleasure overvalued, and his grace despised. 
Provoke the vengeance of his righteous hand. 
To pour down wrath upon a thankless land : 
He will be found impartially severe, 
Too just to wink, or speak the guilty clear. 

Oh Israel, of all nations most undone ! 
Thy diadem displaced, thy sceptre gone j 
Thy temple, once thy glory, fallen and rased, 
And thou a worshipper e'en where thou mayst ; 



EXPOSTULATION. 77 

Thy services, once holy without spot, 

Mere shadows now, their ancient pomp forgot ; 

Thy Levites, once a consecrated host, 

No longer Levites, and their lineage lost. 

And thou thyself o*er every country sown. 

With none on earth that thou canst call thine own ; 

Cry aloud, thoii that sittest in the dust. 

Cry to the proud, the cruel, and unjust ; 

Knock at the gates of nations, rouse their fears ; 

Say wrath is coming, and the storm appears ; 

But raise the shrillest cry in British ears. 

What ails thee, restless as the waves that roar, 
And fling their foam against thy chalky shore ? 
Mistress, at least while Providence shall please, 
And trident-bearing queen of the wide seas — 
Why, having kept good faith, and often shown 
Friendship and truth to others, find'st thou none ? 
Thou that hast set the persecuted free, 
None interposes now to succour thee. 
Countries indebted to thy power, that shine 
With light derived from thee, would smother thine : 
Thy very children watch for thy disgrace, 
A lawless brood, and curse thee to thy face. 
Thy rulers load thy credit, year by year. 
With sums Peruvian min6s could never clear; 
As if, like arches built with skilful hand. 
The more 'twere press'd the firmer it would stand. 

The cry in all thy ships is still the same, 
Speed us away to battle and to fame. 
Thy mariners explore the wild expanse, 
Impatient to descry the flags of France : 



78 JEXPOSTULATION. 

But, though they fight as thine have ever fought, 

Return ashamed without the wreaths they sought 

Thy senate is a scene of civil jar, 

Chaos of contrarieties at war ; 

Where sharp and solid, phlegmatic and light, 

Discordant atoms meet, ferment, and fight ; 

Where obstinacy takes his sturdy stand, 

To disconcert what policy has plann'd ; 

Where policy is busied all night long 

In setting right what faction has set wrong ; 

Where flails of oratory thresh the floor. 

That yields them chaff and dust, and nothing more. 

Thy rack'd inhabitants repine, complain, 

Tax'd till the brow of labour sweats in vain; 

War lays a burden on the reeling state. 

And peace does nothing to relieve the weight ; 

Successive loads succeeding broils impose. 

And sighing millions prophesy the close. 

Is adverse providence, when pondered well, 
So dimly writ, or difficult to spell. 
Thou canst not read with readiness and ease 
Providence adverse in events like these ? 
Know then that heavenly wisdom on this ball 
Creates, gives birth to, guides, consummates all ; 
That, while laborious and quick-thoughted man 
Snuffs up the praise of what he seems to plan. 
He first conceives, then perfects his design. 
As a mere instrument in hands divine : 
Blind to the working of that secret power 
That balances the wings of every hour. 



EXPOSTULATION. 79 

The busy trifler dreams himself alone, 

Frames many a purpose, and God works his own. 

States thrive or wither as moons wax and wane, 

E'en as his will and his decrees ordain ; 

While honour, virtue, piety, bear sway. 

They flourish ; and, as these decline, decay : 

In just resentment of his injured laws. 

He pours contempt on them, and on their cause ; 

Strikes the rough thread of error right athwart 

The web of every scheme they have at heart ; 

Bids rottenness invade and bring to dust 

The pillars of support in which they trust. 

And do his errand of disgrace and shame 

On the chief strength and glory of the frame. 

None ever yet impeded what he wrought. 

None bars him out from his most secret thought : 

Darkness itself before his eye is light. 

And hell's close mischief naked in his sight. 

Stand now and judge thyself — Hast thou incurred 
His anger who can waste thee with a word, 
Who poises and proportions sea and land. 
Weighing them in the hollow of his hand. 
And in whose awful sight all nations seem 
As grasshoppers, as dust, a drop, a dream ? 
Hast thou (a sacrilege his soul abhors) 
Claim'd all the glory of thy prosperous wars ? 
Proud of thy fleets and armies, stolen the gem 
Of his just praise, to lavish it on them ? 
Hast thou not leam'd, what thou art often told, 
A truth still sacred, and believed of old. 



80 EXPOSTULATION. 

That no success attends on spears and swords 
Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's ? 
That courage is his creature ; and dismay 
The post, that at his bidding speeds away, 
Ghastly in feature, and his stammering tongue 
With doleful rumour and sad presage hung. 
To quell the valour of the stoutest heart, 
And teach the combatant a woman's part ? 
That he bids thousands fly when none pursue, 
Saves as he will by many or by few, 
And claims for ever, as his royal right, 
The event and sure decision of the fight ? 

Hast thou, though suckled at fair freedom's 
Exported slavery to the conquer'd East? [breast, 
Pull'd down the tyrants India served with dread, 
And raised thyself, a greater, in their stead ? 
Gone thither arm'd and hungry, retum'd full, 
Fed from the richest veins of the Mogul, 
A despot big with power obtain'd by wealth, 
And that obtain'd by rapine and by stealth ? 
With Asiatic vices stored thy mind, 
But left their virtues and thine own behind ? 
And, having truck'd thy soul, brought home the 
To tempt the poor to sell himself to thee ? [fee, 

Hast thou by statute shoved from its design 
The Saviour's feast, his own blest bread and wine, 
And, made the symbols of atoning grace 
An office key, a picklock to a place, 
That infidels may prove their title good 
By an oath dipp'd in sacramental blood ? 



EXPOSTULATION. 81 

A blot that will be still a blot, in spite 
Of all that grave apologists may write ; 
And though a bishop toil to cleanse the stain, 
He wipes and scours the silver cup in vain. 
And hast thou sworn on every slight pretence, 
Till perjuries are common as bad pence, 
While thousands, careless of the damning sin. 
Kiss the book's outside, who ne'er look within ? 
Hast thou, when heaven has clothed thee with 

disgrace. 
And, long provoked, repaid thee to thy face 
(For thou hast known eclipses, and endured 
Dimness and anguish, all thy beams obscured. 
When sin has shed dishonour on thy brow ; 
And never of a sabler hue than now). 
Hast thou, with heart perverse and conscience 

sear'd. 
Despising all rebuke, still persevered. 
And having chosen evil, scom'd the voice 
That cried Repent ! — and gloried in thy choice ? 
Thy fastings, when calamity at last 
Suggests the expedient of a yearly fast. 
What mean they ? Canst thou dream there is a 
In lighter diet at a later hour, [power 

To charm to sleep tlie threatening of the skies, 
And hide past folly from all-seeing eyes ? 
The fast that wins deliverance, and suspends 
The stroke that a vindictive God intends. 
Is to renounce hypocrisy ; to draw 
Thy life upon the pattern of the law ; 



82 EXPOSTULATION. 

To war with pleasure, idolized before ; 
To vanquish lust, and wear its yoke no more. 
All fasting else, whatever be the pretence, 
Is wooing mercy by renewed offence. 

Hast thou within thee sin, that in old time 
Brought fire from heaven, the sex-abusing crime, 
Whose horrid perpetration stamps disgrace. 
Baboons are free from, upon human race ? 
Think on the fruitful and well watered spot 
That fed the flocks and herds of wealthy Lot, 
Where Paradise seem'd still vouchsafed on earth, 
Burning and scorch'd into perpetual dearth. 
Or, in his words who damn'd the base desire, 
Suffering the vengeance of eternal fire : 
Then nature injured, scandaUzed, defiled, 
Unveird her blushing cheek, look'd on, and smiled; 
Beheld with joy the lovely scene defaced. 
And praised the wrath that laid her beauties waste. 

Far be the thought from any verse of mine. 
And farther still the form'd and fix'd design, 
To thrust the charge of deeds that I detest 
Against an innocent unconscious breast ; 
The man that dares traduce, because he can 
With safety to himself, is not a man : 
An individual is a sacred mark. 
Not to be pierced in play, or in the dark ; 
But public censure speaks a pubhc foe. 
Unless a zeal for virtue guide the blow. 

The priestly brotherhood, devout, sincere, 
From mean self-interest and ambition clear, 



EXPOSTULATIOX. 83 

Their hope in heavcD, servility their scorn, 
Prompt to persuade, expostulate, and warn. 
Their wisdom pure, and given them from above, 
Their usefulness ensured by zeal and love. 
As meek as the man Moses, and withal 
As bold as in Agrippa's presence Paul, 
Should fly the world's contaminating touch, 
Holy and unpolluted : — are thine such ? 
Except a few with Eli's spirit blest, 
Hophni and Phineas may describe the rest. 

Where shall a teacher look, in days like these, 
For ears and hearts that he can hope to please ? 
Look to the poor — the simple and the plain 
Will hear perhaps thy salutary strain : 
Humility is gentle, apt to learn. 
Speak but the word, will listen and return. 
Alas, not so 1 the poorest of the flock 
Are proud, and set their faces as a rock ; 
Denied that earthly opulence they choose, 
God's better gift they scoff at and refuse. 
The rich, the produce of a nobler stem. 
Are more intelligent at least, try them. 
Oh vain inquiry ! they without remorse 
Are altogether gone a devious course ; [stray ; 
Where beckoning pleasure leads them, wildly 
Have burst the bands, and cast the yoke away. 

Now borne upon the wings of truth sublime. 
Review thy dim original and prime. 
This island, spot of unreclaim'd rude earth. 
The cradle that received thee at thy birth, 



84 EXPOSTULATION. 

Was rock'd by many a rough Non^^egian blast, 
And Danish bowlings scared thee as they pass'dj 
For thou wast born amid the din of arms, 
And suck'd a breast that panted with alarms. 
While yet thou wast a grovelling puling chit. 
Thy bones not fashioned, and thy joints not knit, 
The Roman taught thy stubborn knee to bow. 
Though twice a Caesar could not bend thee now. 
His victory was that of orient light. 
When the sun's shafts disperse the gloOm of night 
Thy language at this distant moment shows 
How much the country to the conqueror owes ; 
Expressive, energetic, and refined. 
It sparkles with the gems he left behind : 
He brought thy land a blessing when he came. 
He found thee savage, and he left thee tame ; 
Taught thee to clothe thy pink'd and painted hide, 
And grace thy figure with a soldier's pride ; 
He sow'd the seeds of order where he went, 
Improved thee far beyond his own intent. 
And, while he ruled thee by the sword alone, 
Made thee at last a warrior like his own. 
Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, 
Needs only to be seen to be admired ; 
But thine, as dark as witcheries of the night. 
Was form'd to harden hearts and shock the sight; 
Thy Druids struck the well-strung harps they bore 
With fingers deeply dyed in human gore ; 
And while the victim slowly bled to death, 
Upon the rolling chords rung out his dying breath. 



EXPOSTULATION. 85 

"Who brought the lamp that with awaking beams 
Dispeird thy gloom, and broke away thy dreams, 
Tradition, now decrepit and worn out. 
Babbler of ancient fables, leaves a doubt : 
But still light reach'd thee ; and those gods of thine, 
Woden and Thor, each tottering in his shrine. 
Fell broken and defaced at their own door, 
As Dagon in Philistia long before. 
But Rome with sorceries and magic wand 
Soon raised a cloud that darkened every land ; 
And thine was smother'd in the stench and fog 
Of Tiber's marshes and the papal bog. [crowns, 
Then priests with bulls and briefs, and shaven 
And griping fists, and unrelenting frowns. 
Legates and delegates with powers from hell, 
Though heavenly in pretension, fleeced thee well ; 
And to this hour, to keep it fresh in mind. 
Some twigs of that old scourge are left behind.^ 
Thy soldiery, the pope's well-managed pack. 
Were train'd beneath his lash, and knew the 

smack. 
And, when he laid them on the scent of blood. 
Would hunt a Saracen through fire and flood. 
Lavish of life, to win an empty tomb. 
That proved a mint of wealth, a mine to Rome, 
They left their bones beneath unfriendly skies. 
His worthless absolution all the prize. 
Thou wast the veriest slave, in days of yore, 
That ever dragg'd a chain or tugg'd an oar ; 

1 Which may be found at Doctors* Commons. 



86 EXPOSTULATION. 

Thy monarclis arbitrary, fierce, unjust. 

Themselves the slaves of bigotry or lust, 

Disdained thy counsels, only in distress 

Found thee a goodly sponge for power to press. 

Thy chiefs, the lords of many a petty fee. 

Provoked and harass'd, in return plagued thee ; 

Caird thee away from peaceable employ, 

Domestic happiness and rural joy. 

To waste thy life in arms, or lay it down 

In causeless feuds and bickerings of their own. 

Thy parliaments adored, on bended knees, 

The sovereignty they were convened to please ; 

Whate'er was ask'd, too timid to resist, 

Complied with, and were graciously dismissed; 

And if some Spartan soul a doubt expressed, » 

And, blushing at the tameness of the rest, 

Dared to suppose the subject had a choice, 

He was a traitor by the general voice. 

Oh slave ! with powers thou didst not dare exert, 

Verse cannot stoop so low as thy desert ; 

It shakes the sides of splenetic disdain. 

Thou self-entitled ruler of the main. 

To trace thee to the date when yon fair sea, 

That clips thy shores, had no such charms for thee; 

When other nations flew from coast to coast, 

And thou hadst neither fleet nor flag to boast. 

Kneel now, and lay thy forehead in the dust ; ' 

Blush if thou canst ; not petrified, thou must : 

Act but an honest and a faithful part ; 

Compare what then thou wast with what thou art; 



EXPOSTULATION. 87 

And God's disposing providence confess'd, 
Obduracy itself must yield the rest. — 
Then thou art bound to serve him, and to prove, 
Hour after hour, thy gratitude and love. 

Has he not hid thee, and thy favour'd land, 
For ages safe beneath his sheltering hand. 
Given thee his blessing on the clearest proof. 
Bid nations leagued against thee stand aloof, 
And charged hostility and hate to roar 
Where else they would, but not upon thy shore ? 
His power secured thee, when presumptuous Spain 
Baptized her fleet Invincible in vain ; 
Her gloomy monarch, doubtful and resigned 
To every pang that racks an anxious mind, 
Ask'd of the waves that broke ^upon his coast, 
What tidings ? and the surge replied — ^All lost ! 
And when the Stuart, leaning on the Scot, 
Then too much fear'd, and now too much forgot. 
Pierced to the very centre of the realm. 
And hoped to seize his abdicated helm, 
'Twas but to prove how quickly, with a frown. 
He that had raised thee could have pluck'd thee 
Peculiar is the grace by thee possess'd, [down. 
Thy foes implacable, thy land at rest ; 
Thy thunders travel over earth and seas, 
And all at home is pleasure, wealth, and ease. 
'Tis thus, extending his tempestuous arm. 
Thy Maker fills the nations with alarm, 
While his own heaven surveys the troubled scene, 
And feels no change, unshaken and serene. 



88 EXPOSTULATION, 

Freedom, in other lands scarce known to shine, 
Pours out a flood of splendour upon thine ; 
Thou hast as bright an interest in her rays 
As ever Roman had in Rome's best days. 
True freedom is where no restraint is known 
That Scripture, justice, and good sense disown. . 
Where only vice and injury are tied, 
And all from shore to shore is free beside. 
Such freedom is — and Windsor's hoary towers 
Stood trembling at the boldness of thy powers, 
That won a nymph on that immortal plain, 
Like her the fabled Phoebus woo'd in v^ : 
He found the laurel only — ^happier you 
The unfading laurel, and the virgin too!^ 

Now think, if pleasure have a thought to spare; 
If Grod himself be not beneath her care ; 
If business, constant as the wheels of time, 
Can pause an hour to read a serious rhyme ; 
If the new mail thy merchants now receive, 
Or expectation of the next give leave ; 
Oh think, if chargeable with deep arrears 
For such indulgence gilded all thy years. 
How much, though long neglected, shining yet, 
The beams of heavenly truth have swell'd the debt 
When persecuting zeal made royal sport 
With tortured innocence in Mary's court, 
And Bonner, bUthe as shepherd at a wake, 
Enjoy'd the show, and danced about the stake ; 

1 Alluding to the grant of Magna Gharta, which was ex- 
torted from King John by the barons at Bonnymede neir 
Windsor. 



EXPOSTULATION. 89 

The sacred book, its value understood, 
Received the seal of martyrdom in blood* 
Those holy men, so full of truth and grace, 
Seem to reflection of a different race, 
Meek, modest, venerable, wise, sincere, 
In such a cause they could not dare to fear ; 
They could not purchase earth with such a prize, 
Or spare a life too short to reach the skies. 
From them to thee convey'd along the tide, [died ; 
Their streaming hearts pour'd freely when they 
Those truths, which neither use nor years impair, 
Invite thee, woo thee, to the bliss they share. 
What dotage will not vanity maintain ? 
What web too weak to catch a modem brain ? 
The moles and bats in full assembly find, 
On special search, the keen-eyed eagle blind. 
And did they dream, and art thou wiser now ? 
Prove it — ^if better, I submit and bow. 
Wisdom and goodness are twin-bom, one heart 
Must hold both sisters, never seen apart 
So then — ^as darkness overspread the deep, 
Ere nature rose from her eternal sleep. 
And this delightful earth, and that fair sky, ' 
Leap'd out of nothing, call'd by the Most High ; 
By such a change thy darkness is made light, 
Thy chaos order, and thy weakness might ; 
And he, whose power mere nullity obeys. 
Who found thee nothing, form'd thee for his praise. 
To praise him is to serve him, and fulfil. 
Doing and suffering, his unquestion'd will ; 
VOL. I. 13 



90 EXPOSTULATION. 

t 

'Tis to believe what men inspired of old, 
Faithful, and faithfully inform'd, unfold ; 
Candid and just, with no false aim in view, 
To take for truth what cannot but be true ; 
To learn in God's own school the Christian part, 
And bind the task assigned thee to thine heart : 
Happy the man there seeking and there found, 
Happy the nation where such men abound ! 

How shall a verse impress thee ? by what name 
Shall I abjure thee not to court thy shame? 
By theirs whose bright example, unimpeach'd. 
Directs thee to that eminence they reach'd, 
Heroes and worthies of days past, thy sires ? 
Or his, who touched their hearts with hallo w'dfires? 
Their names, alas ! in vain reproach an age. 
Whom all the vanities they scorn'd engage ; 
And his, that seraphs tremble at, is hung 
Disgracefully on every trifler's tongue. 
Or serves the champion in forensic war 
To flourish and parade with at the bar. 
Pleasure herself perhaps suggests a plea. 
If interest move thee, to persuade e'en thee ; 
By every charm that smiles upon her face. 
By joys possess'd, and joys still held in chase, 
If dear society be worth a thought. 
And if the feast of freedom cloy thee not, 
Heflect that these, and all that seems thine own, 
Held by the tenure of his will alone. 
Like angels in the service of their Lord, 
Remain with thee, or leave thee at his word 1 



EXPOSTULATION. 91 

That gratitude and temperance in our use 
Of what he gives, unsparing and profuse, 
Secure the favour, and enhance the joy, 
That thankless waste and wild abuse destroy. 
But above all reflect, how cheap soe'er 
Those rights, that millions envy thee, appear, 
And though resolved to risk them, and swim down 
The tide of pleasure, heedless of his frown, 
That blessings truly sacred, and when given 
Mark'd with the -signature and stamp of Heaven, 
The word of prophecy, those truths divine, 
Which make that Heaven, if thou desire it, thine, 
(Awful alternative ! believed, beloved, 
Thy glory, and thy shame if unimproved). 
Are never long vouchsafed, if push'd aside 
With cold disgust or philosophic pride ; 
And that judicially withdrawn, disgrace. 
Error, and darkness occupy their place. 

A world is up in arms, and thou, a spot 
Not quickly found, if negligently sought, 
Thy soul as ample as thy bounds are small, 
Endurest the brunt, and darest defy them all ; 
And wilt thou join to this bold enterprise 
A bolder still, a contest with the skies ? 
Remember, if he guard thee and secure. 
Whoe'er assails thee, thy success is sure ; 
But if He leave thee, though the skill and power 
Of nations, sworn to spoil thee and devour. 
Were all collected in thy single arm. 
And thou couldst laugh away the fear of harm. 



92 EXPOSTULATION. 

That strengtli would fail, opposed against the push 
And feeble onset of a pigmy rush. 

Say not (and if the thought of such defence 
Should spring within thy bosom, drive it thence) 
What nation amongst all my foes is free 
From crimes as base as any charged on me ? 
Their measure filled, they too shall pay the debt, 
Which Grod, though long forborne, will not forget 
But know that vn^ath divine, when most severe 
Makes justice still the guide of his career. 
And will not punish, in one mingled crowd. 
Them without light, and thee without a cloud* 

Muse, hang this harp upon yon aged beech, 
Still murmuring with the solemn truths I teach ; 
And while at intervals a cold blast sings 
Through the dry leaves, and pants upon thestriDgBy 
My soul shall sigh in secret, and lament 
A nation scourged, yet tardy to repent. 
I know the warning song is sung in vain ; 
That few will hear, and fewer heed the strain ; 
But if a sweeter voice, and one design'd 
A blessing to my country and mankind, 
Keclaim the wandering thousands, and bring home 
A flock so scattered and so wont to roam. 
Then place it once again between my knees ; 
The sound of truth will then be sure to please; 
And truth alone, where'er my life be east» 
In scenes of plenty, or the pining waste, 
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last. 



HOPE, 
doceas iter, et sacra ostia pandas. 

TIRG. EN. 6. 



Ask what is human life — ^the sage replies, 
With disappointment lowering in his eyes, 
A painful passage o'er a restless flood, 
A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, 
A scene of fancied bliss and heart-felt care. 
Closing at last in darkness and despair. 
The poor, inured to dnidgery and distress. 
Act without aim, think little, and feel less. 
And no where, but in feign'd Arcadian scenes, 
Taste happiness, or know what pleasure means. 
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand, 
As fortune, vice, or folly may command ; 
As in a dance the pair that take the lead 
Tym downward, and the lowest pair succeed, 
So shifting and so various is the plan 
By which Heaven rules the mix'd alBTairs of man ; 
Vicissitude wheels round the motley crowd. 
The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud ; 
Business is labour, and man's weakness such, 
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much : 
The very sense of it foregoes its use, 
By repetition pall'd, by age obtuse. 



94 HOPE. 

Youtli lost in dissipation we deplore, 
Through life's sad remnant, what no sighs restore ; 
Our years, a fruitless race without a price, 
Too many, yet too few to make us wise. 

Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff, 
Lothario cries. What philosophic stuff — 
O querulous and weak ! — ^whose useless brain 
Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain; 
Whose eye reverted weeps o*er all the past. 
Whose prospect shows thee a disheartening waste; 
Would age in thee resign his wintry reign, 
And youth invigorate that frame again, 
Renew'd desire would grace with other speech 
Joys always prized, when placed within our reach. 

For lift thy palsied head, shake off the gloom 
That overhangs the borders of thy tomb, 
See nature gay, as when she first began 
With smiles alluring her admirer man ; 
She spreads the morning over eastern hills. 
Earth glitters with the drops the night distils ; 
Th^ sun, obedient, at her caU appears 
To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears ; 
Banks clothed with flowers, groves fill'd with 

sprightly sounds, 
The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rising grounds, 
Streams edged with osiers, fattening every field 
Where'er they flow, now seen and now conceal'd ; 
From the blue rim, where skies and mountains 
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet, [meet, 
Ten thousand charms, that only fools despise, 
Or pride can look at with indifferent eyes, 



HOPE. 95 

All speak one language, all with one sweet voice 
Cry to her universal realm, Rejoice ! 
Man feels the spur of passions and desires. 
And she gives largely more than he requires ; 
Not that his hours devoted all to care. 
Hollow-eyed abstinence, and lean despair. 
The wretch may pine, while to his smell, taste, 
She holds a paradise of rich delight ; [sight, 

But gently to rebuke his awkward fear. 
To prove that what she gives she gives sincere. 
To banish hesitation, and proclaim 
His happiness, her dear, her only aim. 
'TIS grave philosophy's absurdest dream. 
That Heaven's intentions are not what they seem. 
That only shadows are dispensed below, 
And earth has no reality but woe. 

Thus things terrestrial wear a different hue, 
As youth or age persuades ; and neither true. 
So Flora's wreath through coloured crystal seen. 
The rose or lily appears blue or green, 
But still the imputed tints are those alone 
The medium represents, and not their own. 

To rise at noon, sit slipshod and undress'd, 
To read the news, or fiddle^^as seems best. 
Till half the world comes rattling at his door, 
To fill the dull vacuity tiU four ; 
And, just when evening turns the blue vault gray. 
To spend two hours in dressing for the day ; 
To make the sun a bauble without use. 
Save for the fruits his heavenly beams produce ; 



96 HOPE. 

Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought. 

Who bids him shine, or if he shine or not ; 

Through mere necessity to close his eyes 

Just when the larks and when the shepherds rise; 

Is such a life, so tediously the same, 

So void of all utility or aim, 

That poor Jonquil, with almost every breath. 

Sighs for his exit, vulgarly called death : 

For he, with all his follies, has a mind 

Not yet so blank, or fashionably blind, 

But now and then perhaps a feeble ray 

Of distant wisdom shoots across his way ; 

By which he reads, that life without a plan, 

As useless as the moment it began, 

Serves merely as a soil for discontent 

To thrive in ; an incumbrance ere half spent 

Oh I weariness beyond what asses feel. 

That tread the circuit of the cistern-wheel ; 

A dull rotation, never at a stay. 

Yesterday's face twin image of to-day ; 

While conversation, an exhausted stock. 

Grows drowsy as the clicking of a clock. 

No need, he cries, of gravity stuff'd out 

With academic dignity devout, 

To read wise lectures, vanity the text : 

Proclaim the remedy, ye learned, next ; 

For truth self-evident, with pomp impressed, 

Is vanity surpassing all the rest. 

That remedy, not hid in deeps profound. 
Yet seldom sought where only to be found, 



HOPE. 97 

While passion turns aside from its due scope 
The inquirer's aim, that remedy is Hope. 
Life is His gift, from whom whatever life needs, 
With every good and perfect gift, proceeds ; 
Bestow'd on man, like aU that we partake, 
Royally, freely, for his bounty's sake ; 
Transient indeed, as is the fleeting hour. 
And yet the seed of an immortal flower ; 
Design'd, in honour of his endless love. 
To fill with fragrance his abode above ; 
No trifle, howsoever short it seem. 
And, howsoever shadoivy, no dream ; 
Its value, what no thought can ascertain, 
Nor all an angel's eloquence explain. 
Men deal with life as children With their play. 
Who first misuse, then cast their toys away ; 
Live to no sober purpose, and contend 
That their Creator had no serious end. 
When God and man stand opposite in view, 
Man's disappointment must of course ensue. 
The just Creator condescends to write. 
In beams of inextinguishable light. 
His names of wisdom, goodness, power, and love. 
On all that blooms below, or shines above ; 
To catch the wandering notice of mankind. 
And teach the world, if not perversely blind. 
His gracious attributes, and prove the share 
His offspring hold in his paternal care. 
If, led from earthly things to things divine, 
His creature thwart not his august design. 



98 HOPE. 

Then praise is heard instead of reasoning pride, 
And captious cavil and complaint subside. 
Nature, employ'd in her allotted place, 
Is handmaid to the purposes of grace ; 
By good vouchsafed makes known superior good, 
And bliss not seen by blessings understood : 
That bliss, reveaFd in scripture, with a glow' 
Bright as the covenant-ensuring bow. 
Fires all his feelings with a noble scorn 
Of sensual evil, and thus Hope is bom. 
Hope sets the stamp of vanity on all 
That men have deem'd substantial since the feD, 
Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe 
From emptiness itself a real use ; 
And while she takes, as at a father's hand. 
What health and sober appetite demand, 
From fading good derives, with chemic art. 
That lasting happiness, a thankful heart 
Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, 
Pants for the place of her ethereal birth, 
On steady wings sails through the immense abyss. 
Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, 
And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, 
With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. 
Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast 
The Christian vessel, and defies the blast 
Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure 
His new-born virtues, and preserve him pure. 
Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, 
Whom now despairing agonies destroy, 



HOPE. 99 

Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, 
"What treasures centre, what delights m thee. 
Had he the gems, the spices, and the land 
That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; 
The fragrant grove, the inestimable mine, [thine. 
Were light, when weighed against one smile of 

Though, clasp'd and cradled in his nurse's arms, 
He shine with all a cherub's artless charms, 
Man is the genuine offspring of revolt. 
Stubborn and sturdy, a wild ass's colt ; 
His passions, like the watery stores that sleep 
Beneath the smiUng surface of the deep, 
Wait but the lashes of a wintry storm. 
To frown and roar, and shake his feeble form. 
From infancy through childhood's giddy maze, 
Froward at school, and fretful in his plays. 
The puny tyrant burns to subjugate 
The free republic of the whip-gig state. 
If one, his equal in athletic frame. 
Or, more provoking still, of nobler name. 
Dare step across his arbitrary views, 
An Hiad, only not in verse, ensues : 
The little Greeks look trembling at the scales. 
Till the best tongue or heaviest hand prevails. 

Now see him launch'd into the world at large ; 
If priest, supinely droning o'er his charge. 
Their fleece his pillow, and his weekly drawl, , 
Though short, too long, the price he pays for all. 
If lawyer, loud whatever cause he plead. 
But proudest of the worst, if that succeed. 







100 HOPE, 

Perhaps a grave physician, gatheriog fees, 
Punctually paid for lengthening out disease ; 
No Cotton, whose humanity sheds rays. 
That make superior skill his second praise. 
If arms engage him, he devotes to sport 
His date of life so likely to he short ; 
A soldier may be any thing, if brave ; 
So may a tradesman, if not quite a knave. 
Such stuff the world is made of; and mankind 
To passion, interest, pleasure, whim, resigned, 
Insist on, as if each were his own pope. 
Forgiveness, and the privilege of hope ; 
But conscience, in some awful silent hour. 
When captivating lusts have lost their power, 
Perhaps when sickness, or some fearful dream, 
Beminds him of religion, hated theme ! 
Starts from the down, on which she lately sleptj 
And tells of laws despised, at least not kept ; 
Shows with a pointing finger, but no noise, 
A pale procession of past sinful joys, 
All witnesses of blessings foully scom'd, 
And life abused, and not to be subom'd. 
Mark these, she says ; these, summon'd from a&r, 
Begin their march to meet thee at the bar ; 
There find a judge inexorably just, 
And perish there, as all presumption must. 

Peace be to those (such peace as earth can give) 
Who Hve in pleasure, dead e'en while they live ; 
Born capable indeed of heavenly truth ; 
But down to latest age, from earliest youth, 



HOPE. 101 

r mind a wilderness through want of care, 
plough of wisdom never entering there, 
e (if insensibility may claim 
^ht to the meek honours of her name) 
len of pedigree, their noble race, 
lous always of the nearest place 
ny throne, except the throne of grace, 
cottagers and unenlightened swains 
jre the laws they dream that heaven ordains ; 
rt on Sundays to the house of prayer, 
ask, and fancy they find, blessings there. 
Qselves, perhaps, when weary they retreat 
njoy cool nature in a country seat, 
schange the centre of a thousand trades, 
slumps, and lawns, and temples, and cascades, 
now and then their velvet cushions take^ 
seem to pray for good example sake ; 
ing, in charity, no doubt, the town 
3 enough, and having need of none, 
souls ! to teach their tenantry to prize 
t they themselves, without remorse, despise : 
hope have they, nor fear of aught to come, 
ell for them had prophecy been dumb ; 
' could have held the conduct they pursue, 
Paul of Tarsus lived and died a Jew ; 
truth, proposed to reasoners wise as they, 
pearl cast— completely cast away, 
ley die. — Death lends them, pleased and as 

in sport, 
le grim honours of his ghastly court. 



102 HOPE. 

Far other paintings grace the chamber now, 
Where late we saw the mimic landscape glow 
The busy heralds hang the sable scene [tween ; 
With mournful scutcheons, and dim lamps be- 
Proclaim their titles to the crowd around. 
But they that wore them move not at the sound ; 
The coronet, placed idly at their head, 
Adds nothing now to the degraded dead ; 
And e*en the star, that glitters on the bier. 
Can only say — Nobility lies here. 
Peace to all such — 'twere pity to offend, 
By useless censure, whom we cannot mend ; 
Life without hope can close but in despair, 
*Twas there we found them, and must leave them 
there. 
• As when two pilgrims in a forest stray, 
Both may be lost, yet each in his own way ; 
So fares it with the multitudes beguiled 
In vain opinion's waste and dangerous wild ; 
Ten thousand rove the brakes and thorns among, 
Some eastward, and some westward, and all wrong. 
But here, alas ! the fatal difference lies, 
Each man's belief is right in his own eyes ; 
And he that blames, what they have blindly chose, 
Incurs resentment for the love he shows. 

Say, botanist, within whose province fall 
The cedar and the hyssop on the wall, ' 
Of all that deck the lanes, the fields, the bowers, 
IVTiat parts the kindred tribes of weeds and flowers? 
Sweet scent, or lovely form, or both combined, 
Distinguish every cultivated kind ; 



HOPE. 103 

The want of both denotes a meaner breed, 
And Chloe from her garland picks the weed. 
Thus hopes of every sort, whatever sect 
Esteem them, sow them, rear them, and protect, 
If wild in nature, and not duly found, 
Grethsemane ! in thy dear hallow*d ground. 
That cannot bear the blaze of Scripture light, 
Nor cheer the spirit, nor refresh the sight, 
Nor animate the soul to Christian deeds, 
(Oh cast them from thee !) are weeds, arrant weeds. 

Ethelred's house, the centre of six ways, 
Diverging each from each, like equal rays, 
Himself as bountiful as April rains. 
Lord paramount of the surrounding plains. 
Would give relief of bed and board to none, 
But guests that sought it in the appointed One ; 
And they might enter at his open door, 
Even till his spaeious hall would hold no more. 
He sent a servant forth by every road, 
To sound his horn and publish it abroad. 
That all might mark — ^knight, menial, high, and 

low. 
An ordinance it concerned them much to know. 
If after all some headstrong hardy lout 
Would disobey, though sure to be shut out, 
Could he with reason murmur at his case. 
Himself sole author of his own disgrace ? 
No ! the decree was just and without flaw ; 
And he that made had right to make the law ; 
His sovereign power and pleasure unrestrained, 
The wrong was his who wrongfully complained. 



104 HOPE. 

Yet half mankind maintam a churlish strife 
"With him the Donor of eternal life, 
Because the deed, by which his love confirms 
The largess he bestows, prescribes the terms. 
Compliance with his will your lot ensures, 
Accept it only, and the boon is yours. 
And sure it is as kind to smile and give, 
As with a frown to say. Do this, and live. 
Love is not pedler's trumpery, bought and sold ; 
He will give freely, or he will withhold ; 
.His soul abhors a mercenary thought, 
And him as deeply who abhors it not; 
He stipulates indeed, but merely this, 
That man will freely take an unbought bliss, 
Will trust him for a faithful generous part, 
Nor set a price upon a willing heart. 
Of all the ways that seem to promise fair. 
To place you where his saints his presence share; 
This only can ; for this plain cause expressed, 
In terms as plain, himself has shut the rest 
But oh the strife, the bickering, and debate, 
The tidings of unpurchased heaven create ! 
The flirted fan, the bridle, and the toss, 
All speakers, yet all language at a loss. 
From stucco'd walls smart arguments rebound ; 
And beaus, adept in every thing profound, 
Die of disdain, or whistle off the sound. 
Such is the clamour of rooks, daws, and kites, 
The explosion of the levelled tube excites. 
Where mouldering abbey walls o'erhang the gladfi 
And oaks coeval spread a mournful shade. 



HOPE. 105 

The screaming nations, hovering in mid air, 
Loudly resent the stranger's freedom there, 
And seem to warn him never to repeat 
His bold intrusion on their dark retreat 

Adieu, Vinosa cries, ere yet he sips 
The purple bumper trembling at his lips. 
Adieu to all morality ! if grace 
Make works a vain ingredient in the case. 
The Christian hope is — ^Waiter, draw the cork — 
If I mistake not — Blockhead I with a fork I 
Without good works, whatever some may boast, 
Mere folly and delusion — Sir, your toast. 
My firm persuasion is, at least sometimes. 
That heaven will weigh man's virtues and his 
With nice attention in a righteous scale, [crimes 
And save or damn as these or those prevail. 
I plant my foot upon this ground of trust, 
And silence every fear with — Grod is just. 
But if perchance on some dull drizzling day 
A thought intrude, that says, or seems to say, 
If thus the important cause is to be tried. 
Suppose the beam should dip on the wrong side ; 
I soon recover from these needless frights. 
And Grod is merciful — sets all to rights. 
Thus between justice, as my prime support. 
And mercy fled to as the last resort, 
I glide and steal along with heaven in view. 
And — ^pardon me, the bottle stands with you. 

I never will believe, the colonel cries, 
The sanguinary schemes that some devise, 

VOL. I. 14 



106 HOPE. 

Who make the good Creator on their plan 

A being of less equity than man. 

If appetite, or what divines call lust, 

Which men comply with e'en because they must, 

Be punish'd with perdition, who is pure ? 

Then theirs, no doubt, as well as mine, is sure. 

If sentence of eternal pain belong 

To every sudden slip and transient wrong. 

Then heaven enjoins the fallible and frail 

A hopeless task, and damns them if they fail. 

My creed (whatever some creed-makers mean 

By Athanasian nonsense, or Nicene), 

My creed is, he is safe that does his best, 

And death's a doom sufficient for the rest 

Right, says an ensign ; and for aught I see, 
Your faith and mine substantially agree ; 
The best of every man's performance here 
Is to discharge the duties of his sphere. 
A lawyer's dealings should be just and fair, 
Honesty shines with great advantage there. 
Fasting and prayer sit well upon a priest^ 
A decent caution and reserve at least. 
A soldier's best is courage in the field, 
With nothing here that wants to be conceal'd ; 
Manly deportment, gallant, easy, gay ; 
A hand as liberal as the light of day. 
The soldier thus endowed, who never shrinks, 
Nor closets up his thoughts, whate'er he thinks, ' 
Who scorns to do an injury by stealth. 
Must go to heaven — ^and I must drink his health. 



HOPE. 107 

Sir Smug, he cries (for lowest at the board, 
Just made fifth chaplain of his patron lord, 
His shoulders witnessing by many a shrug 
How much his feelings suffered, sat Sir Smug) 
Your oflBice is to winnow false from true ; [you? 
Come, prophet, drink, and tell us. What think 

Sighing and smiling as he takes his glass, 
Which they that woo preferment rarely pass. 
Fallible man, the church-bred youth replies, 
Is still found fallible, however wise ; 
And differing judgments serve but to declare, 
That truth lies somewhere, if we knew but where. 
Of all it ever was my lot to read. 
Of critics now alive or long since dead. 
The book of all the world that charm'd me most 
Was, welladay, the title page was lost ; 
The writer well remarks, a heart, that knows 
To take with gratitude what heaven bestows, 
With prudence always ready at our call. 
To guide our use of it, is all in all. 
Doubtless it is. To which, of my own store, 
I superadd a few essentials more ; 
But these, excuse the liberty I take, 
I wave just now, for conversation's sake. 
Spoke like an oracle, they all exclaim. 
And add Right Reverend to Smug's honoured 

And yet our lot is given us in a land [name. 
Where busy arts are never at a stand ; 
Where science points her telescopic eye. 
Familiar with the wonders of the sky ; 



108 HOPE. 

Where bold inquiry, diving out of sight, 
Brings many a precious pearl of truth to light; 
Where nought eludes the persevering quest, 
That fashion, taste, or luxury suggest. 

But above all, in her own light array'd, 
See Mercy's grand apocalypse displayed ! 
The sacred book no longer suffers wrong, 
Bound in the fetters of an unknown tongue ; 
But speaks with plainness art could never mend, 
What simplest minds can soonest comprehend. 
Grod gives the word, the preachers throng around, 
Live from his lips, and spread the glorious sound: 
That sound bespeaks salvation on her way, 
The trumpet of a life-restoring day ; 
*Tis heard where England's eastern glory shines, 
And in the gulfs of her Comubian mines. 
And still it spreads. See Germany send forth 
Her sons^ to pour it on the farthest north: 
Fired with a zeal pecuHar, they defy 
The rage and rigour of a polar sky. 
And plant successfully sweet Sharon's rose, 
On icy plains, and in eternal snows. 

O blest within the enclosure of your ro<^ 
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks; 
Nor fertilizing streams your fields divide, 
That show reversed the villas on their side ; 
No groves have ye ; nor cheerful sound of bird, 
Or voice of turtle in your land is heard ; 

1 The Moravian Missionaries in Greenland. — See Kranti. 



HOPE. 109 

Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell 
Of those that walk at evenmg where ye dwell ; 
But winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown, 
Sits absolute on his unsfiaken throne ; 
Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste, 
And bids the mountains he has built stand fast ; 
Beckons the legions of his storms away 
From happier scenes, to make your land a prey ; 
Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won. 
And scorns to share it with the distant sun. 
— ^Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle I 
And peace the genuine offspring of her smile ; 
The pride of lettered ignorance, that binds 
In chains of error our accomplished minds, 
That decks, with all the splendoS: of the true, 
A false religion, is unknown to you. 
Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight 
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night ; 
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer 
Field, fruit, and flower, and every creature here ; 
But brighter beams, than his who fires the skies, 
Have risen at length on your admiring eyes, 
That shoot into your darkest caves the day, 
From which our nicer optics turn away. 

Here see the encouragement grace gives to vice, 
The dire effect of mercy without price I 
What were they? what some fools are made by art. 
They were by nature, atheists, head and heart. - 
The gross idolatry blind heathens teach 
Was too refined for them, beyond their reach. 



110 HOPE. 

Not e'en the glorious sun, though men revere 
The monarch most that seldom will appear, 
And though his beams, that quicken where they 

shine. 
May claim some right to be esteem'd divine. 
Not e'en the sun, desirable as rare. 
Could bend one knee, engage one votary there; 
They were, what base credulity believes 
True christians are, dissemblers, drunkards, thieves. 
The full gorged savage, at his nauseous feast 
Spent half the darkness, and snored out the rest, 
Was one, when justice, on an equal plan 
Denouncing death upon the sins of man, 
Might also have indulged with an escape, 
Chargeable only with a human shape. 

What are they now ? — ^Morality may spare 
Her grave concern, her kind suspicions there ; 
The wretch, who once sang wildly, danced, and 

laugh'd. 
And suck'd in dizzy madness with his draught, 
Has wept a silent flood, reversed his ways, 
Is sober, meek, benevolent, and prays, 
Feeds sparingly, communicates his store. 
Abhors the craft he boasted of before, 
And he that stole has leam'd to steal no more. 
Well spake the prophet. Let the desert sing, 
Where sprang the thorn, the spiry fir shall spring, 
And where unsightly and rank thistles grew. 
Shall grow the myrtle and luxuriant yew. 

Go now, and with important tone demand 
On what foundation virtue is to stand, 



HOPE. Ill 

If self-exalting claims be tum'd adrift, 
And grace be grace indeed, and life a gift ; 
The poor reclaimed inhabitant, his eyes 
Glistening at once with pity and surprise, 
Amazed that shadows should obscure the sight 
Of one, whose birth was in a land of light. 
Shall answer, Hope, sweet Hope, has set me free. 
And made all pleasures else mere dross to me. 

These, amidst scenes as waste as if denied 
The common care that waits on all beside. 
Wild as if nature there, void of all good, 
Play'd only gambols in a frantic mood, 
(Yet charge not heavenly skill with having plann'd 
A plaything world, unworthy of his hand) ; 
Can see his love, though secret evil lurks 
In all we touch, stamped plainly on his works ; 
Deem Ufe a blessing with its numerous woes, 
Nor spurn away a gift a God bestows. 
Hard task indeed o*er arctic seas to roam ! 
Is hope exotic ? grows it not at home ? 
Yes, but an object, bright as orient mom. 
May press the eye too closely to be borne ; 
A distant virtue we can all confess. 
It hurts our pride, and moves our envy less. 

Leuconomus (beneath well sounding Greek 
I slur a name a poet must not speak) 
Stood pilloried on infamy's high stage. 
And bore the pelting scorn of half an age ; 
The very butt of slander, and the blot 
For every dart that malice ever shot 



112 HOPE. 

The man that mention'd him at once dismiss'd 
All mercy from his lips, and sneer'd and hiss' d ; 
His crimes were such as Sodom never knew, 
And perjury stood up to swear all true ; 
His aim was mischief, and his zeal pretence, 
His speech rebellion against common sense ; 
A knave, when tried on honesty's plain rule ; 
And when by that of reason, a mere fool ; 
The world's best comfort was, his doom was pass'd; 
Die when he might, he must be damn'd at last. 
Now, Truth, perform thine office ; waft aside 
The curtain drawn by prejudice and pride. 
Reveal (the man is dead) to wondering eyes 
This more than monster in his proper guise. 
He loved the world that hated him : the tear 
That dropp'd upon his Bible was sincere ; 
Assail'd by scandal and the tongue of strife, 
His only answer was a blameless life ; 
And he that forged, and he that threw the dart, 
Had each a brother's interest in his heart. 
Paul's love of Christ, and steadiness unbribed, 
Were copied close in him, and well transcribed. 
He follow'd Paul ; his zeal a kindred flame, 
His apostolic charity the same. 
Like him, cross'd cheerfully tempestuous seas, 
Forsaking country, kindred, friends, and ease ; 
Like him he labour'd, and like him content 
To bear it, suffer'd shame where'er he went. 
Blush, calumny ! and write upon his tomb, 
If honest eulogy can spare thee room. 



HOPE. 113 

Thy deep repentance of thy thousand Kes, [skies ; 
"Which, aim'd at him, have pierced the offended 
And say. Blot out my sin, confessed, deplored, 
Against thine image, in thy saint, O Lord ! 

No blinder bigot, I maintain it still. 
Than he who must have pleasure, come what will : 
He laughs, whatever weapon Truth may draw, 
And deems her sharp artillery mere straw. 
Scripture indeed is plain ; but God and he 
On scripture ground are sure to disagree ; 
Some wiser rule must teach him how to live, 
Than this his Maker has seen fit to give ; 
Supple and flexible as Indian cane, 
To take the bend his appetites ordain ; 
Contrived to suit frail nature's crazy case. 
And reconcile his lusts with saving grace. 
By this, with nice precision of design. 
He draws upon life's map a zigzag line, 
That shows how far 'tis safe to follow sin. 
And where his danger and God's wrath begin. 
By this he forms, as pleased he sports along. 
His well-poised estimate of right and Wrong ; 
And finds the modish manners of the day. 
Though loose, as harmless as an infant's play. 

Build by whatever plan caprice decrees. 
With what materials, on what ground you please ; 
Your hope shall stand unblamed, perhaps admired, 
If not that hope the scripture has required. 
The strange conceits, vain projects, and wild 
With which hypocrisy for ever teems, [dreams, 



114 HOPE. 

(Though other follies strike the public eye, 

And raise a laugh) pass unmolested by ; 

But if, unblamable in word and thought, 

A MAN arise, a man whom God has taught, 

With all Elijah's dignity of tone. 

And aU the love of the beloved John, 

To storm the citadels they build in air. 

And smite the untemper'd wall ; 'tis death to spare. 

To sweep away all refuges of lies. 

And place, instead of quirks themselves devise, 

Lama sabacthani before their eyes ; 

To prove that without Christ all gain is loss, 

All hope despair, that stands not on his cross ; 

Except the few his God may have impressed, 

A tenfold frenzy seizes all the rest 

Throughout mankind, the Christian kind at least, 
There dwells a consciousness in every breast, 
That folly ends where genuine hope begins. 
And he that finds his heaven must lose his sins. 
Nature opposes with her utmost force 
This riving stroke, this ultimate divorce ; , 
And, while religion seems to be her view, 
Hates with a deep sincerity the true : 
For this, of all that ever influenced man, 
Since Abel worshipp'd, or the world began, 
This only spares no lust, admits no plea. 
But makes him, if at all, completely free ; 
Sounds forth the signal, as she mounts her car. 
Of an eternal, universal war ; 
Rejects all treaty, penetrates all wiles, [smiles ; 
Scorns with the same indifference frowns and 



HOPE. 115 

Drives through the reahns of sin, where riot reels, 
AjQd grinds his crown beneath her burning wheels ! 
Hence, all that is in man, pride, passion, art, 
Powers of the mind, and feelings of the heart, 
[nsensible of truth's almighty charms. 
Starts at her first approach, and sounds to arms ! 
While bigotry, with well dissembled fears, 
Elis eyes shut fast, his fingers in his ears. 
Mighty to parry and push by God's word 
With senseless noise, his argument the sword, 
Pretends a zeal for godliness and grace. 
And spits abhorrence in the Christian's face. 

Parent of Hope, immortal Truth ! make known 
Thy deathless wreaths and triumphs all thine own : 
The silent progress of thy power is such. 
Thy means so feeble, and despised so much, 
That few believe the wonders thou hast wrought, 
And none can teach them but whom thou hast 

taught. 
Oh see me sworn to serve thee, and command 
A painter's skill into a poet's hand. 
That, while I trembling trace a work divine, 
Fancy may stand aloof from the design. 
And light and shade, and every stroke be thine. 

If ever thou hast felt another's pain. 
If ever when he sigh'd hast sigh'd again, 
If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear 
That pity had engender'd, drop one here. 
This man was happy — had the world's good word. 
And with it every joy it can afford ; 
Friendship and love seem'd tenderly at strife, 



116 HOPE. 

Which most should sweeten his untroubled life ; 
Politely leam'd, and of a gentle race, 
Gk)od breeding and good sense gave all a grace, 
And whether at the toilet of the fair 
He laugh'd and trifled, made him welcome there^ 
Or if in masculine debate he shared, 
Ensured him mute attention and regard. 
Alas how changed I Expressive of his mind, 
His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined; 
Those avrful syllables, hell, death, and sin. 
Though whisper'd, plainly tell what works within; 
That conscience there performs her proper part, 
And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart ! 
Forsaking, and forsaken of all friends. 
He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends; 
Hard task! for one who lately knew no care. 
And harder still as learnt beneath despair ; 
His hours no longer pass unmark'd away, 
A dark importance saddens every day ; 
He hears the notice of the clock, perplex'd. 
And cries, Perhaps eternity strikes next ! 
Sweet music is no longer music here, 
And laughter sounds like madness in his ear: 
His grief the world of all her power disarms ; 
Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms : 
God's holy word, once trivial in his view, 
Now by the voice of his experience true, 
Seems, as it is, the fountain whence alone 
Must spring that hope he pants to make his own. 
Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; 
Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. 



- HOPE. 117 

As when a felon, whom his country's laws 
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause, 
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears 
The shameful close of all his misspent years ; 
K chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, 
A tempest usher in the dreaded mom. 
Upon his dungeon walls the lightning play, 
The thunder seems to summon him away. 
The warder at the door his key applies. 
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies : 
If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, 
When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost, 
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear. 
He drops at once his fetters and his fear ; 
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks. 
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. 
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs 
The comfort of a few poor added days. 
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul 
Of him whom Hope has with a touch made whole. 
*Tis heaven, all heaven descending on the wings 
Of the glad legions of the King of kings ; 
Tis more— 'tis God diffused through every part, 
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart. 
welcome now the sun's once hated light. 
His noonday beams were never half so bright. 
Not kindred minds alone are call'd to employ 
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy ; 
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys. 
Rocks, groves, and streams must join him in his 
praise. 



118 HOPE. 

These are thy glorious works, eternal Truth, 
The scoff of withered age and beardless youth ; 
These move the censure and illiberal grin 
Of fools that hate thee and delight in sin : 
But these shall last when night has quench'd the 
And heaven is all departed as a scrolL [pole, 
And when, as justice has long since decreed. 
This earth shall blaze, and a new world succeed, 
Then these thy glorious works, and they who share 
That hope which can alone exclude despair. 
Shall live exempt from weakness and decay. 
The brighest wonders of an endless day. 

Happy the bard (if that fair name belong 
To him that blends no fable with his song) 
Whose lines uniting, by an honest art, 
The faithful monitor's and poet's part, 
Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind, 
And while they captivate, inform the mind : 
Still happier, if he till a thankful soil, 
And fruit reward his honourable toil : 
But happier far, who comfort those that wait 
To hear plain truth at Judah's hallow'd gate : 
Their language simple, as their manners meek, 
No shining ornaments have they to seek ; 
Nor labour they, nor time nor talents waste, 
In sorting flowers to suit a fickle taste ; 
But while they speak the wisdom of the skies, 
Wliich art can only darken and disguise, 
The abundant harvest, recompense divine. 
Repays their work — ^the gleaning only mine. 



CHAKITY. 

Quo nihil majus meliusve tenis 
Fata donavere, bonique divi ; 
Nee dabunt, quamvis redeant in aumm 
Tempora priscum. 

HOB. LIB. rV. ODS 2. 

Paikest and foremost of the train that wait 
On man's most dignified and happiest state, 
Whether we name thee Charity or Love, 
Chief grace below, and all in all above, 
Prosper (I press thee with a powerful plea) 
A task I venture on, impelled by thee : 
O never seen but in thy blest effects. 
Or felt but in the soul that Heaven selects ; 
Who seeks to praise thee, and to make thee known 
To other hearts, must have thee in his own. 
Come, prompt me with benevolent desires. 
Teach me to kindle at thy gentle fires, 
And, though disgraced and slighted, to redeem 
A poet's name, by making thee the theme. 

God, working ever on a social plan. 
By various ties attaches man to man : 
He made at first, though free and unconfined, 
One man the common father of the kind ; 
That every tribe, though placed as he sees bes^ 
Where seas or deserts pai*t them from the rest, 



120 CHARITY. 

Dififering in language, manners, or in face, 
Might feel themselves allied to all the race. 
When Cook — ^lamented, and with tears as just 
As ever mingled with heroic dust, 
Steer'd Britain's oak into a world unknown. 
And in his country's glory sought his own, 
Wherever he found man, to nature true. 
The rights of man were sacred in his view ; 
He soothed with gifts, and greeted with a smile 
The simple native of the new-found isle ; 
He spum'd the wretch that slighted or withstood 
The tender argument of kindred blood ; 
Nor would endure, that any should control 
His freebom brethren of the southern pole. 

But though some nobler minds a law respect, 
That none shall with impunity neglect, 
In baser souls unnumber'd evils meet, 
To thwart its influence, and its end defeat. 
While Cook is loved for savage lives he saved, 
See Cortez odious for a world enslaved ! 
Where wast thou then, sweet Charity ? where then, 
Thou tutelary friend of helpless men ? 
Wast thou in monkish cells and nunneries found, 
Or building hospitals on English ground ? 
No. — ^Mammon makes the world his legatee 
Through fear, not love ; and heaven abhors the fee. 
Whenever found (and all men need thy care). 
Nor age nor infancy could find thee there. 
The hand that slew till it could slay np more 
Was glued to the sword-hilt with Indian gore. 



CHARITY. 121 

Their prince, as justly seated on his throne 
As vain imperial Philip on his own, 
Trick'd out of all his royalty by art. 
That stripped him bare, and broke his honest heart, 
Died by the sentence of a shaven priest. 
For scorning what they taught him to detest. 
How daxk the veil that intercepts the blaze 
Of heaven's mysterious purposes and ways ; 
God stood not, though he seem'd to stand, aloof ; 
And at this hour the conqueror feels the proof: 
The wreath he won drew down an instant curse. 
The fretting plague is in the public purse. 
The canker'd spoil corrodes the pining state. 
Starved by that indolence their mines create. 

Oh could their ancient Incas rise again. 
How would they take up Israel's taunting strain ! 
Art thou too fallen, Iberia ? Do we see 
The robber and the murderer weak as we ? 
Thou, that hast wasted earth, and dared despise 
Alike the wrath and mercy of the skies. 
Thy pomp is in the grave, thy glory laid 
Low in the pits thine avarice has made. 
We come with joy from our eternal rest 
To see the oppressor in his turn oppress'd. 
Art thou the god, the thunder of whose hand 
Roll'd over aU our desolated land. 
Shook principalities and kingdoms down. 
And made the mountains tremble at his frown ? 
The sword shall light upon thy boasted powers. 
And waste them, as thy sword has wasted ours. 

VOL. I. 15 



122 CHARITY. 

*Tis thus Omnipotence his law fulfils, 
And vengeance executes what justice wills. 

A^in — ^the band of commerce was designed 
To associate all the branches of mankind ; 
And if a boundless plenty be the robe, 
Trade is the golden girdle of the globe. 
Wise to promote whatever end he means, 
Grod opens fruitful nature's various scenes : 
Each climate needs what other climes produce, 
And offers something to the general use ; 
No land but listens to the common call. 
And in return receives supply from all. 
This genial intercourse, and mutual aid. 
Cheers what were else a universal shade, 
Calls nature from her ivy-mantled den. 
And softens human rock- work into men. 
Ingenious art, with her expressive face. 
Steps forth to fashion and refine the race ; 
Not only fills necessity's demand, 
But overcharges her capacious hand : 
Capricious taste itself can crave no more 
Than she supplies from her abounding store : 
She strikes out all that luxury can ask. 
And gains new vigour at her endless task. 
Hers is the spacious arch, the shapely spire, 
The painter's pencil, and the poet's lyre ; 
From her the canvas borrows light and shade. 
And verse, more lasting, hues that never fede. 
She guides the finger o'er the dancing keys. 
Gives difficulty all the grace of ease, 



CHARITY. 123 

And pours a torrent of sweet notes around, 
Fast as the thirsting ear can diink the sound. 

These are the gifts of art ; and art thrives most 
Where commerce has enrich'd the busy coast ; 
He catches all improvements in his flight, 
Spreads foreign wonders in his country's sight. 
Imports what others have invented well, 
And stirs his own to match them or excel. 
*Tis thus, reciprocating each with each, 
-Alternately the nations learn and teach ; 
While Providence enjoias to every soul 
A union with the vast terraqueous whole. 

Heaven speed the canvas, gallantly unfurl'd 
To furnish and accommodate a world. 
To give the pole the pr6duce of the sun. 
And knit the unsocial climates into one. 
Soft airs and gentle heavings of the wave 
Impel the fleet, whose errand is to save, 
To succour wasted regions, and replace 
The smile of opulence in sorrow's face. 
Let nothing adverse, nothing unforeseen 
Impede the bark that ploughs the deep serene, 
Charged with a freight transcendmg in its worth 
The gems of India, Nature's rarest birth. 
That flies, like Grabriel on his Lord's commands, 
A herald of Grod's love to pagan lands. 
But ah ! what wish can prosper, or what prayer. 
For merchants rich in cargoes of despair. 
Who drive a loathsome traffic, gauge, and span. 
And buy the muscles and the bones of man ? 



124 CHARITY. 

The tender ties of father, husband, friend. 

All bonds of nature in that moment end ; 

And each endures, while yet he draws his breath, 

A stroke as fatal as the scythe of death. 

The sable warrior, frantic with regret 

Of her he loves, and never can forget. 

Loses in tears the far receding shore. 

But not the thought that they must meet no more; 

Deprived of her and freedom at a blow, 

What has he left that he can yet forego ? 

Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd. 

He feels his body's bondage in his mind ; 

Puts off his generous nature ; and, to suit 

His manners with his fate, puts on the brute. 

O most degrading of all iUs that wait 
On man, a mourner in his best estate ! 
All other sorrows virtue may endure, 
And find submission more than half a cure ; 
Grief is itself a medicine, and bestow'd 
To improve the fortitude that bears the load, 
To teach the wanderer, as his woes increase, 
The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace; 
But slavery ! — ^Virtue dreads it as her grave: 
Patience itself is meanness in a slave ; 
Or if the will and sovereignty of God 
Bid suffer it awhile, and kiss the rod, 
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day. 
And snap the chain the moment when yon may. 
Nature imprints upon whatever we see. 
That has a heart and life in it, Be free I 



CHARITY. 125 

The beasts are charter'd — ^neither age nor force 
Can quell the love of freedom in a horse : 
He breaks the cord that held him at the rack ; 
And, conscious of an unincumber'd back, 
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein ; 
lioose fly his forelock and his ample mane ; 
Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs ; 
Nor stops till, overleaping all delays, 
He finds the pasture where his fellows graze. 

Canst thou, and honoured with a christian name, 
Buy what is woman-bom, and feel no shame ? 
Trade in the blood of innocence, and plead 
Expedience as a warrant for the deed ? 
So may the wolf, whom famine has made bold 
To quit the forest and invade the fold : 
So may the ruffian, who with ghostly glide, 
Dagger in hand, steals close to your bedside ; 
Net he, but his emergence forced the door, 
He found it inconvenient to be poor. 
Has Grod then given its sweetness to the cane, 
Unless his laws be trampled on — ^in vain ? 
Built a brave world, which cannot yet subsist, 
Unless his right to rule it be dismissed ? 
Impudent blasphemy ! So Folly pleads. 
And, Avarice being judge, with, ease succeeds. 

But grant the plea, and let it stand for just. 
That man make man his prey, because he must ; 
Still there his room for pity to abate 
And soothe the sorrows of so sad a state. 
A Briton knows, or if he knows it not, 
The scripture placed within his reach, he ought, 



126 CHARITY. 

That souls have no discriminating hue, 
Alike important in their Maker's view ; 
That none are free from blemish since the flail, 
And love divine has paid one price for alL 
The wretch that works and weeps without relirf^ 
Has one that notices his silent grief. 
He, from whose hands alone all power proceeda, 
Banks its abuse among the foulest deeds, 
Considers all injustice with a frown ; 
But marks the man that treads his fellow down. 
Begone — the whip and bell in that hard hand 
Are hateful ensigns of usurp'd command. 
Not Mexico could purchase kings a claim 
To scourge him, weariness his only blame. 
Remember, Heaven has an avenging rod ; 
To smite the poor is treason against Grod. 

Trouble is grudgingly and hardly brook'd. 
While life's sublimest joys are overlook'd : 
We wander o'er a sunburnt thirsty soil. 
Murmuring and weary of our daily toil. 
Forget to enjoy the palm-tree's offer'd shade, 
' Or taste the fountain in the neighbouring glade : 
Else who would lose, that had the power to improTC, 
The occasion of transmitting fear to love ? 
O 'tis a godlike privilege to save. 
And he that scorns it is himself a slave. 
Inform his mind ; one flash of heavenly day 
Would heal his heart, and melt his chains away. 
" Beauty for ashes " is a gift indeed. 
And slaves, by truth enlarged, are doubly freed. 



CHARITY. 127 

Then would lie say, submissive at thy feet, 
While gratitude and love made service sweet. 
My dear deliverer out of hopeless night, 
Whose bounty bought me but to give me light, 
I was a bondman on my native plain, 
Sin forged, and ignorance made fast, the chain ; 
Thy lips have shed instruction as the dew, 
Taught me what path to shun, and what pursue ; 
Farewell, my former joys ! I sigh no more 
For Africa's once loved, benighted shore ; 
Serving a benefactor, I am free ; 
At my best home, if not exiled from thee. 

Some men make gain a fountain, whence pro- 
A stream of liberal and heroic deeds ; [ceeds 
The swell of pity, not to be confined 
Within the scanty limits of the mind. 
Disdains the bank, and throws the golden sands, 
A rich deposit, on the bordering lands : 
These have an ear for his paternal call. 
Who makes some rich for the supply of all ; 
God's gift with pleasure in his praise employ ; 
And Thornton is familiar with the joy. 

O could I worship aught beneath the skies 
That earth has seen, or fancy can devise, 
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand. 
Built, by no mercenary vulgar hand. 
With fragrant turf, and flowers as wild and fair 
As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air. 
Duly, as ever on the mountain's height 
The peep of morning shed a dawning light. 



128 CHAHITT. 

Again, when evening in her sober vest 
Drew the gray curtain of the fading west, 
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and praise 
For the chief blessings of my fairest days : 
But that were sacrilege — praise is not thine, 
But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine : 
Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly 
A captive bird into the boundless sky, 
This triple realm adores thee — ^thou art come 
From Sparta hither, and art here at home. 
We feel thy force still active, at this hour 
Enjoy immunity from priestly power. 
While conscience, happier than in ancient years, 
Owns no superior but the Grod she fears. 
Propitious spirit ! yet expunge a wrong 
Thy rights have suffered and our land, too long. 
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts, that share 
The fears and hopes of a commercial care. 
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built 
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt ; 
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood 
Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood ; 
And honest merit stands on slippery ground, 
Where covert guile and artifice abound. 
Let just restraint, for public peace designed. 
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind; 
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee, 
But let insolvent innocence go free. 

Patron of else the most despised of men. 
Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; 



CHABITT. 129 

"Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed. 
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed ; 
I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame 
(Charity chosen as my theme and aim) 
I must incur, forgetting Howard's name. 
Blest with all wealth can give thee, to resign 
Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine. 
To quit the bUss thy rural scenes bestow, 
To seek a nobler amidst scenes of woe, 
To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring 

home. 
Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome, 
But knowledge such as only dungeons teach, 
And only sympathy like thine could reach ; 
That grief, sequestered from the public stage. 
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage ; 
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal, 
The boldest patriot might be proud to feel. 
that the voice of clamour and debate. 
That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state, 
Were hush'd in favour of thy generous plea, 
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy fee ! 

Philosophy, that does not dream or stray. 
Walks arm in arm with nature all his way ; 
Compasses earth, dives into it, ascends 
Whatever steep inquiry recommends, 
Sees planetary wonders smoothly roll 
Hound other systems under her control, 
Drinks wisdom at the milky stream of light. 
That cheers the silent journey of the niglit. 



130 CHARITY. 

And brings at his return a bosom charged 
With rich instruction, and a soul enlarged. 
The treasured sweets of the capacious plan 
That Heaven spreads wide before the vie w of man, 
All prompt his pleased pursuit, and to pursue 
Still prompt him with a pleasure always new ; 
He too has a connecting power, and draws 
Man to the centre of the common cause, 
Aiding a dubious and deficient sight 
With a new medium and a purer light. 
All truth is precious, if not all divine ; 
And what dilates the powers must needs refine. 
He reads the skies, and, watching every change, 
Provides the faculties an ampler range ; 
And wins mankind, as his attempts prevail, 
A prouder station on the general scale. 
But reason still, unless divinely taught, 
Whate'er she learns, learns nothing as she ought; 
The lamp of revelation only shows, 
What human wisdom cannot but oppose, 
That man, in nature's richest mantle clad, 
And graced with all philosophy can add, 
Though fair without, and luminous within, 
Is stiU the progeny and heir of sin. 
Thus taught, down falls the plumage of his pride ; 
He feels his need of an unerring guide. 
And knows that falling he shall rise no more, 
Unless the power that bade him stand restore. 
This is indeed philosophy ; this known 
Makes wisdom, worthy of the name, his own ; 



CHARITY. 131 

And without this, whatever he discuss ; 
Whether the space between the stars and us ; 
Whether he measure earth, compute the sea, 
Weigh sunbeams, carve a fly, or spit a flea ; 
The solemn trifler with his boasted skill 
Toils much, and is a solemn trifler still : 
Blind was he bom, and his misguided eyes 
Grown dim in trifling studies, blind he dies. 
Self-knowledge truly learned of course implies 
The rich possession of a nobler prize ; 
For self to self, and God to man reveal'd 
(Two themes to nature's eye for ever seaUd), 
Are taught by rays, that fly with equal pace 
From the same centre of enlightening grace. 
Here stay thy foot ; how copious and how clear. 
The o'erflowing well of Charity springs here ! 
Hark ! 'tis the music of a thousand rills. 
Some through the groves, some down the sloping 
Winding a secret or an open course, [hills, 

And all suppHed from an eternal source. 
The ties of nature do but feebly bind ; 
And commerce partially reclaims mankind ; 
Philosophy, without his heavenly guide. 
May blow up self-conceit, and nourish pride ; 
But, while his province is the reasoning part. 
Has still a veil of midnight on his heart : 
'Tis truth divine, exhibited on earth. 
Gives Charity her being and her birth. [flows. 
Suppose (when thought is warm, and fancy 
What will not argument sometimes suppose ?) 



132 CHARITY. 

An isle possessed by creatures of our kind, 
Endued with reason, yet by nature blind. 
Let supposition lend her aid once more, 
And land some grave optician on the shore : 
He claps his lens, if haply they may see. 
Close to the part where vision ought to be ; 
But finds that, though his tubes assist the sight. 
They cannot give it, or make darkness light. 
He reads wise lectures, and describes aloud 
A sense they know not to the wondering crowd; 
He talks of light and the prismatic hues, 
As men of depth in erudition use ; 
But aH he gains for his harangue is — ^Well, — — 
What monstrous lies some travellers will tell ! 
The soul, whose sight all-quickening grace re- 
news. 
Takes the resemblance of the good she views. 
As diamonds, stripped of their opaque disguise, 
Reflect the nodnday glory of the skies. 
She speaks of him, her author, guardian, friend, 
Whose love knew no beginning, knows no end, 
In language warm as all that love inspires ; 
And, in the glow of her intense desires. 
Pants to communicate her noble fires. 
She sees a world stark blind to what employs 
Her eager thought, and feeds her flowing joys ; 
Though wisdom hail them, heedless of her call, 
Flies to save some, and feels a pang for all : 
Herself as weak as her support is strong. 
She feels that frailty she denied so long ; 



CHARITY. 133 

And, from a knowledge of her own disease, 
Learns to compassionate the sick she sees. 
Here see, acquitted of all vain pretence. 
The reign of genuine Charity commence. 
Though scorn repay her sympathetic tears, 
She still is kind, and still she perseveres ; 
The truth she loves a sightless world blaspheme, 
'Tis childish dotage, a delirious dream ! 
The danger they discern not they deny ; 
Laugh at their only remedy, and die. 
But still a soul thus touch'd can never cease. 
Whoever threatens war, to speak of peace. 
Pure in her aim, and in her temper mild, 
Her wisdom seems the weakness of a child : 
She makes excuses where she might condemn. 
Reviled by those that hate her, prays for them ; 
Suspicion lurks not in her artless breast. 
The worst suggested, she believes the best ; 
Not soon provoked, however stung and teased, 
And, if perhaps made angry, soon appeased ; 
She rather waves than will dispute her right ; 
And injured, makes forgiveness ^er delight. 

Such was the portrait an apostle drew. 
The bright original was one he knew ; 
Heaven held his hand, the likeness must be true. 

When one, that holds communion with the skies. 
Has fill'd his urn where these pure waters rise. 
And once more mingles with us meaner things, 
'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings ; 
Lnmortal fragrance iills the circuit wide. 
That tells us whence his treasures are supplied. 



134 CHARITY. 

So when a ship, well freighted with the stores 
The sun matures on India's spicy shores, 
Has dropp'd her anchor, and her canvas furrd, 
In some safe haven of our western world, 
'Twere vain inquiry to what port she went, 
The gale informs us, laden with the scent. 
Some seek, when queasy conscience has its 
qualms. 
To lull the painful malady with alms ; 
But charity not feign'd intends alone 
Another's good — ^theirs centres in their own ; 
And, too short lived to reach the realms of peace, 
Must cease for ever when the poor shall cease. . 
Flavia, most tender of her own good name, 
Is rather careless of her sister's fame : 
Her superfluity the poor supplies, 
But, if she touch a character, it dies. 
The seeming virtue weigh'd against the vice, 
She deems all safe, for she has paid the price : 
No charity but alms aught values she. 
Except in porcelain on her mantle-tree. 
How many deeds, with which the world has rung^ 
From pride, in league with ignorance, have sprung^ 
But God o'errules all human follies still, 
And bends the tough materials to his will. 
A conflagration, or a wintry flood, 
Has left some hundreds without home or food : 
Extravagance and avarice shall subscribe. 
While fame and self-complacence are the bribe. 
The brief proclaim'd, it visits every pew, 
But first the squire's, a compliment but due : 



CHAKITT. 135 

"With slow deliberation he unties 
His glittering purse, that envy ot all eyes ! 
And, while the clerk just puzzles out the psalm, 
Slides guinea behind guinea in his palm ; 
Till finding what he might have found before, 
A smaller piece amidst the precious store, 
Pinch'd close between his finger and his thumb, 
He half exhibits, and then drops the sum. 
Gold, to be sure ! — Throughout the town 'tis told 
How the good squire gives never less than gold. 
From motives such as his, though not the best, 
Springs in due time supply for the distress'd ; 
Not less effectual than what love bestows, 
Except that office clips it as it goes. 

But lest I seem to sin against a friend. 
And wound the grace I mean to recommend, 
(Though vice derided with a just design 
Implies no trespass against love divine). 
Once more I would adopt the graver style, 
A teacher should be sparing of his smile. 
Unless a love of virtue light the flame, 
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame ; 
He hides behind a magisterial air 
His own offences, and strips others bare ; 
Affects indeed a most humane concern. 
That men, if gently tutor'd, will not learn ; 
That mulish folly, not to be reclaimed 
By softer methods, must be made ashamed ; 
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean) 
Too often rails to gratify liis spleen. 



136 CHARITY. 

Most satirists are indeed a public scourge ; 
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge ; 
Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd, 
The milk of their good purpose all to curd. 
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse, 
By lean despair upon an empty purse, 
The wild assassins start into the street. 
Prepared to poniard whomsoe'er they meet. 
No skill in swordmanship, howeyer just, 
Can be secure against a madman's thrust ; 
And even virtue, so unfairly match'd. 
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd. 
When scandal has new minted an old lie, 
Or tax'd invention for a fresh supply, 
'Tis call'd a satire, and the world appears 
Gathering around it with erected ears : 
A thousand names are toss'd into the crowd ; 
Some whisper'd softly, and some twang'd aloud; 
Just as the sapience of an author's brain 
Suggests it safe or dangerous to be plain. 
Strange ! how the frequent interjected dash 
Quickens a market, and helps off the trash ; 
The important letters, that include the rest, 
Serve as a key to those that are suppress'd ; 
Conjecture gripes the victims in his paw, 
The world is charm'd, and Scrib escapes the law. 
So when the cold damp shades of night prevail, 
Worms may be caught by either head or tail ; 
Forcibly drawn from many a close recess, 
They meet with little pity, no redress ; 



CHARITY. 137 

Plunged in the stream, they lodge upon tlie mud, 
Food for the famish'd rovers of the flood. 

All zeal for a reform, that gives offence 
To peace and charity, is mere pretence : 
A bold remark ; but which, if well applied, 
Would humble many a towering poet's pride. 
Perhaps, the man was in a sportive fit, 
And had no other play-place for his wit ; 
Perhaps, enchanted with the love of fame. 
He sought the jewel in his neighbour's shame ; 
Perhaps — whatever end he might pursue, 
The cause of virtue could not be his view. 
At every stroke wit flashes in our eyes ; 
The turns are quick, the polish'd points surprise, 
But shine with cruel and tremendous charms. 
That, while they please, possess us with alarms ; 
So have I seen (and hasten'd to the sight 
On all the wings of holiday delight). 
Where stands that monument of ancient power, 
Named with emphatic dignity, the Tower, 
Guns, halberts, swords, and pistols, great and small, 
In starry forms disposed upon the wall : 
We wonder, as we gazing stand below. 
That brass and steel should make so fine a show ; 
But though we praise the exact designer's skill, 
Account them implements of mischief still. 

No works shall find acceptance in that day. 
When all disguises shall be rent away. 
That square not truly with the scripture plan. 
Nor spring from love to God, or love to man. 

VOL. I. 16 



138 CHAKITT. 

As he ordains things sordid in their birth 

To be resolved into their parent earth ; 

And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, 

Whatever this worid produces, it absorbs ; 

So self starts nothing, but what tends apace 

Home to the goal, where it began the race. 

Such as our motive is our aim must be ; 

If this be servile, that can ne*er be free : 

If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, 

We glorify that self, not him we ought ; 

Such virtues had need prove their own reward, 

The Judge of all men owes them no regard. 

True Charity, a plant divinely nursed, 

Fed by the love from which it rose at first, 

Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene, 

Storms but enliven its unfading green ; 

Exuberant is the shadow it supplies, 

Its fruit on earth, its growth above the sMes. 

To look at Him, who form'd us and redeemed, 

So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd; 

To see a God stretch forth his human hand, 

To uphold the boundless scenes of his command; 

To recollect that, in a form like ours, 

He bruised beneath his feet the infernal powers, 

Captivity led captive, rose to claim 

The wreath he won so dearly in our name ; 

That throned above all height he condescends 

To call the few that trust in him his friends ; 

That, in the Heaven of heavens, that space he 

Too scanty for the exertion of his beams, [deems 



CHABITT. 139 

And shines, as if impatient to bestow 
Life and a kingdom upon worms below ; 
That sight imparts ^ never dying flame, 
Though feeble in degree, in kind the same. 
Like him the soul, thus kindled from above, 
Spreads wide her arms of universal love ; 
And, still enlarged as she receives the grace. 
Includes creation in her close embrace. 
Behold a Christian ! — and without the fires 
The founder of that name aJone inspires. 
Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet. 
To make the shining prodigy complete. 
Whoever boasts that name — ^behold a cheat ! 
Were love, in these the world's last doting years. 
As frequent as the want of it appears. 
The churches warm'd, they would no longer hold 
Such frozen figures, stifi^ as they are cold ; 
Relenting forms would lose their power, or cease ; 
And e'en the dipp'd and sprinkled live in peace : 
Each heart would quit its prison in the breast. 
And flow in free communion with the rest. 
The statesman, skill'd in projects dark and deep. 
Might bum his useless Machiavel, and sleep ; 
His budget, often fill'd, yet always poor. 
Might swing at ease behind his study door, 
No longer prey upon our annual rents. 
Or scare the nation with its big contents : 
Disbanded legions freely might depart, 
And slaying man would cease to be an art. 
No learned disputants would take the field, 
Sure not to conquer, and sure not to yield ; 



140 CHAKITY. 

Both sides deceived, if rightly understood, 

Pelting each other for the public good. 

Did Charity prevail, the press would prove 

A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love ; 

And I might spare myself the pains to show 

What few can learn, and all suppose they know. 

Thus have I sought to grace a serious lay 

With many a wild, indeed, but flowery spray, 

In hopes to gain, what else I must have lost, 

The attention pleasure has so much engrossU 

But if unhappily deceived I dream, 

And prove too weak for so divine a theme, 

Let Charity forgive me a mistake. 

That zeal, not vanity, has chanced to make, 

And spare the poet for his subject's sake. 



CONVERSATION. 

Kam neqne me tantnm vementis sibilos aostri, 
Nee percussa juvant fluctii tarn litora, nee qua 
Saxosas inter decurrunt flumina valles. 

VIBG. ECL. V. 

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense 

To every man his modicum of sense, 

And Conversation in its better part 

May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art, 

Yet much depends, as in the tiller's toil, 

On culture, and the sowing of the soil. 

"Words leam'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, 

But talking is not always to converse ; 

Not more distinct from harmony divine. 

The constant creaking of a country sign. 

As alphabets in ivory employ. 

Hour after hour the yet unlettered boy, 

Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee 

Those seeds of science call'd his a b c ; 

So language in the mouths of the adult, 

Witness its insignificant result. 

Too often proves an implement of play, 

A toy to sport with, and pass time away. 

Collect at evening what the day brought forth. 

Compress the sum into its solid worth, 



142 CONVERSATION. 

And if it weigh the importance of a fly, 
The scales are false, or algebra a lie. 
Sacred interpreter of human thought. 
How few respect or use thee as they ought ! 
But all shall give account of every wrong. 
Who dare dishonour or defile the tongue ; 
Who prostitute it in the cause of vice, 
Or sell their glory at a market price ; 
Who vote for hire, or point it with lampoon. 
The dear-bought placeman, and the cheap buflfoon. 

There is a prurience in the speech of some. 
Wrath stays him, or else God would strike them 

dumb : 
His wise forbearance has their end in view. 
They fill their measure, and receive their due. 
The heathen lawgivers of ancient days. 
Names almost worthy of a Christian's praise, 
Would drive them forth from the resort of men, 
And shut up every satyr in his den. 
O come not ye near innocence and truth. 
Ye worms that eat into the bud of youth ! 
Infectious as impure, your blighting power 
Taints in its rudiments the promised flower ; 
Its odour perish*d and its charming hue. 
Thenceforth 'tis hateful, for it smells of you. 
Not e'en the vigorous and headlong rage 
Of adolescence, or a firmer age. 
Affords a plea allowable or just 
For making speech the pamperer of lust ; 
But when the breath of age commits the fault, 
'Tis nauseous as the vapour of a vault. 



COXVEBSATION. 143 

So withered stumps disgrace the sylvan scene, 
No longer fruitful, and no longer green ; 
The sapless wood, divested of the bark. 
Grows fungous, and takes fire at every spark. 
Oaths terminate, as Paul observes, all strife — 
Some men have surely then a peaceful life ! 
Whatever subject occupy discourse, 
The feats of Vestris, or the naval force, 
Asseveration blustering in your face 
Makes contradiction such a hopeless case : 
In every tale they tell, or false or true. 
Well known, or such as no man ever knew. 
They fix attention, heedless of your pain. 
With oaths like rivets forced into the brain ; 
And e'en when sober truth prevails throughout, 
They swear it, till affirmance breeds a doubt. 
A Persian, humble servant of the sun. 
Who though devout, yet bigotry had none, 
Hearing a lawyer, grave in his address, 
With adjurations every word impress. 
Supposed the man a bishop, or at least, 
God's name so much upon his lips, a priest ; 
Bow'd at the close with all his graceful airs, 
And begg'd an interest in his frequent prayers. 

Go, quit the rank to which ye stood preferr'd. 
Henceforth associate in one common herd ; 
Religion, virtue, reason, common sense. 
Pronounce your human form a false pretence ; 
A mere disguise, in which a devil lurks, 
Who yet betrays his secret by his works. 



144 CONVERSATION. 

Ye powers who rule the tongue, if such there are, 
And make colloquial happiness your care, 
Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate, 
A duel in the form of a debate. 
The clash of arguments and jar of words, 
Worse than the mortal brunt of rival swords, 
Decide no question with their tedious length, 
For opposition gives opinion strength. 
Divert the champions prodigal of breath. 
And put the peaceably disposed to death. 

thwart me not, Sir Soph, at every turn. 
Not carp at every flaw you may discern ; 
Though syllogisms hang not on my tongue, 

1 am not surely always in the wrong ; 
'Tis hard if all is false that I advance, 

A fool must now and then be right by chance. 

Not that all freedom of dissent I blame ; 

No — there I grant the privilege I claim. 

A disputable point is no man's ground ; 

Rove where you please, 'tis common aU around. 

Discourse may want an animated — No, 

To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 

But stiU remember, if you mean to please. 

To press your point with modesty and ease. 

The mark, at which my juster aim I take, 

Is contradiction for its own dear sake. 

Set your opinion at whatever pitch, 

Knots and impediments make something hitch ; 

Adopt his own, 'tis equally in vain, 

Your thread of argument is snapp'd again ; 



CONVERSATION. 145 

The wrangler, rather than accord with you, 
Will judge himself deceived, and prove it too. 
Vociferated logic kills me quite, 
A noisy man is always in the right 
I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair, 
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare, 
And, when I hope his blunders are all out. 
Reply discreetly — ^To be sure — ^no doubt I 

Dubious is such a scrupulous good man — 
Yes — ^you may catch him tripping if you can. 
He would not, with a peremptory tone. 
Assert the nose upon his face his own ; 
With hesitation admirably slow. 
He humbly hopes — ^presumes — ^it may be so. 
His evidence, if he were call'd by law 
To swear to some enormity he saw. 
For want of prominence and just relief. 
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief. 
Through constant dread of giving truth offence, 
He ties up all his hearers in suspense ; 
Knows what he knows, as if he knew it not ; 
What he remembers seems to have forgot ; 
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall. 
Centring at last in having none at all. 
Yet, though he tease and balk your listening ear. 
He makes one useful point exceeding clear ; 
Howe'er ingenious on his darling theme, 
A sceptic in philosophy may seem. 
Reduced to practice, his beloved rule 
Would only prove him a consummate fool ; 



146 V CONVERSATION. 

Useless in him alike both brain and speech. 
Fate having placed all truth above his reach, 
His ambiguities his total sum, 
He might as well be blind, and deaf, and dumb. 

Where men of judgment creep and feel their 
The positive pronounce without dismay ; [way, 
Their want of light and intellect supplied 
By sparks absurdity strikes out of pride. 
Without the means of knowing right from wrong, 
They always are decisive, clear, and strong. 
Where others toil with philosophic force. 
Their nimble nonsense takes a shorter course ; 
Flings at your head conviction in the lump, 
And gains remote conclusions at a jump : 
Their own defect, invisible to them. 
Seen in another, they at once condemn ; 
And, though self-idolized in every case, 
Hate their own likeness in a brother's face. 
The cause is plain, and not to be denied, 
The proud are always most provoked by pride. 
Few competitions but engender spite ; 
And those the most, where neither has a right 

The point of honour has been deem'd of use, 
To teach good manners, and to curb abuse : 
Admit it true, the consequence is clear, 
Our poUsh'd manners are a mask we wear, 
And at the bottom barbarous still and rude ; 
We are restrained indeed, but not subdued. 
The very remedy, however sure. 
Springs &om the mischief it intends to cure, 



CONYERSATION. 147 

And savage in its principle appears, 
Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears. 
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend 
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end ; 
That now and then a hero must decease. 
That the surviving world may live in peace. 
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show 
The practice dastardly, and mean, and low ; 
That men engage in it compelled by force ; 
And fear, not courage, is its proper source. 
The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear [sneer 
Lest fops should censure us, and fools should 
At least to trample on our Maker's laws. 
And hazard life for any or no cause. 
To rush into a fix'd eternal state 
Out of the very flames of rage and hate. 
Or send another shivering to the bar 
With all the guilt of such unnatural war. 
Whatever use may urge, or honour plead. 
On reason's verdict is a madman's deed. 
Am I to set my life upon a throw. 
Because a bear is rude and surly ? No— 
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man 
Will not affront me, and no other can. 
Were I empower'd to regulate the lists. 
They should encounter with well loaded fists ; 
A Trojan combat would be something new ; 
liCt Dares beat Entellus black and blue ; 
Then each might show, to his admiring fiiends, 
In honourable bumps his rich amends. 



148 CONVteSATION. 

And cany, in contusions of his skull, 
A satisfactory receipt in full. 

A story, in which native humour reigns. 
Is often useful, always entertains : 
A graver fact, enlisted on your side. 
May furnish illustration, well applied ; 
But sedentary weavers of long tales 
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails. 
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth. 
To hear them tell of parentage and birth, 
And echo conversations, dull and dry. 
Embellished with — He said, and So said I. 
At every interview their route the same, 
The repetition makes attention lame : 
We bustle up with unsuccessful speed, 
And in the saddest part cry — Droll indeed I 
The path of narrative with care pursue, 
Still making probabihty your clew ; 
On all the vestiges of truth attend. 
And let them guide you to a decent end. 
Of all ambitions man may entertain. 
The worst that can invade a sickly brain 
Is that which angles hourly for surprise. 
And baits its hook with prodigies and lies. 
Credulous infancy, or age as weak, 
Are fittest auditors for such to seek, 
Who to please others will themselves disgrace, 
Yet please not, but aflfront you to your face. 
A great retailer of this curious ware. 
Having unloaded and made many stare^ 



CONVERSATION. 149 

an this be true ? — an arch observer cries ; 
es (rather moved), I saw it with these eyes ! 
ir ! I believe it on that ground alone ; 
could not, had I seen it with my own. 
A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct ; 
'he language plain, and incidents well link'd ; 
ell not as new what every body knows, 
jid, new or old, still hasten to a close ; 
here, centring in a focus round and neat, 
et all your rays of information meet. 
-^hat neither yields us profit nor delight 
, like a nurse's lullaby at night ; 
uy Earl of Warwick and fair Eleanore, 
r giant-kil^ng Jack, would please me more. 
The pipe, with solemn interposing puff, 
lahes half a sentence at a time enough ; 
he dozing sages drop the drowsy strain, 
ben pause and puff — and speak, and pause again, 
ach often, like the tube they so admire, 
nportant triflers ! have more smoke than fire, 
ernicious weed ! whose scent the fair annoys, 
nfriendly to society's chief joys, 
hy worst effect is banishing for hours 
he sex whose presence civilizes ours ; 
hou art indeed the drug a gardener wants, 
'o poison vermin that infest his plants ; 
iut are we so to wit and beauty blind, 
.s to despise the glory of our kind, 
Jid show the softest minds and fairest forms 
.s little mercy as he grubs and worms ? 



150 CONVERSATIOX. 

They dare not wait the riotous abuse 
Thy thirst-creating steams at length produce, 
When wine has given indecent language birth, 
And forced the floodgates of licentious mirth ; 
For seaborn Venus her attachment shows 
Still to that element from which she rose, 
And with a quiet, which no fumes disturb, 
Sips meek infusions of a milder herb. 

The emphatic speaker dearly loves to oppose, 
In contact inconvenient, nose to nose, 
As if the gnomon on his neighbour's phiz. 
Touched with the magnet, had attracted his. 
His whisper'd theme, dilated and at large, 
Proves after all a windgun's airy charge, 
An extract of his diary — ^no more, 
A tasteless journal of the day before. 
He walk'd abroad, overtaken in the rain, 
Called on a friend, drank tea, stepped home again, 
Resumed his purpose, had a world of talk 
With one he stumbled on, and lost his wdk. 
I interrupt him with a sudden bow. 
Adieu, dear Sir ! lest you should Ibse it now. 

I cannot talk with civet in the room, 
A fine puss gentleman that's all perfume ; 
The sight's enough — no need to smell a beau— 
Who thrusts his nose into a raree-show ? 
His odoriferous attempts to please 
Perhaps might prosper with a swarm of bees ; 
But we that make no honey, though we sting, 
Poets, are sometimes apt to maul the thing. 



CONVERSATION. 151 

Tis wrong to bring into a mix'd resort, 
VVTiat makes some sick, and others sl-la-mort, 
An argument of cogence, we may say, 
Why such a one should keep himself away. 

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 presage ; 
Tis heavy, bulky, and bids fair to prove 
An absent friend's fidelity and love, 
But when unpacked 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 ; 



152 CONVERSATION. 

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 ahnost 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 an bumblebee. 
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 aUve. 
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, overclouded 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. 



CONVERSATION. 153 

Oar 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. 
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complained ; 
It seems as if we Britions were ordained. 
By way of wholesome curb upon our pride. 
To fear each other, fearing none beside. 
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry, 
Self-searching with an introverted eye, 
ConceaJ'd within an unsuspected part. 
The vainest corner of our own vain heart : 
For ever aiming at the world's esteem, 
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme ; 
In other eyes our talents rarely shown, 
Become at length so splendid in our own, 
We dare not risk them into public view, 
XiBst they miscarry of what seems their due. 
True modesty is a discerning grace, 
.And only blushes in the proper place ; 
But counterfeit is blind, and skulks through fear, 
"Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed to appear : 
Humility the parent of the first, 
The last by vanity produced and nursed. 
The circle form'd, we sit in silent state, 
Xike figures drawn upon a dial plate ; 
VOL. I. 17 



154 CONVERSATION. 

Yes, ma'am, and No, ma*am, utter'd softly, show 
Every five minutes how the minutes go ; 
Each individual, suffering a constraint, 
Poetry may, but colours cannot paint ; 
As if in close committee on the sky. 
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry ; 
And finds a changing clime a happy source 
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse. 
We next inquire, but softly and by stealth. 
Like conservators of the public health, 
Of epidemic throats, if such there are, [tarrh. 
And coughs, and rheums, and phthisic, and ca- 
That theme exhausted, a wide chasm ensues, 
Fill'd up at last with interesting new^s, 
Who danced with whom, and who are like to wed, 
And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed : 
But fear to call a more important cause. 
As if 'twere treason against English laws. 
The visit paid, with ecstasy we come, 
As from a seven years' transportation, home, 
And there resume an unembarrass'd brow, 
Recovering what we lost we know not how, 
The faculties, that seem'd reduced to nought, 
Expression and the privilege of thought. 

The reeking, roaring hero of the chase, 
I give him over as a desperate case. 
Physicians write in hopes to work a cure, 
Never, if honest ones, when death is sure ; 
And though the fox he follows may be tamed, 
A mere fox follower never is reclaim'd. 



CONVERSATION. 155 

farrier should prescribe liis proper course, 

e only fit companion is his horse, 

deserving of a better doom, 

oble beast judge otherwise, his groom. 

en the rogue that serves him, tho' he stand 

ie his honour's orders, cap in hand, 

rs his fellow grooms with much good sense, 

skill a truth, his master's a pretence. 

ther horse nor groom affect the squire, 

e can at last his jockyship retire ? 

the club, the scene of savage joys, 

chqol of coarse good fellowship and noise ; 

, in the sweet society of those 

e friendship from his boyish years he chose, 

im improve his talent if he can, 

one but beasts acknowledge him a man. 

n's heart had been impenetrably seal'd, 

theirs that cleave the flood or graze the field, 

lot his Maker's all-bestowing hand 

I him a soul, and bade him understand ; 
easoning power vouchsafed of course inferr'd 
>ower to clothe that reason with his word ; 

II is perfect that God works on earth, 
le that gives conception aids the birth. 
3 be plain, 'tis plainly understood, 

uses of tliis boon the giver would, 
lind, despatch'd upon her busy toil, 
d range where Providence has bless'd the 
3g every flower with labour meet, [soil ; 
rathering all her treasures sweet by sweet. 



156 CONVERSATION. 

She should imbue the tongue with what she sips, 
And shed the balmy blessing on the lips, 
That good diffused may more abundant grow, 
And speech may praise the power that bids it flow. 
Will the sweet warbler of the livelong night, 
That fills the listening lover with delight, 
Forget his harmony, with rapture heard, 
To learn the twittering of a meaner bird ? 
Or make the parrot's mimicry his choice, 
That odious libel on a human voice ? 
No— nature, nnsophisticate by man, 
Starts not aside from her Creator's plan ; 
The melody, that was at first design'd 
To cheer the rude forefathers of mankind, 
Is note for note deliver'd in our ears. 
In the last scene of her six thousand years. 
Yet fashion, leader of a chattering train, 
Whom man, for his own hurt permits to reign, 
Who shifts and changes all things but his shape, 
And would degrade her votary to an ape, 
The fruitful parent of abuse and wrong. 
Holds a usurp'd dominion o'er his tongue ; 
There sits and prompts him with his own disgrace, 
Prescribes the theme, the tone, and the grimace, 
And, when accomplish'd in her wayward school, 
Calls gentleman whom she has made a fool. 
'Tis an unalterable fix'd decree, 
That none could frame or ratify but she. 
That heaven and hell, and righteousness and sin, 
Snares in his path, and foes that lurk within, 



CONVERSATION. 157 

God and his attributes (a field of day 
Where 'tis an angel's happiness to stray), 
Fruits of his love and wonders of his might, 
Be never named in ears esteem'd polite. 
That he who dares, when she forbids, be grave. 
Shall stand proscribed, a madman or a knave, 
A close designer not to be believed. 
Or, if excused that charge, at least deceived. 
Oh, folly worthy of the nurse's lap, 
Give it the breast, or stop its mouth with pap ! 
Is it incredible, or can it seem 
A dream to any except those that dream. 
That man should love his Maker, and that fire, 
Warming his heart, should at his lips transpire ? 
Know then, and modestly let fall your eyes, 
And veil your daring crest that braves the skies ; 
That air of insolence affronts your God, 
You need his pardon, and provoke his rod : 
Now, in a posture that becomes you more 
Than that heroic strut assumed before. 
Know, your arrears with every hour accrue 
For mercy shown, while wrath is justly due. 
The time is short, and there are souls on earth. 
Though future pain may serve for present mirth, 
Acquainted with the woes that fear or shame, 
By fashion taught, forbade them once to name. 
And, having felt the pangs you deem a jest, 
Have proved them truths too big to be express'd. 
Go seek on revelation's hallow'd ground, 
Sure to succeed, the remedy they found ; 



158 CONVERSATION. 

Touch'd by that power that you have dared to 

mock, 
That makes seas stable, and dissolves the rock, 
Your heart shall yield a life-renewing stream, 
That fools, as you have done, shall call a dream. 

It happened on a solemn eventide, 
Soon after He that was our surety died, 
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, 
The scene of all those sorrows left behind, 
Sought their own village, busied as they went 
In musings worthy of the great event : 
They spake of him they loved, of him whose life, 
Though blameless, had incurred perpetual strife, 
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, 
A deep memorial graven on their hearts. 
The recollection, like a vein of ore, 
The farther traced, enrich'd them still the more; 
They thought him, and they justly thought him, one 
Sent to do more than he appeared to have done; 
To exalt a people, and to place them high 
Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. 
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, 
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, 
And ask'd them with a kind engaging air. 
What their affliction was, and begg'd a share. 
Informed, he gathered up the broken thread, 
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, 
Explained, illustrated, and searched so well 
The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, 
That reaching home, the night, they said, is near. 
We must not now be parted, sojourn here — 



CONVERSATION. 159 

The new acquaintance soon became a guest, 
And made so welcome at their simple feast, 
He bless'd the bread, but vanished at the word. 
And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord ! 
Did not our hearts feel all he deign*d to say. 
Did they not burn within us by the way ? 

Now theirs was converse such as it behoves 
Man to maintain, and such as God approves : 
Their views indeed were indistinct and dim. 
But yet successful, being aim'd at him. 
Christ and his character their only scope. 
Their object, and their subject, and their hope. 
They felt what it became them much to feel, 
Ajid, wanting him to loose the sacred seal. 
Found him as prompt, as their desire was true. 
To spread the newborn glories in their view. 
Well — what are ages and the lapse of time 
Matched against truths, as lasting as sublime ? 
Can length of years on God himself exact ? 
Or make that fiction which was once a fact ? 
No — marble and recording brass decay. 
And, like the graver's memory, pass away ; 
The works of man inherit, as is just. 
Their author's frailty, and return to dust : 
But truth divine for ever stands secure. 
Its head is guarded as its base is sure ; 
Fix'd in the rolling flood of endless years. 
The pillar of the eternal plan appears, 
The raving storm and dashing wave defies, 
Built by that architect who built the skies. 



160 CONTERSATION. 

Hearts may be found, that harbour at this hour 
That love of Christ, and all its quickening power; 
And lips unstain'd by folly or by strife, 
Whose wisdom, drawn from the deep well of life, 
Tastes of its healthful origin, and flows 
A Jordan for the ablution of our woes. 
O days of heaven, and nights of equal praise, 
Serene and peaceful as those heavenly days, 
When souls drawn upwards in communion sweet 
Enjoy the stillness of some close retreat, 
Discourse, as if released and safe at home, 
Of dangers past, and wonders yet to come, 
And spread the sacred treasures of the breast 
Upon the lap of covenanted Rest ! 

What, always dreaming over heavenly things, 
Like angel-heads in stone with pigeon wings ? ■ 
Canting and whining out all day the word, 
And half the night ? fanatic and absurd ! 
Mine be the friend less frequent in his prayers, 
Who makes no bustle with his soul's affairs, 
Whose wit can brighten up a wintry day. 
And chase the splenetic duU hours away ; 
Content on earth in earthly things to shine. 
Who waits for heaven ere he becomes divine, 
Leaves saints to enjoy those altitudes they teach, 
And plucks the fruit placed more within his reach. 

Well spoken, advocate of sin and shame. 
Known by thy bleating, Ignorance thy name. 
Is sparkhng wit the world's exclusive right ? 
The fix'd fee-simple of the vain and light ? 



CONVERSATION. 161 

)an hopes of heaven, bright prospects of an hour, 

?hat come to waft us out of sorrow's power, 

)bscure or quench a faculty that finds 

ts happiest soil in the serenest minds ? 

leligion curbs indeed its wanton play, 

^nd brings the trifler under rigorous sway, 

Jut gives it usefulness unknown before, 

Vnd purifying, makes it shine the more. 

V. christian's wit is inoflfensive light, 

\. beam that aids, but never grieves the sight ; 

i^igorous in age as in the flush of youth. 

Pis always active on the side of truth ; 

Temperance and peace insure its healthful state, 

\.nd make it brightest at its latest date. 

Dh I have seen (nor hope perhaps in vain. 

Ere life go down, to see such sights again) 

^ veteran warrior in the christian field. 

Who never saw the sword he could not wield ; 

Grave without dulness, learned without pride. 

Exact, yet not precise, though meek, keen eyed ; 

A. man that would have foil'd at their own play 

A dozen would-bes of the modern day ; 

Who, when occasion justified its use. 

Had wit as bright as ready to produce, 

Gould fetch from records of an earlier age. 

Or from philosophy's enlighten'd page, 

Ilis rich materials, and regale your ear 

With strains it was a privilege to hear : 

Yet above all his luxury supreme. 

And his chief glory w^ the gospel theme ; 



162 CONVERSATION. 

There he was copious as old Greece or Rome, 
His happy eloquence seem'd there at home, 
Ambitious not to shine or to excel, 
But to treat justly what he loved so well. 

It moves me more perhaps than folly ought, 
When some green heads, as void of wit as thought, 
Suppose themselves monopolists of sense. 
And wiser men's ability pretence. 
Though time will wear us, and we must gi^ow old, 
Such men are not forgot as soon as cold, 
Their fragrant memory will outlast their tomb, 
Embalm'd for ever in its own perfume. 
And to say truth, though in its early prime. 
And when unstain'd with any grosser crime. 
Youth has a sprightliness and fire to boast, 
That in the valley of decline are lost. 
And virtue with peculiar charms appears, 
Crown'd with the garland of hfe's blooming years. 
Yet age, by long experience well informed, 
Well read, well tempered, with religion warm*d. 
That fire abated which impels rash youth. 
Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, 
As time imprpves the grape's authentic juice. 
Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, 
And claims a reverence in its shortening day. 
That 'tis an honour and a joy to pay. 
The fruits of age, less fair, are yet more sound, 
Than those a brighter season pours around ; 
And like the stores autumnal suns mature. 
Through wintry rigours unimpair'd endure. 



i 



CONVERSATION. 163 

What is fanatic frenzy, scom'd so much, 
And dreaded more than a contagious touch ? 
1 grant it dangerous, and approve your fear, 
That fire is catching if you draw too near ; 
But sage observers oft mistake the flame, 
And give true piety that odious name. 
To tremble (as the creature of an hour 
Ought at the view of an almighty power) 
Before whose presence, at whose awful throne 
All tremble in all worlds, except our own, 
To supplicate his mercy, love his ways, 
And prize them above pleasure wealth, or praise, 
Though common sense, allow'd a casting voice, 
And free from bias, must approve the choice. 
Convicts a man fanatic in the extreme, 
And wild as madness in the world's esteem. 
But that disease, when soberly defined. 
Is the false fire of an o'erheated mind ; 
It views the truth with a distorted eye. 
And either warps or lays it useless by ; 
'Tis narrow, selfish, arrogant, and draws 
Its sordid nourishment from man's applause ; 
And while at heart sin unrelinquish'd lies. 
Presumes itself chief favourite of the skies. 
'Tis such a light as putrefaction breeds 
In fly-blown flesh, whereon the maggot feeds, 
Shines in the dark, but usher'd into day, 
The stench remains, the lustre dies away. 

True bliss, if man may reach it, is composed 
Of hearts in union mutually disclosed ; 



164 CONVERSATION. 

And, farewell else all hope of pure delight, 
Those hearts should be reclaim'd, renew'd, upright 
Bad men, profaning friendship's hallo w'd name, 
Fonn, in its stead, a covenant of shame, 
A dark confederacy against the laws 
Of virtue, and religion's glorious cause : 
They build each other up with dreadful skill. 
As bastions set point blank against God's will; 
Enlarge and fortify the dread redoubt. 
Deeply resolved to shut a Saviour out ; 
Gall legions up from hell to back the deed ; 
And, cursed with conquest, finally succeed. 
But souls, that carry on a blest exchange 
Of joys they meet with in their heavenly range, 
And with a fearless confidence make known 
The sorrows sympathy esteems its own, 
Daily derive increasing light and force 
From such communion in their pleasant course. 
Feel less the journey's roughness and its length, 
Meet their opposers with united strength, 
And one in heart, in interest, and design, 
Gird up each other to the race divine. 
But Conversation, choose what theme we may, 
And chiefly when religion leads the way. 
Should flow, like waters after summer showers, 
Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers. 
The christian, in whose soul, though now distress'd, ^ 
Lives the dear thought of joys he once possess'd. 
When all his glowing language issued forth 
With God's deep stamp upon its current worth. 



CONVERSATION. 165 

Will speak without disguise, and must impart, 
Sad as it is, his undissembling heart. 
Abhors constraint, and dares not feign a zeal, 
Or seem to boast a fire he does not feel. 
The song of Sion is a tasteless thing, 
"Unless, when rising on a joyful wing, 
The soul can mix with the celestial bands, 
And give the strain the compass it demands. 

Strange tidings these to tell a world, who treat 
All but their own experience as deceit ! 
Will they believe, though credulous enough, 
To swallow much upon much weaker proof. 
That there are blest inhabitants of earth. 
Partakers of a new ethereal birth. 
Their hopes, desires, and purposes estranged 
From things terrestrial, and divinely changed. 
Their very language of a kind that speaks 
The souVs sure interest in the good she seeks. 
Who deal with scripture, its importance felt, 
As Tully with philosophy once dealt. 
And in the silent watches of the night. 
And through the scenes of toU-renewing light, 
The social walk, or solitary ride, 
Keep still the dear companion at their side ? 
No — shame upon a self-disgracing age, 
God's work may serve an ape upon a stage 
"With such a jest, as filled with hellish glee 
Certain invisibles as shrewd as he ; 
But veneration or respect finds none, 
Save from the subjects of that work alone. 



1G6 CONVERSATION. 

The world grown old her deep discernment shows, 
Claps spectacles on her sagacious nose, 
Peruses closely the true christian's face, 
And finds it a mere mask of sly grimace ; 
Usurps God's office, lays his bosom bare, 
And finds hypocrisy close lurking there ; 
And, serving God herself through mere constraint, 
Concludes his unfeign'd love of him a feint. 
And yet, God knows, look human nature through, 
(And in due time the world shall know it too) 
That since the flowers of Eden felt the blast, 
That after man's defection laid all waste. 
Sincerity towards the heart-searching God 
Has made the new-bom creature her abode, 
Nor shall be found in unregenerate souls, 
Till the last fire bum all between the poles. 
Sincerity ! why 'tis his only pride, 
Weak and imperfect in all grace beside, 
He knows that God demands his heart entire, 
And gives him all his just demands require. 
Without it his pretensions were as vain. 
As having it he deems the world's disdain ; 
That great defect would cost him not alone 
Man's favourable judgment, but his own ; 
His birthright shaken, and no longer clear, 
Than while his conduct proves his heart sincere. 
Retort the charge, and let the world be told 
She boasts a confidence she does not hold ; 
That, conscious of her crimes, she feels instead 
A cold misgiving, and a killing dread : 



CONVERSATION. 167 

That while in health the ground of her support 

Is madly to forget that life is short ; 

That sick she trembles, knowing she must die, 

Her hope presumption, and her faith a lie ; 

That while she dotes, and dreams that she believes, 

She mocks her Maker, and herself deceives. 

Her utmost reach, historical assent, 

The doctrines warp'd to what they never meant ; 

That truth itself is in her head as dull 

And useless as a candle in a skull. 

And all her love of God a groundless claim. 

A trick upon the canvas, painted flame. 

Tell her again, the sneer upon her face. 

And all her censures of the work of grace. 

Are insincere, meant only to conceal 

A dread she would not, yet is forced to feel ; 

That in her heart the christian she reveres. 

And while she seems to scorn him, only fears. 

A poet does not work by square or line. 
As smiths and joiners perfect a design ; 
At least we modems, our attention less. 
Beyond the example of our sires digress. 
And claim a right to scamper and run wide. 
Wherever chance, caprice, or fancy guide. 
The world and I fortuitously met ; 
I owed a trifle, and have paid the debt ; 
Sh^did me wrong, I recompensed the deed. 
And having struck the balance, now proceed. 
Perhaps however, as some years have pass'd 
Since she and I conversed together last. 



1G8 CONVERSATION. 

And I have lived recluse in rural shades, 
Which seldom a distinct report pervades, 
Great changes and new manners have occurred, 
And blest reforms, that I have never heard. 
And she may now be as discreet and wise. 
As once absurd in all discerning eyes. 
Sobriety perhaps may now be found 
Where once intoxication press'd the ground ; 
The subtle and injurious may be just. 
And he grown chaste that was the slave of lust;^ 
Arts once esteem'd may be with shame dismiss'd; 
Charity may relax the miser's fist ; 
The gamester may have cast his cards away, 
Forgot to curse, and only kneel to pray. 
It has indeed been told me (with what weight, 
How credibly, 'tis hard for me to state) 
That fables old, that seem'd for ever mute. 
Revived, are hastening into fresh repute. 
And gods and goddesses discarded long 
Like useless lumber, or a stroller's song. 
Are bringing into vogue their heathen train. 
And Jupiter bids fair to rule again ; 
That certain feasts are instituted now. 
Where Venus hears the lover's tender vow ; 
That all Olympus through the country roves, 
To consecrate our few remaining groves. 
And Echo learns politely to repeat • 

The praise of names for ages obsolete ; 
That having proved the weakness, it should seem, 
Of revelation's ineffectual beam, 



CONVERSATION. 169 

To bring the passions under sober sway, 
And give the moral springs their proper play, 
They mean to try what may at last be done, 
"Bj stout substantial gods of wood and stone. 
And whether Roman rites may not produce 
The virtues of old Eome for English use. 
May such success attend the pious plan, 
3iay Mercury once more embellish man, 
Grace him again with long forgotten arts, 
Heclaim his taste, and brighten up his parts. 
Make him athletic as in days of old, 
Leam'd at the bar, in the palaestra bold, 
Divest the rougher sex of female airs. 
And teach the softer not to copy theirs : 
The change shall please, nor shall it matter aught 
Who works the wonder, if it be but wrought. 
'Tis time, however, if the case stands thus, 
For us plain folks, and all who side with us, 
To build our altar, confident and bold. 
And say as stem Elijah said of old. 
The strife now stands upon a fair award. 
If Israel's Lord be God, then serve the Lord : 
If he be silent, faith is all a whim. 
Then Baal is the God, and worship him. 

Digression is so much in modem use, 
Thought is so rare, and fancy so profuse, 
Some never seem so wide of their intent. 
As when returning to the theme they meant ; 
As mendicants, whose business is to roam, 
Make every parish but their own their home. 

VOL. I. 18 



170 CONVERSATION. 

Though such continual zigzags in a book, 
Such drunken reelings have an awkward look, 
And I had rather creep to what is true, 
Than rove and stagger with no mark m view ; 
Yet to consult a httle seem'd no crime, 
The freakish humour of the present time : 
But now to gather up what seems dispersed. 
And touch the subject I designed at first, 
May prove, though much beside the rules of arl^ 
Best for the public, and my wisest part 
And first, let no man charge me, that I mean 
To close in sable every social scene, 
And give good company a face severe. 
As if they met around a father's bier ; 
For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent, 
And laughter all their work, is life misspent. 
Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply. 
Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. 
To find the medium asks some share of wit. 
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit. 
But though life's valley be a vale of tears, 
A brighter scene beyond that vale appears, 
Whose glory, with a light that never fades. 
Shoots between scatter'd rocks and opening shades, 
And while it shows the land the soul desires, 
The language of the land she seeks inspires. 
Thus touch'd, the tongue receives a sacred cure 
Of all Ihat was absurd, profane, impure ; 
Held within modest bounds, the tide of speech 
Pursues the course that truth and nature teach; 



k 



CONVERSATION. 171 

No longer labours merely to produce 
The pomp of sound, or tinkle without use j 
Where'er it winds, the salutary stream, 
Sprightly and fresh, enriches every theme, 
While all the happy man possessed before, 
The gift of nature, or the classic store. 
Is made subservient to the grand design. 
For which Heaven form'd the faculty divine. 
So should an idiot, while at large he strays. 
Find the sweet lyre on which an artist plays. 
With rash and awkward force the chords he shakes 
And grins with wonder at the jar he makes ; 
But let the wise and well-instructed hand 
Once take the shell beneath his just command. 
In gentle sounds it seems as it complained 
Of the rude injuries it late sustained. 
Till tuned at length to some immortal song, 
It sounds Jehovah's name, and pours his praise 
along. 



RETIREMENT. 



stadiis florens ignobilis otL 

YIBQ. GEOS. UB. 4. 



Hacknet'd in business, wearied at that oar, 
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no 

more, 
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low, 
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego ; 
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade, 
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade, 
Where, all his long anxieties forgot 
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot, 
Or recollected only to gild o'er. 
And add a smile to what was sweet before, 
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees, 
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease. 
Improve the remnant of his wasted span, 
And, having lived a trifler, die a man. 
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast, 
Though long rebelled against, not yet suppressed, 
And calls a creature form'd for Grod alone, 
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own. 
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, 
From what debilitates and what inflames. 



RETIREMENT. 173 

From cities humming with a restless crawd, 
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud, 
"Whose highest praise is that they live in vain, 
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain, 
Where works of man are clustered close around, 
And works of Grod are hardly to be found. 
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe. 
Traces of Eden are still seen below, 
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove, 
Bemind him of his Maker's power and love. 
Tis well if, look'd for at so late a day, 
In the last scene of such a senseless play. 
True wisdom will attend his feeble call, 
And grace his action ere the curtain fall. 
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth, 
Their wishes all impregnated with earth. 
For threescore years employ'd with ceaseless care 
In catching smoke and feeding upon air, 
Conversant only with the ways of men. 
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten. 
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart, 
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part. 
And, draining its nutritious powers to feed 
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed. 

Happy, if full of days — ^but happier far. 
If, ere we yet discern life's evening star. 
Sick of the service of a world, that feeds 
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds, 
We can escape from custom's idiot sway. 
To serve the sovereign we were bom to obey. 



174 KETIREMENT. 

Then sweet to muse upon his skill displayed 
(Infinite skill) in all that he has made ! 
To trace in nature's most minute design 
The signature and stamp of power divine, 
Contrivance intricate, expressed with ease, 
Where unassisted sight no beauty sees. 
The shapely limb and lubricated joint, 
Within the small dimensions of a poiut, 
Muscle and nerve miraculously spun, 
His mighty work, who speaks and it is done. 
The invisible in things scarce seen reveal'd, 
To whom an atom is an ample field ; 
To wonder at a thousand insect forms, 
These hatched, and those resuscitated worms. 
New life ordain'd and brighter scenes to share, 
Once prone on earth, now buoyant upon air. 
Whose shape would make them, had they bulk and 
More hideous foes than fancy can devise ; [size, 
With helmet-heads, and dragon-scales adom'd, 
The mighty myriads, now securely scom'd, 
Would mock the majesty of man's high birth, 
Despise his bulwarks, and unpeople earth : 
Then with a glance of fancy to survey, 
Far as the faculty can stretch away. 
Ten thousand rivers pour'd at his command, 
From urns that never fail, through every land ; 
These like a deluge with impetuous force. 
Those winding modestly a silent course ; 
The cloud-surmounting Alps, the fruitful vales ; 
Seas, on which every nation spreads her sails ; 



RETIREMENT. 175 

The sun, a world whence other worlds drmk light, 
The crescent moon, the diadem of night : 
Stars countless, each in his appointed place, 
IFast anchor'd in the deep abyss of space — 
At such a sight to catch the poet's flame, 
And with a rapture like his own exclaim. 
These are thy glorious works, thou Source of good, 
How dimly seen, how faintly understood ! 
Thine, and upheld by thy paternal care. 
This imiversal frame, thus wondrous fair ; 
Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought. 
Adored and praised in all that thou hast wrought. 
Absorb'd in that immensity I see, 
I shrink abased, and yet aspire to thee ; 
Instruct me, guide me to that Heavenly day, 
Thy words, more clearly than thy works, display, 
That, while thy truths my grosser thoughts refine, 
I may resemble thee, and call thee mine. 

O blest proficiency ! surpassing all 
That men erroneously their glory call. 
The recompense that arts or arms can yield, 
The bar, the senate, or the tented field. 
Compared with this sublimest life below. 
Ye kings and rulers, what have courts to show ? 
Thus studied, used and consecrated thus. 
On earth what is, seems form'd indeed for us ; 
Not as the plaything of a froward child, 
Fretful unless diverted and beguiled. 
Much less to feed and fan the fatal fires 
Of pride, ambition, or impure desires, 



176 RETIREMENT. 

But as a scale, by which the soul ascends 
From mighty means to more important ends, 
Securely, though by steps but rarely trod, 
Mounts from inferior beings up to God, 
And sees, by no fallacious light or dim, 
JEarth made for man, and man himself for him. 

Not that I mean to approve, or would enforce, 
A superstitious and monastic course : 
Truth is not local, Grod alike pervades 
And fills the world of traffic and the shades, 
And may be fear'd amid the busiest scenes, 
Or scom'd where business never intervenes. 
But 'tis not easy with a mind like ours, 
Conscious of weakness in its noblest powers, 
And in a world where, other ills apart, 
The roving eye misleads the careless heart, 
To limit thought, by nature prone to stray 
Wherever freakish fancy points the way ; 
To bid the pleadings of self-love be still, 
Resign our own and seek our Maker's will ; 
To spread the page of scripture, and compare 
Our conduct with the laws engraven there ; 
To measure all that passes in the breast, 
Faithfully, fairly, by that sacred test ; 
To dive into the secret deeps within. 
To spare no passion and no favourite sin. 
And search the themes, important ^.bove all, 
Ourselves, and our recovery from our falL 
But leisure, silence, and a mind released 
From anxious thoughts how wealth may be in- 
creased, 



BETIBEMEirr. 177 

How to secure, in some propitious hour, 
The point of interest or the post of power, 
A soul serene, and equally retired 
Prom objects too much dreaded or desired. 
Safe from the clamours of perverse dispute, 
At least are friendly to the great pursuit. 

Opening the map of God's extensive plan, 
We find a little isle, this life of man ; 
Eternity's unknown expanse appears 
Circling around and limiting his years. 
The busy race examine and explore 
Each creek and cavern of the dangerous shore, 
With care collect what in their eyes excels. 
Some shining pebbles, and some weeds and shells ; 
Thus laden, dream that they are rich and great, 
And happiest he that groans beneath his weight. 
The waves o'ertake them in their serious play. 
And every hour sweeps multitudes away ; 
They shriek and sink, survivors start and weep. 
Pursue their sport, and foUow to the deep. 
A few forsake the throng ; with lifted eyes 
Ask wealth of Heaven, and gain a real prize. 
Truth, wisdom, grace, and peace like that above, 
Seal'd with his signet, whom they serve and love ; 
Scom'd by the rest, with patient hope they wait 
A kind release from their imperfect state. 
And unregretted are soon snatch'd away 
From scenes of sorrow into glorious day. 

Nor these alone prefer a life recluse. 
Who seek retirement for its proper use ; 



178 RETIREMENT. 

The love of change, that lives in every breast, 
Genius and temper, and desire of rest, 
Discordant motives in one centre meet, 
And each inclines its votary to retreat. 
Some minds by nature are averse to noise. 
And hate the tumult half the world enjoys, 
The lure of avarice, or the pompous prize 
That courts display before ambitious eyes ; 
The fruits that hang on pleasure's flowery stem, 
Whatever enchants them, are no snares to them. 
To them the deep recess of dusky groves, 
Or forest, where the deer securely roves, 
The fall of waters, and the song of birds, 
And hills that echo to the distant herds, 
Are luxuries excelling all the glare 
The world can boast, and her chief favourites share. 
With eager step, and carelessly arrayed. 
For such a cause the poet seeks the shade, 
From all he sees he catches new delight, 
Pleased Fancy claps her pinions at the sight, 
The rising or the setting orb of day, 
The clouds that flit, or slowly float away, 
Nature in all the various shapes she wekrs, 
Frowning in storms, or breathing gentle airs. 
The snowy robe her wintry state assumes. 
Her summer heats, her fruits, and her perfumes, 
All, all alike transport the glowing bard, 
Success in rhyme his glory and reward. 
O Nature ! whose Elysian scenes disclose 
His bright perfections at whose word they rose. 



KETIREMENT. 179 

^ext to that power who form'd thee and sustains, 
3e thou the great inspirer of my strains. 
Still, as I touch the lyre, do thou expand 
Thy genuine charms, and guide an artless hand. 
That I may catch a fire but rarely known. 
Give useful light though I should miss renown, 
And, poring on thy page, whose every line 
Bears proof of an intelligence divine. 
May feel a heart enrich'd by what it pays, 
That builds its glory on its Maker's praise. 
Woe to the man whose wit disclaims its use. 
Glittering in vain, or only to seduce. 
Who studies nature with a wanton eye. 
Admires the work, but slips the lesson by ; 
His hours of leisure and recess employs 
In drawing pictures of forbidden joys. 
Retires to blazon his own worthless name. 
Or shoot the careless with a surer aim. 

The lover too shuns business and alarms. 
Tender idolater of absent charms. 
Saints offer nothing in their warmest prayers 
That he devotes not with a zeal like theirs ; 
Tis consecration of his heart, soul, time, 
And every thought that wanders is a crime. 
In sighs he worships his supremely fair. 
And weeps a sad libation in despair ; 
Adores a creature, and, devout in vain. 
Wins in return an answer of disdain. 
As woodbine weds the plant within her reach. 
Rough elm, or smooth-grain'd ash, or glossy beech, 



180 RETIREMENT. 

In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays 
Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays. 
But does a mischief lyhile she lends a grace, 
Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace ; 
So love, that clings around the noblest miods, 
Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds ; 
The suitor's air indeed he soon improves, 
And forms it to the taste of her he loves, 
Teaches his eyes a language, and no less 
Refines his speech, and fashions his address ; 
But farewell promises of happier fruits, 
Manly designs, and learning's grave pursuits ; 
Girt with a chain he cannot vrish to break, 
His only bliss is sorrow for her sake ; 
Who will may pant for glory and excel. 
Her smile his aim, all higher aims farewell I 
Thyrsis, Alexis, or whatever name 
May least offend against so pure a flame. 
Though sage advice of friends the most sincere 
Sounds harshly in so delicate an ear. 
And lovers, of all creatures, tame or wild. 
Can least brook management, however mild, 
Yet let a poet (poetry disarms 
The fiercest animals with magic charms) 
Bisk an intrusion on thy pensive mood, 
And woo and win thee to thy proper good. 
Pastoral images and still retreats. 
Umbrageous walks and solitary seats. 
Sweet birds in concert :fnth harmonious streams, 
Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day dreams, 



BETIBEMENT. 181 

Are all enchantments in a case like thine, 
Conspire against thy peace with one design, 
Soothe thee to make thee but a surer prey, 
And feed the fire that wastes thy powers away. 
Up— God has form'd thee with a wiser view, 
Not to be led in chains, but to subdue ; 
Calls thee to cope with enemies, and first 
Points out a conflict with thyself, the worst. 
Woman indeed, a gift he would bestow 
When he design'd a Paradise below, 
The richest earthly boon his hands afford. 
Deserves to be beloved, but not adored. 
Post away swiftly to more active scenes, 
Collect the scatter'd truths that study gleans. 
Mix with the world, but with its wiser part. 
No longer give an image all thine heart ; 
Its empire is not hers, nor is it thine, 
*Tis God*s just claim, prerogative divine. 

Virtuous and faithful Heberden, whose skill 
Attempts no task it cannot well fulfil. 
Gives melancholy up to nature's care. 
And sends the patient into purer air. 
Look where he comes — in this embower'd alcove 
Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move : 
Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow, 
Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below, 
Interpret to the marking eye distress. 
Such as its symptoms can alone express. 
That tongue is silent now ; that silent tongue 
Could argue once, could jest or join the song, 



182 RETIREMENT. 

Could give advice, could censure or commend, 
Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. 
Renounced alike its office and its sport, 
Its brisker and its graver strains fall short ; 
Both fail beneath a fever's secret sway,- 
And like a summer brook are past away. 
This is a sight for pity to peruse. 
Till she resemble faintly what she views, 
Till sympathy contract a kindred pain. 
Pierced with the woes that she laments in vain. 
This, of all maladies that man infest, 
Claims most compassion, and receives the least: 
Job felt it, when he groan'd beneath the rod 
And the barb'd arrows of a frowning Gk)d ; 
And such emolients as his friend could spare. 
Friends such as his for modem Jobs prepare. 
Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never feel, 
Kept snug in caskets of close-hammer'd steel. 
With mouths made only to grin wide and eat, 
And minds that deem derided pain a treat. 
With limbs of British oak, and nerves of wire, 
And wit that puppet prompters might inspire, 
Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke 
On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke. 
But with a soul that ever felt the stins: 
Of sorrow, sorrow is a sacred thing : 
Not to molest, or irritate, or raise 
A laugh at his expense, is slender praise ; 
He that has not usurp'd the name of man 
Does all, and deems too little all, he can, 



RETIREMENT. 183 

To assuage the throbbings of the fester'd part, 

And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart. 

'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose. 

Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes ; 

Man is a harp, whose chords elude the sight, 

Each yielding harmony disposed aright ; 

The screws reversed (a task which if he please 

Grod in a moment executes with ease). 

Ten thousand thousand strings at once go loose. 

Lost, till he tune them, all their power and use. 

Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair 

As ever recompensed the peasant's care. 

Nor soft declivities with tufted hills. 

Nor view of waters turning busy mills, 

Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, 

Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds. 

Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming groves, 

And waft it to the mourner as he roves, 

Can call up life into his faded eye. 

That passes all he sees unheeded by ; 

No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels. 

No cure for such, till Grod who makes them heals. 

And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill 

That yields not to the touch of human skill. 

Improve the kind occasion, understand 

A father's frown, and kiss his chastening hand. 

To thee the dayspring, and the blaze of noon. 

The purple evening and resplendent moon. 

The stars that, sprinkled o'er the vault of night. 

Seem drops descending in a shower of light. 



184 RETIREMENT. 

Sliine not, or undesired and hated shine, 
Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine : 
Yet seek liim, in his favour life is found, 
All bliss beside a shadow or a sound: 
Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earfli, 
Shall seem to start into a second birth ; 
Nature, assuming a more lovely face, 
Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, 
Shall be despised and overlooked no more, 
Shall fill thee with delights unfelt before, 
Impart to things inanimate a voice. 
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice ; 
The sound shall run along the winding vales, 
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. 

Ye groves (the statesman at his desk exdaims, 
Sick of a thousand disappointed aims), 
My patrimonial treasure and my pride, 
Beneath your shades your gray possessor hide. 
Receive me, languishing for that repose 
The servant of the pubhc never knows. 
Ye saw me once (ah, those regretted days, 
When boyish innocence was all my praise !) 
Hour after hour delightfully allot 
To studies then famihar, since forgot, 
And cultivate a taste for ancient song, 
Catching its ardour as I mused along ; 
Nor seldom, as propitious heaven might send. 
What once I valued and could boast, a Mend, 
Were witnesses how cordially I press'd 
His undissembling virtue to my breast ; 



RETIKEMENT. 185 

re me now, not uncorrupt as then, 
uiltless of corrupting other men, 
ersed in arts that, while they seem to stay 
ing empire, hasten its decay. 
3 fair haven of my native home, 
Teck of what I was, fatigued I come ; 
ice I can approve the patriot's voice, 
aake the course he recommends my choice : 
eet at last in one sincere desire, 
ish and mine both prompt me to retire. 
3ne — ^he steps into the welcome chaise, 
at his ease behind four handsome bays, 
vhirl away from business and debate 
isencumber'd Atlas of the state, 
ot the boy, who, when the breeze of mom 
shakes the glittering drops from every thorn, 
Is his flock, then under bank or bush 
iking cherry stones, or platting rush, 
air is Freedom ? — he was always free : 
ve his rustic name upon a tree, 
,re the mole, or with ill fashion'd hook 
w the incautious minnow from the brook, 
e's prime pleasures in his simple view, 
ck the chief concern he ever knew ; 
ines but little in his heedless eyes, 
»od we never miss we rarely prize : 
k the noble drudge in state affairs, 
id from office and its constant cares, 
;harms he sees in Freedom's smile express'd, 
dom lost so long, now repossessed ; 
I. 19 



i 



186 BETIREMENT. 

The tongue, whose strains were cogent as com^ 

mands, 
Revered at home, and felt in foreign lands, 
Shall own itself a stammerer in that cause, 
Or plead its silence as its best applause. 
He knows indeed that, whether dress'd or rude, 
Wild without art, or artfully subdued. 
Nature in every form inspires delight, 
But never mark'd her with so just a sight 
Her hedge row shrubs, a variegated store, 
With woodbine and wild roses mantled o*er, 
Green balks and furrow'd lands, the stream that 
Its cooling vapour o'er the dewy meads, [spreads 
Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eyfe, 
That melt and fade into the distant sky. 
Beauties he lately slighted as he passed. 
Seem all created since he travell*d last 
Master of all the enjoyments he design'd, 
No rough annoyance rankhng in his mind, 
What early philosophic hours he keeps. 
How regular his meals, how sound he sleeps ! ^ 
Not sounder he that on the mainmast head, 
While morning kindles with a windy red, 
Begins a long look out for distant land. 
Nor quits till evening watch his giddy stand, 
Then swift descending with a seaman's haste, 
SUps to his hammock, and forgets the blast 
He chooses company, but not the squire's, 
Whose wit is rudeness, whose good breeding tires; 
Nor yet the parson's, who would gladly come, 
Obsequious when abroad, though proud at home; 



EETIREMENT. 187 

INor can he much affect the neighbouring peer, 
Whose toe of emulation treads too near ; 
'But wisely seeks a more convenient friend, 
"With whom, dismissing forms, he may unbend. 
A man, whom marks of condescending grace 
Teach, while they flatter him, his proper place ; 
Who comes when call'd, and at a word withdraws, 
Speaks with reserve, and listens with applause ; 
Some plain mechanic, who, without pretence 
To birth or wit, nor gives nor takes offence ; 
On whom he rests well pleased his weary powers, 
And talks and laughs away his vacant hours. 
The tide of life, swift always in its course, 
May run in cities with a brisker force. 
But no where with a current so serene, 
Or half so clear as in the rural scene. 
Yet how fallacious is all earthly bliss, 
What obvious truths the wisest heads may miss ! 
Some pleasures live a month, and some a year, 
But short the date of all we gather here ; 
No happiness is felt, except the true. 
That does not charm the more for being new. 
This observation, as it chanced, not made, 
Or, if the thought occurred, not duly weighed, 
He sighs — ^for after all by slow degrees 
The spot he loved has lost the power to please ; 
To cross his ambling pony day by day. 
Seems at the best but dreaming life away ; 
The prospect, such as might enchant despair. 
He views it not, or sees no beauty there ; 



188 RETIREMENT. 

With aching heart and discontented looks, 
Returns at noon to billiards or to books, 
But feels, while grasping at his faded joys, 
A secret thirst of his renounced employs. 
He chides the tardiness of every post, 
Pants to be told of battles won or lost. 
Blames his own indolence, observes, though late, 
'Tis criminal to leave a sinking state. 
Flies to the levee, and, received with grace. 
Kneels, kisses hands, and shines again in place. 

Suburban villas, highway-side retreats. 
That dread the encroachment of our growing 

streets. 
Tight boxes, neatly sash'd, and in a blaze 
With all a July sun's coUected rays. 
Delight the citizen, who, gasping there, 
Breathes clouds of dust, and calls it country air. 
O sweet retirement, who would balk the thought, 
That could afford retirement, or could not? 
*Tis such an easy walk, so smooth and straight, 
The second milestone fronts the garden gate ; 
A step if fair, and, if a shower approach. 
You find safe shelter in the next stage coach. 
There, prison'd in a parlour snug and small, 
Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall, 
The man of business and his friends compressed 
Forget their labours, and yet find no rest ; 
But still 'tis rural — trees are to be seen 
From every window, and the fields are green; 
Ducks paddle in the pond before the door, 
And what could a remoter scene show more ? 



RETIREMENT. 189 

e of elegance we rarely find 

>rtion of a mean or vulgar mind, 

Tiorance of better things makes man, 

annot much, rejoice in what he can ; 

?, that deems his leisure well bestow'd 

:emplation of a turnpike road, 

pied as well, employs his hours 

ely, and as much improves his powers, 

that slumbers in pavilions graced 

lU the charms of an accomplish'd taste. 

•nee, alas ! insolvencies ; and hence 

ipitied victim of ill judged expense, 

all his wearisome engagements freed, 

J hands with business, and retires indeed. 

r prudent grandmammas, ye modem belles, 

it with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, 

health required it, would consent to roam, 

lore attached to pleasures found at home. 

)w aUke, gay widow, virgin, wife, 

ous to diversify dull life, 

ches, chaises, caravans, and hoys, 

the coast for daily, nightly joys, 
11, impatient of dry land, agree 
Dne consent to rush into the sea. 

exhibits, fathomless and broad, 

of the power and majesty of God. 

athes about the swelling of the deep, 

shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep ; 

LS it is, it answers as it flows 

reathings of the lightest air that blows ; 

ig and whitening over all the waste. 



190 BETIKEMENT. 

The rising waves obey the increasing blast, 
Abrupt and horrid as the tempest roars, 
Thunder and flash upon the steadfast shores. 
Till he, that rides the whirlwind, checks the rein, 
Then all the world of waters sleeps again. 
Nereids or Dryads, as the fashion leads. 
Now in the floods, now panting in the meads, 
Votaries of pleasure still, where'er she dwells, 
Near barren rocks, in palaces, or cells, 
O grant a poet leave to recommend 
(A poet fond of nature, and your friend) 
Her slighted works to your admiring view ; 
Her works must needs excel, who fashion'd you. 
Would ye, when rambling in your morning ride, 
With some unmeaning coxcomb at your side, 
Condemn the prattler, for his idle pains, 
To waste unheard the music of his strains, 
And, deaf to all the impertinence of tongue, 
That, while it courts, affronts and does you wrong, 
Mark well the finished plan without a fault, 
The seas globose and huge, the overarching vault, 
Earth's millions daily fed, a world employ'd 
In gathering plenty yet to be enjoyVd, 
Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise 
Of God, beneficent in all his ways ; [shine! 

Graced with such wisdom, how would beauty 
Ye want but that to seem indeed divine. 

Anticipated rents, and bills unpaid, 
Force many a shining youth into the shade, 
Not to redeem his time, but his estate, 
And play the fool, but at a cheaper rate. 



RETIREMENT. 191 

There, hid in loathed obscurity, removed 
From pleasures left, but never more beloved, 
He just endures, and with a sickly spleen 
Sighs o'er the beauties of the charming scene. 
Nature indeed looks prettily in rhyme ; 
Streams tinkle sweetly in poetic chime : 
The warblings of the blackbird, clear and strong. 
Are musical enough in Thomson's song ; 
And Cobham's groves, and Windsor's green re- 
treats. 
When Pope describes them, have a thousand 

sweets ; 
He likes the country, but in truth must own, 
Most likes it, when he studies it in town. 

Poor Jack — ^no matter who — ^for when I blame, 
I pity, and must therefore sink the name. 
Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course. 
And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse. 
The estate, his sires had own'd in ancient years, 
Was quickly distanced, match'd against a peer's. 
Jack vanish'd, was regretted and forgot ; 
'Tis wild good nature's never failing lot. 
At length, when all had long supposed him dead. 
By cold submersion, razor, rope, or lead. 
My lord, alighting at his usual place. 
The Crown, took notice of an ostler's face. 
Jack knew his friend, but hoped in that disguise 
He might escape the most observing eyes. 
And whistling, as if unconcem'd and gay. 
Curried his nag, and looked another way. 
Convinced at last, upon a nearer view. 



192 BETIEEMENT, 

'Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, 
0'erwhehn*d at once with wonder, grief, and joj, 
He press'd him much to quit his base employ; 
His countenance, his purse, his heart, his hand, 
Influence and power, were all at his command : 
Peers are not always generous as well bred, 
But Granby was, meant truly what he said. 
Jack bow'd, and was obliged— confess'd 'twas 

strange, 
That so retired he should not wish a change, 
But knew no medium between guzzling beer. 
And his old stint — three thousand pounds a year. 

Thus some retire to nourish hopeless woe ; 
Some seeking happiness not foimd below ; 
Some to comply with humour, and a mind 
To social scenes by nature disinclined ; 
Some sway'd by fashion, some by deep disgust ; 
Some self-impoverish'd, and because they must ; 
But few, that court Retirement, are aware 
Of half the toils they must encounter there. 

Lucrative offices are seldom lost 
For want of powers proportion*d to the post ; 
Give e'en a dunce the employment he desires. 
And he soon finds the talents it requires ; 
A business with an income at its heels 
Furnishes always oil for its own wheels. 
But in his arduous enterprise to close 
His active years with indolent repose, 
He finds the labours of that state exceed 
His utmost faculties, severe indeed. 



RETIREMENT. 193 

'Tis easy to resign a toilsome place, 

But not to manage leisure with a grace ; 

Absence of occupation is not rest, 

A mind quite vacant is a mind distress'd. 

The veteran steed, excused his task at length, 

In kind compassion of his failing strength, 

And turn'd into the park or mead to graze, 

Exempt from future service all his days, 

There feels a pleasure perfect in its kind, 

Ranges at liberty, and snuffs the wind : 

But when his lord would quit the busy road, 

To taste a joy like that lie has bestow'd, 

He proves, less happy than his favoured brute, 

A life of ease a difficult pursuit. 

Thought, to the man that never thinks, may seem 

As natural as when asleep to dream ; 

But reveries (for human minds will act) 

Specious in show, impossible in fact. 

Those flimsy webs, that break as soon as wrought, 

Attain not to the dignity of thought : 

Nor yet the sWarms that occupy the brain. 

Where dreams of dress, intrigue, and pleasure 

Nor such as useless conversation breeds, [reign ; 

Or lust engenders, and indulgence feeds. 

Whence, and what are we ? to what end ordain*d ? 

What means the drama by the world sustain'd ? 

Business or vain amusement, care or mirth. 

Divide the frail inhabitants of earth. 

Is duty a mere sport, or an employ ? 

Life an intrusted talent or a toy ? 



194 BETIBEMENT. 

Is there, as reason, conscience. Scripture saj, 
Cause to provide for a great future day. 
When, earth's assigned duration at an end, 
Man shall be summon'd and the dead attend ? 
The trumpet — will it sound ? the curtain rise ? 
And show the august tribunal of the skies, 
Where no prevarication shall avail, 
Where eloquence and artifice shall fail. 
The pride of arrogant distinctions fall. 
And conscience and our conduct judge us all ? 
Pardon me, ye that give the midnight oil 
To learned cares or philosophic toil. 
Though I revere your honourable names. 
Your useful labours, and important aims. 
And hold the world indebted to your aid, 
Enrich'd with the discoveries ye have made ; 
Yet let me stand excused, if I esteem 
A mind employed on so sublime a theme, 
Pushing her bold inquiry to the date 
And outline of the present transient state, 
And, after poising her adventurous wings. 
Settling at last upon eternal things. 
Far more intelligent, and better taught 
The strenuous use of profitable thought. 
Than ye, when happiest, and enlightened most. 
And highest in renown, can justly boast. 

A mind unnerved, or indisposed to bear 
The weight of subjects worthiest of her care, 
Whatever hopes a change of scene inspires, 
Must change her nature, or in vain retires. 



RETIREMENT. 195 

An idler is a watch that wants hoth hands ; 
As useless if it goes as when it stands. 
Books, therefore, not the scandal of the shelves, 
In which lewd sensualists print out themselves ; 
Nor those, in which the stage gives vice a blow. 
With what success let modern manners show ; 
Nor his who, for the bane of thousands bom. 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn. 
Skilful alike to seem devout and just, > 

And stab religion with a si j side thrust ; 
I^or those of leam'd philologists, who chase 
A panting syllable through time and space, 
Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark. 
To Gaul, to Greece, and into Noah's ark ; 
But such as learning without false pretence. 
The friend of truth, the associate of sound sense. 
And such as, in the zeal of good design. 
Strong judgment labouring in the scripture mine, 
All such as manly and great souls produce, 
"Worthy to live, and of eternal use : 
Behold in these, what leisure hours demand. 
Amusement and true knowledge hand and hand. 
Luxury gives the mind a childish cast. 
And, while she polishes, perverts the taste ; 
Habits of close attention, thinking heads. 
Become more rare as dissipation spreads. 
Till authors hear at length one general cry. 
Tickle and entertain us, or we die. 
The loud demand, from year to year the same, 
Beggars invention, and makes fancy lame ; 



196 RETIREMENT. 

Till farce itself, most mournfully jejune, 
Calls for the kind assistance of a tune ; 
And novels (witness every month's review) 
Belie their name, and offer nothing new. 
The mind, relaxing into needful sport, 
Should turn to writers of an abler sort, 
Whose wit well managed, and whose classic style, 
Give truth a lustre, and make wisdom smile. 
Friends (for I cannot stint, as some have done, 
Too rigid in my view, that name to one ; 
Though one, I grant it, in the generous breast 
Will stand advanced a step above the rest ; 
Flowers by that name promiscuously we call, 
But one, the rose, the regent of th«m all)— ^ 
FHends, not adopted with a schoolboy's haste, 
But chosen with a nice discerning taste, 
Well born, well disciplined, who, placed apart 
From vulgar minds, have honour much at heart, 
And, though the world may think the ingredients 
The love of virtue, and the fear of God ? [odd, 
Such friends prevent what else would soon suc- 
A temper rustic as the life we lead, [ceed, 

And keep the polish of the manners clean, 
As theirs who bustle in the busiest scene ; 
For solitude, however some may rave, 
Seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave, 
A sepulchre, in which the living lie. 
Where all good qualities grow sick and die. . 
I praise the Frenchman,^ his remark was shrewd, 
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude ? 

1 Bruyere. 



RETIREMENT. 197 

But grant me still a friend in my retreat, 
'Whom I may whisper — solitude is sweet. 
Yet neither these delights, nor aught beside. 
That appetite can ask, or wealth provide. 
Can save us always from a tedious day,' 
Or shine the dulness of still life away ; 
Divine communion, carefully enjoy'd, 
0^ sought with energy, must fill the void. 
O, sacred art ! to which alone life owes 
Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close. 
Scom'd in a world, indebted to that scorn 
Por evils daily felt and hardly borne. 
Not knowing thee, we reap, with bleeding hands, 
Flowers of rank odour upon thorny lands. 
And, while experience cautions us in vain, 
Grasp seeming happiness, and find it pain. 
Despondence, self-deserted in her grief. 
Lost by abandoning her own relief. 
Murmuring and ungrateful discontent. 
That scorns afflictions mercifully meant. 
Those humours, tart as wines upon the fret. 
Which idleness and weariness beget ; [breast, 
These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the 
Fond of the phantom of an earthly rest. 
Divine communion chases, as the day 
Drives to their dens the obedient beasts of prey. 
See Judah's promised king, bereft of all. 
Driven out an exile from the face of Saul, 
To distant caves the lonely wanderer flies. 
To seek that peace a tyrant's frown denies. 



198 BETIREMENT. 

Hear the sweet accents of his tunefiil voice, 
Hear him, o'erwhelm'd with sorrow, yet rejoice; 
No womanish or wailing grief has part, 
No, not a moment, in his royal heart ; 
'Tis manly music, such as martjTS make, 
Suffering with gladness for a Saviour's sake ; 
His soul exults, hope animates his lays, 
The sense of mercy kindles into praise, 
And wilds, familiar with a lion's roar, 
King with ecstatic sounds unheard before : 
'Tis love like his that can alone defeat 
The foes of man, or make a desert sweet 

Religion does not censure or exclude 
Unnumber'd pleasures harmlessly pursued ; 
To study culture, and with artful toil 
To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands 
The grain, or herb, or plant that each demands ; 
To cherish virtue in an humble state. 
And share the joys your bounty may create ; 
To mark the matchless workings of the power 
That shuts within its seed the future flower. 
Bids these in elegance of form excel. 
In colour these, and those delight the smell. 
Sends Nature forth the daughter of the skies. 
To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes ; 
To teach the canvas innocent deceit, 
Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet — 
These, these are arts pursued without a crime, 
That leave no stain upon the wing of time. 



BETIBEMENT. 199 

le poetry (or rather notes that aim, 
jbly and vainly, at poetic fame) 
ploys, shut out from more important views, 
t by the banks of the slow winding Ouse ; 
itent if thus sequester'd I may raise 
Qonitor's though not a poet's praise, 
1 while I teach an art too little known, 
close life wisely, may not waste my own. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING 
TIME AT STOCK, IN ESSEX. 

Verses addressed to a country clergyman complaining of the 
disagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiv* 
ing the dues at the parsonage. 

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, 
To laugh it would be wrong, 

The troubles of a worthy priest, 
The burden of my song. 

This priest he merry is and blithe 

Three quarters of a year. 
But oh ! it cuts him like a sithe 

When tithing time draws near. 

He then is full of fright and fears. 

As one at point to die. 
And long before the day appears 

He heaves up many a sigh. 

For then the farmers come jog, jog, 

Along the miry road. 
Each heart as heavy as a log. 

To make their payments good. 

In sooth the sorrow of such days 

Is not to be expressed. 
When he that takes and he that pays 

Are both alike distressed. 



THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 201 

Now all unwelcome at his gates 

The clumsy swains alight, 
With rueful faces and bald pates — 

He trembles at the sight. 

And well he may, for well he knows 

Each bumpkin of the clan, 
Instead of paying what he owes, 

Will cheat him if he can. 

So in they come — each makes his leg. 

And flings his head before. 
And looks as if he came to beg, 

And not to quit a score. 

"And how does miss and madam do. 

The little boy and all ? " 
"All tight and well. And how do you. 

Good Mr. What-d'ye-caU ? " 

The dinner comes, and down they sit : 

Were e'er such hungry folk ? 
There's little talking, and no wit ; 

It is no time to joke. 

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve. 

One spits upon the floor. 
Yet, not to give offence or grieve. 

Holds up the cloth before. 

The punch goes round, and they are dull 

And lumpish still as ever ; 
Like barrels with tlieir bellies full 

They only weigh the heavier. 
VOL. I. 20 



202 THE YEARLY DISTRESS. 

At length the busy time begins. 

" Come, neighbours, we must wag — ** 
Tlie money chinks, down drop their chins, 

Each lugging out his bag. 

One talks of mildew and of frost, 

And one of storms of hail. 
And one of pigs that he has lost 

By maggots at the tail. 

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you 

In pulpit none shall hear : 
But yet, methinks, to tell you true, 

You sell it plaguy dear." 

why are farmers made so coarse. 

Or clergy made so fine ? 
A kick, that scarce would move a horse. 

May kill a sound divine. 

Then let the boobies stay at home ; 

'Twould cost him, I dare say. 
Less trouble taking twice the sum 

Without the clo^vns that pay. 



203 



SONNET ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ. 

On his emphatical and interesting delivery of the defence of 
Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords. 

CowPER, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes 
hard, 
Legends prolix delivers in the ears 
(Attentive when thou read'st) of England's 
peers, 
Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward. 

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, 
Expending late on all that length of plea 
Thy generous powers, but silence honoured thee. 

Mute as e-er gazed on orator or bard. 

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside 

Both heart and head ; and couldst with music 
sweet 
Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, 
Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide 
Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet 
Of others' speech, but magic of thy own. 



204 



LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN, 

AUTHOR OF THE " BOTANIC GARDEN." 

Two Poets,^ (poets, by report, 

Not oft so well agree) 
Sweet harmonist of Flora's court ! 

Conspire to honour thee. 

They best can judge a poet's worth 
Who oft themselves have known 

The pangs of a poetic birth 
By labours of their own. 

We therefore pleased extol thy song, 
Though various, yet complete, 

Rich in embellishment as strong. 
And learned as 'tis sweet. 

No envy mingles with our praise, 
Though, could our hearts repine 

At any poet's happier lays. 

They would — ^they must at thine. 

But we, in mutual bondage knit 

Of friendship's closest tie. 
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit 

With an unjaundiced eye ; 

1 Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanie 
these lines. 



LINES TO DR. DARWIN. 205 

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, 

And howsoever known. 
Who would not twme a wreath for thee, 

Unworthy of his own. 



ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS. 

The birds put off their every hue. 
To dress a room for Montagu. 

The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, 
His rainbows and his starry eyes ; 
The pheasant plumes, which round infold 
His mantling neck with downy gold ; 
The cock his arch'd tail's azure show ; 
And, river-blanch'd, the swan his snow. 
AU tribes beside of Indian name, 
That glossy shine, or vivid flame. 
Where rises, and where sets the day, 
Whate'er th^y boast of rich and gay. 
Contribute to the gorgeous plan. 
Proud to advance it all they can. 
This plumage neither dashing shower, 
Nor blasts that shake the dripping bower, 
Shall drench again or discompose. 
But screen'd from every storm that blows, 
It boasts a splendour ever new, . 
Safe with protecting Montagu. 



206 ON MRS. MONTAQifs 

To the same patroness resort, 
Secure of favour at her court, 
Strong genius, from whose forge of thought 
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought. 
Which, though new-born, with vigour move, 
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove — 
Imagination scattering round 
Wild roses over furrow'd ground. 
Which labour of his frown beguile. 
And teach philosophy a smile — 
Wit flashing on religion's side, 
Whose fires, to sacred truth applied. 
The gem though luminous before. 
Obtrude on human notice more. 
Like sunbeams on the golden height 
Of some tall temple playing bright — 
Well tutor'd learning, from his books 
Dismissed with grave, not haughty, looks, 
Their order on his shelves exact, 
Nor more harmonious or compact 
Than that to which he keeps confined 
The various treasures of his mind — 
All these to Montagu's repair, 
Ambitious of a shelter there. 
There genius, learning, fancy, wit. 
Their ruffled plumage calm refit, 
(For stormy troubles loudest roar 
Around their flight who highest soar) 
And in her eye, and by her aid. 
Shine safe without a fear to fade. 



FEATHER-HANGINGS. ?07 

She thus maintains divided sway 
With yon bright region of the day ; 
The plume and poet both we know 
Their lustre to his influence owe ; 
And she the works of Phoebus aiding, 
Both poet saves and plume from fading. 



VERSES 

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during bis 
solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez. 

I AM monarch of all I survey, 

My right there is none to dispute ; 

From the centre all round to the sea 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 

Solitude ! where are the charms 
That sages have seen in thy face ? 

Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

1 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 plain. 

My form with indifference see ; 
They are so unacquainted with man. 

Their tameness is shocking to me. 



208 ^' SELKIRK. 

Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
O, liad I the wings of a dove, 

How soon would I taste you again ! 
My sorrows I then might assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth. 
Might leam from the wisdom of age. 

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 

Religion ! what treasure untold 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver and gold, 

Or all that this earth can afford. 
But the sound of the church-going bell 

These valleys and rocks never heard. 
Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell. 

Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. 

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, 

Convey to this desolate shore 
Some cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
My friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O iell 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 



A. SELKIBK. 209 

When I think of my own native land. 
In a moment I seem to be there ; 

But alas ! recollection at hand 
Soon hurries me back to despair. 

But the seafowl 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 grace. 

And reconciles man to his lot. 



ON 

OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE 

BECORDED IN THE BIOGBAFHIA BRITANNICA. 

Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot 
To names ignoble, bom to be forgot ! 
In vain, recorded in historic page. 
They court the notice of a future age : 
Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land 
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand ; 
LethsBan gulfs receive them as they fall. 
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them alL 



210 REPORT OF A LAW CASE. 

So when a child, as playful children use, 
Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, 
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire — 
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, 
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark ! 
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk ! 



REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, 

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OP THE BOOKS. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, 
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong ; 

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, 
To which the said spectacles ought to belong. 

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause 
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of 
learning ; 

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, 
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. 

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, 
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly 
find 

That the nose has had spectacles always in wear. 
Which amounts to possession time out of mind. 



REPORT OF A LAW CASE. 211 

Then holding the spectacles up to the court — 
Your lordship observes they are made with a 
straddle, 

As wide as the bridge of the Nose is ; in short, 
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. 

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose 
(*Tis a case that has happened, and may be 
again) 
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, 
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles 
then? 

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows. 
With a reasoning the court will never condemn. 

That the spectacles plainly were made for the 
Nose, 
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. 

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how). 
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes : 

But what were his arguments few people know. 
For the court did not think they were equally 
wise. 

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone. 
Decisive and clear, without one if or but — 

That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, 
By daylight or candlelight — Eyes should be 
shut ! 



212 



ON THE 

PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ. 

TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLA5D. 

Round Thurlow's head in early youth, 

And in his sportive days, 
Fair Science pour*d the light of truth, 

And Grenius shed his rays. 

See ! with united wonder cried 
The experienced and the sage, 

Ambition in a boy supplied 
With all the skill of age ! 

Discernment, eloquence, and grace 

Proclaim him bom to sway 
The balance in the highest place. 

And bear the palm away. 

The praise bestow'd was just and wise ; 

He sprang impetuous forth. 
Secure of conquest, where the prize 

Attends superior worth. 

So the best courser on the plain 

Ere yet he starts is known, 
And does but at the goal obtain 

What all had deem'd his own. 



213 



ODE TO PEACE. 

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! 
Return and make thy downy nest 

Once more .in this sad heart : 
Nor riches I nor power pursue. 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 

We therefore need not part. 

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me. 
From avarice and ambition free, 

And pleasure's fatal wiles ? 
For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
The sweets that I was wont to share. 

The banquet of thy smiles ? 

The great, the gay, shall they partake 
The Heaven that thou alone canst make ? 

And wilt thou quit the stream 
That murmurs through the dewy mead. 
The grove, and the sequestered shed. 

To be a guest with them ? 

For thee I panted, thee I prized. 
For thee I gladly sacrificed 

Wliate'er I loved before ; 
And shall I see thee start away. 
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say — 

Farewell ! we meet no more ? 



214 



HUMAN FRAILTY. 

Weak and irresolute is man ; 

The purpose of to-day, 
Woven with pains into his plan, 

To-morrow rends away. 

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 

Vice seems already slain ; 
But Passion rudely snaps the string, 

And it revives again. 

Some foe to his upright intent 

Finds out his weaker part ; 
Virtue engages his assent. 

But Pleasure wins his heart. 

'Tis here the folly of the wise 
Through all his art we view ; 

And while his tongue the charge denies, 
His conscience owns it true. 

Bound on a voyage of awful length 

And dangers little known, 
A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast ; 
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, 

Or all the toil is lost. 



215 



THE MODERN PATRIOT. 

Rebellion is my theme all day ; 

I only wish 'twould come 
(As who knows but perhaps it may ?) 

A little nearer home. 

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight 

On t'other side the Atlantic, 
I always held them in the right, 

But most so when most frantic. 

When lawless mobs insult the court, 
That man shall be my toast. 

If breaking windows be the sport, 
Who bravely breaks the most. 

But O ! for him my fancy culls 
The choicest flowers she bears, 

Who constitutionally pulls 
Your house about your ears. 

Such civil broils are my delight. 

Though some folks can't endure them, 

Who say the mob are mad outright. 
And that a rope must cure them. 

A rope ! I wish we patriots had 
Such strings for all who need 'em — 

What ! hang a man for going mad ! 
Then farewell British freedom. 



216 



ON THE 

BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY, 

TOOETHEB WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IX THE 
MONTH OF JUKE, 1780. 

So then — the Vandals of our isle, 
Sworn foes to sense and law, 

Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 
Than ever Koman saw ! 

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, 

And many a treasure more. 
The well judged purchase, and the gift 

That graced his lettered store. 

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, 

The loss was his alone ; 
But ages yet to come shall mourn 

The burning of his own. 



ON THE SAME. 

When wit and genius meet their doom 

Li all devouring flame. 
They tell us of the fate of Rome, 

And bid us fear the same. 



LORD Mansfield's library. 217 

O'er Murray's loss the Muses wept, 

Thej felt the rude alarm, 
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept 

His sacred head from harm. 

There Memory, like the bee that's fed 

From Flora's balmy store. 
The quintessence of all he read 

Had treasured up before. 

The lawless herd, with fury blind, 

Have done him cruel wrong ; 
The flowers are gone — ^but still we find 

The honey on his tongue. ^ 



THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; 

OR, HTTOCRISY DETECTED.^ 

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, 
Good mussulman, abstain from pork ; 
There is a part in every swine 
No friend or follower of mine 

It may be proper to inform the reader that this piece has 
)ady appeared in print, having found its way, though with 
16 unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the 
ids Journal, without the author's privity. 

VOL. I. 21 



218 HYPOCRISY DETECTED. 

May taste, whate'er his inclination, 
On pain of excommunication. 
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, 
And thus he left the point at large. 
Had he the sinful part expressed, 
They might with safety eat the rest ; 
But for one piece they thought it hard 
From the whole hog to be debarred ; 
And set their wit at work to find 
What joint the prophet had in mind. 
Much controversy straight arose, 
These choose the back, the belly those ; 
By some 'tis confidently said 
He meant not to forbid the head ; 
While others at that doctrine rail, 
And piously prefer the tail. 
Thus, conscience freed from eveiy clog, 
Mahometans eat up the hog. 

You laugh — 'tis well — ^the tale applied 
May make you laugh on t'other side. 
Renounce the world — ^the preacher cries. 
We do — a multitude replies. 
While one as innocent regards 
A snug and friendly game at cards ; 
And one, whatever you may say, 
Can see no evil in a play ; 
Some love a concert, or a race ; 
And others shooting, and the chase. 
Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, 
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd ; 



HYPOCRISY DETECTED. 219 

ach thinks his neighbour makes too free, 
"et likes a slice as well as he : 
rith sophistry their sauce they sweeten, 
ill quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. 



N THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) 
THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH. 

'e nymphs ! if e'er your eyes were red 
ITith tears o'er hapless favourites shed, 

O share Maria's grief! 
[er favourite, even in his cage, 
WTiat will not hunger's cruel rage ?) 

Assassin'd by a thief. 

Hiere Rhenus strays his vines among, 
'he egg was laid from which he sprung ; 

And, though by nature mute, 
>r only with a whistle blest, 
Tell taught he all the sounds express'd 

Of flagelet or flute. 

Tie honours of his ebon poll 

Vere brighter than the sleekest mole. 

His bosom of the hue 
Vith which Aurora decks the skies, 
VTien piping winds sliall soon arise. 

To sweep away the dew. 



220 ON THE DEATH OF LADY 

Above, below, in all the house, 
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse. 

No cat had leave to dwell ; 
And Bully's cage supported stood 
On props of smoothest shaven wood, 

Large built and latticed welL 

Well latticed — but the grate, alas ; 
Not rough with wire of steel or brass, 

For Bully's plumage sake. 
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, 
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, 

The swains their baskets make. 

Night veil'd the pole : all seem'd secure : 
When, led by instinct sharp and sure, 

Subsistence to provide, 
A beast forth sallied on the scout, 
Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout. 

And badger-colour'd hide. 

He, entering at the study door, 
Its ample area 'gan explore ; 

And something in the wind 
Conjectured, sniffing round and round, 
Better than all the books he found, 

Food chiefly for the mind. 

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, 
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest ; 



Throckmorton's bullfinch. 221 

In sleep he seem'd to view 
it fast clinging to the cage, 
I, screaming at the sad presage, 

Awoke and found it true. 

, aided both by ear and scent, 

bt to his mark the monster went — 

Ah, Muse ! forbear to speak 
ute the horrors that ensued ; 
teeth were strong, the cage was wood^ 

He left poor Bully's beak. 

ad he made that too his prey ! 
t beak, whence issued many a lay 

Of such mellifluous tone, 
;ht have repaid him well, I wote, 
silencing so sweet a throat. 

Fast stuck within his own. 

ia weeps — the Muses mourn— 
vhen, by Bacchanalians torn. 
On Thracian Hebrus' side 
tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, 
head alone remained to tell 
The cruel death he died. 



222 



I 



THE ROSE. 

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a 
Which Mary to Anna conveyed, [shover, 

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, 
And weighed down its beautiful head. 

The cup was all fiU'd, and the leaves were all wet, 
And it seem'd to a fanciful view 

To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, 
On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

I hastily seized it, unflt as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, 

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp*d it, it fell to the ground. 

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part 

Some act by the delicate mind. 
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 

Already to sorrow resigned. 

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, 
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ; 

And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, 
May be followed perhaps by a smile. 



223 



THE DOVES. 

Reasoning at every step he treads, 

Man yet mistakes his way, 
While meaner things, whom instinct leads, 

Are rarely known to stray. 

One silent eve I wander'd late. 

And heard the voice of love ; 
The turtle thus addressed her mate, 

And soothed the listening dove : 

Our mutual bond of faith and truth 

No time shall disengage, 
Those blessings of our early youth 

Shall cheer our latest age : 

While innocence without disguise 

And constancy sincere, 
Shall fill the circles of those eyes, 

And mine can read them there ; 

Those ills that wait on all below. 

Shall ne'er be felt by me. 
Or gently felt, and only so, 

As being shared with thee. 



224 THE DOVES. 

When lightnings flash among the trees, 
Or kites are hovering near, 

I fear lest thee alone they seize, 
And know no other fear. 

'Tis then I feel myself a wife, 
• And press thy tvedded side. 
Resolved a union form'd for life 
Death never shall divide. 

But oh ! if, fickle and unchaste, 
(Forgive a transient thought) 

Thou couldst become unkind at last, 
And scorn thy present lot, 

No need of lightnings from on high, 
Or kites with cruel beak ; 

Denied the endearments of thine eye, 
This widow'd heart would break. 

Thus sang the sweet sequestered bird, 

Soft as the passing wind, 
And I recorded what I heard, 

A lesson for mankind. 



225 



A FABLE. 

A RAVEN, while with glossy breast 

Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, 

And, on her wickerwork high mounted, 

Her chickens prematurely counted 

(A fault philosophers might blame 

K quite exempted from the same), 

Enjoy'd at ease the genial day ; 

'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, 

The legislature calFd it May. 

But suddenly a wind, as high 

As ever swept a winter sky, 

Shook the young leaves about her ears. 

And fill*d her with a thousand fears, 

Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, 

And spread her golden hopes below. 

But just at eve the blowing weather 

And all her fears were hush'd together : 

Ajid now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 

'Tis over, and the brood is safe ; 

(For ravens, though, as birds of omen. 

They teach both conjurers and old women 

To tell us what is to befall. 

Can't prophesy themselves at all.) 

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, 

Who long had mark'd her airy lodge. 



226 A FABLE. 

And destined all the treasure there 
A gift to his expecting fair, 
Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, 
And bore the worthless prize away. 

MORAL. 

*Tis Providence alone secures 
In every change both mine and yours : 
Safety consists not in escape 
From dangers of a frightful shape ; 
An earthquake may be bid to spare 
The man that's strangled by a hair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread. 
Found oftenest in what least we dread, 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 



ODE TO APOLLO. 
ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN. 

Patron of all those luckless brains, 
That, to the wrong side leaning. 

Indite much metre with much pains, 
And little or no meaning. 

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, 

That water all the nations, 
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, 

In constant exhalations. 



ODE TO APOLLO. 227 

Why, stooping from the noon of daj, 

Too covetous of drink, 
Apollo, hast thou stolen away 

A poet's drop of ink ? 

Upborne into the viewless air, 

It floats a vapour now, 
Impeird through regions dense and rare 

By all the winds that blow. 

Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies. 

Combined with millions more, 
To form an iris in the skies, 

Though black and foul before. 

Illustrious drop ! and happy then 

Beyond the happiest lot. 
Of all that ever pass'd my pen. 

So soon to be forgot ! 

Phoebus, if such be thy design. 

To place it in thy bow. 
Give wit, that what is left piay shine 

With equal grace below. 



228 



A COMPARISON. 

The lapse of time and rivers is the same, 
Both speed their joumej with a restless stream ; 
The silent pace, with which they steal away, 
No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay ; 
Alike irrevocable both when past^ 
And a wide ocean swallows both at last. 
Though each resemble each in every part, 
A difference strikes at length the musing heart ; 
Streams never flow in vain ; where streams abound, 
How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd ! 
But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, 
Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind. 



ANOTHER. 

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. 

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder 

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid — [glade, 

Silent and chaste she steals along. 

Far from the world's gay bJsy 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. 



229 



THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT. 

TO MRS. (now lady) THROCKMORTON. 

Maria ! I have every good 
For thee wished many a time, 

Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, 
But never yet in rhyme. 

To wish thee fairer is no need. 
More prudent, or more sprightly. 

Or more ingenious, or more freed 
From temper flaws unsightly. 

What favour then not yet possessed 

Can I for thee require. 
In wedded love already blest, 

To thy whole heart's desire ? 

None here is happy but in part : 

Full bliss is bliss divine ; 
There dwells some wish in every heart, 

And doubtless one in thine. 

That wish on some fair future day, 
Which fate shall brightly gild, 

('Tis blameless, be it what it may) 
I wish it all fuimiU 



230 



I 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 

A FABLE. 

I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau ^ 

If birds confabulate or no ; 

'Tis clear, that thej were always able 

To hold discourse, at least in fable ; 

And e'en the child who knows no better 

Than to interpret, by the letter, 

A story of a cock and bull. 

Must have a most uncommon skull. 

It chanced then on a winter's day, 
But warm, and bright, and calm as May, 
The birds, conceiving a design 
To forestall sweet St. Valentine, 
In many an orchard, copse, and grove, 
Assembled on affairs of love, 
And with much twitter and much chatter 
Began to agitate the matter. 
At length a Bullfinch, who could boast 
More years and wisdom than the most, 

1 It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philo- 
sopher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to 
animals, should be withheld from children, as being only 
vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived 
by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses? 



PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED. 231 

Entreated, opening wide his beak, 
A moment's liberty to speak ; 
And, silence publicly enjoin'd, 
Delivered briefly thus his mind : 

My friends ! be cautious how ye treat 
The subject upon which we meet ; 
I fear we shall have winter yet. 

A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, 
With golden wing and satin poll, 

A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried 

What marriage means, thus pert replied : 
Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, 

Opposite in the apple tree. 

By his good will would keep us single 

Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, 

Or (which is likelier to befall) 

Till death exterminate us all. 

I marry without more ado ; 

My dear Dick Redcap, what say you ? 

Dick heard, and tweedhng, ogUng, bridling. 

Turning short round, strutting, and sideHng, 

Attested, glad, his approbation 

Of an immediate conjugation. 

Their sentiments so well express'd 

Influenced mightily the rest. 

All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. 
But though the birds were thus in haste, 

The leaves came on not quite so fast. 

And destiny, that sometimes bears 



232 PAIRING TIME ANnCIPJLTED. 

An aspect stem on man's affairs. 

Not altogether smiled on theirs. 

The wind, of late breathed gently forth, 

Now shiAed east, and east bj north ; 

Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, 

Gould shelter them from rain or snow, 

Stepping into their nests, they paddled. 

Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled : 

Soon every father bird and mother 

Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, 

Parted without the least regret, 

Except that they had ever met, 

And leam'd in future to be wiser, 

Than to neglect a good adviser. 

MORAL. 

Misses ! the tale that I relate 
This lesson seems to carry — 

Choose not alone a proper mate. 
But proper time to marry. 



233 



THE DOG AND THE WATEE LILY. 

170 FABLE. 

The noon was shady, and soft airs 

Swept Ouse's silent tide, 
When, 'scaped from literary cares, 

I wander'd on his side. 

My spaniel, prettiest of his race. 

And high in pedigree, 
(Two nymphs^ adom*d with every grace 

That spaniel found for me) 

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, 

Now starting into sight, 
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads 

With scarce a slower flight 

It was the time when Ouse displayed 

His lilies newly blown ; 
Their beauties I intent survey'd, 

And one I wish'd my own. 

With cane extended far I sought 

To steer it close to land ; 
But still the prize, though nearly caught, 

Escaped my eager hand. 

1 Sir Bobert Gummig^s daughters. 
VOL. L 22 



234 DOG AND WATER LILT. 

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains 
With fix'd considerate face, 

And puzzling set his puppj brains 
To comprehend the case. 

But with a cherup dear and strong 

Dispersing all his dream, 
I thence withdrew, and followed long 

The windings of the stream. 

My ramble ended, I retum'd ; 

Beau, trotting far before, 
The floating wreath again discem'd, 

And plunging lefl the shore. 

I saw him with that lily cropp'd 

Impatient swim to meet 
My quick approach, and soon he dropped 

The treasure at my feet. 

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, 
Shall hear of this thy deed : 

My dog shall mortify the pride 
Of man's superior breed : 

But chief myself I will enjoin, 

Awake at duty's call. 
To show a love as prompt as thine 

To Him who gives me all. 



\ 



235 



THE WINTER NOSEGAY. 

What nature, alas ! has denied 

To the delicate growth of our isle, 
Art has in a measure supplied. 

And winter is deck'd with a smile. 
See, Mary, what beauties I bring 

From the shelter of that sunny shed, 
Where the flowers have the charms of the spring. 

Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets. 

Where Flora is still in her prime, 
A fortress to which she' retreats 

From the cruel assaults of the clime. 
While earth wears a mantle of snow. 

These pinks are as fresh and as gay 
As the fairest and sweetest that blow 

On the beautiful bosom of May. 

See how they have safely survived 

The frowns of a gky so severe ; 
Such Mary's true love, that has lived 

Through many a turbulent year. 
The charms of the late blowing rose 

Seem'd graced with a livelier hue, 
And the winter of sorrow best shows 

The truth of a friend such as you. 



236 



THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE 

PLANT. 

An oyster, cast upon the shore, 
Was heard, though never heard before, 
Complaining in a speech well worded, 
And worthy thus to be recorded — 

Ah, hapless wretch ! condemned to dwell 
For ever in my native shell ; 
Ordain'd to move when others please, 
Not for my own content or ease ; 
But toss'd and buffeted about. 
Now in the water and now out. 
'Twere better to be bom a stone. 
Of ruder shape, and feeling none, 
Than with a tenderness like mme. 
And sensibilities so fine ! 
I envy that unfeeling shrub, 
Fast rooted against every rub. 
The plant he meant grew not far off. 
And felt the sneer with scorn enough : 
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, 
And with asperity replied : 

When, cry the botanists, and stare. 
Did plants call'd sensitive grow there ? 
No matter when — a poet's muse is 
To make them grow just where she chooses. 

You shapeless nothing in a dish. 



THE POET, OYSTER, ETC. 237 

You that are but almost a fish, 

I scorn your coarse insinuation, 

And have most plentiful occasion 

To wish mjself the rock I view, 

Or such another dolt as you : 

For many a grave and learned clerk. 

And many a gay unlettered spark. 

With curious touch examines me. 

If I can feel as well as he ; 

And when I bend, retire, and shrink. 

Says — ^Well, 'tis more than one would think I 

Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't !) 

In being touch'd, and crying — Don't ! 

A poet, in his evening walk, 
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. 
And your fine sense, he said, and yours, 
Whatever evil it endures. 
Deserves not, if so soon offended. 
Much to be pitied or commended. 
Disputes, though short, are far too long, 
Where both alike are in the wrong ; 
Your feelings in their full amount 
Are all upon your own account. 

You, in your grotto-work enclosed, 
Complain of being thus exposed ; 
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat 
Save when the knife is at your throat, 
Wherever driven by wind or tide. 
Exempt from every ill beside. 

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, 
Who reckon every touch a blemish. 



288 THE POET, OYSTER, ETC. 

If all the plants that can be found 
Embellishing the scene around. 
Should droop and wither where thej grow, 
You would not feel at all — ^not you. 
The noblest minds their virtue prove 
By pity, sympathy, and love : 
These, these are feehngs truly fine, 
And prove their owner half divine. 

His censure reach'd them as he dealt it, 
And each by shrinking showed he felt it. 



THE SHRUBBERY. 

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. 

Oh, 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 any thing could please. 

But fix'd unalterable care 

Foregoes not what she feels within. 
Shows the same sadness every where. 

And slights the season and the scene. 



THE SHRUBBERY. 239 

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 tread 
This moss-grown alley musing, slow ; 

They seek like me the secret shade. 
But not like me to nourish woe ! 

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste 
Alike admonish not to roam ; i 

These tell me of enjoyments past, 
And those of sorrows yet to cctme. 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE 

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OP THE 

HARRIED STATE. 

The lady thus addressed her spouse— 
What a mere dungeon is this house ! 
By no meaps large enough ; and was it, 
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet. 
Those hangings with their worn out graces, 
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces. 
Are such an antiquated scene, 
They overwhelm me with the spleen. 



240 MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 

Sir Humphrej, shooting in the dark, 
Makes answer quite beside the mark : 
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, 
' Engaged myself to be at home. 
And shall expect him at the door 
Precisely when the clock strikes four. 

You are so deaf, the lady cried, 
(And raised her voice, and frown'd beside) 
You are so sadly deaf, my dear, 
Wliat shall I do to make you hear ? 

Dismiss poor Harry ! he replies ; 
Some people are more nice than wise, 
For one slight trespass all this stir ? 
What if he did ride whip and spur, 
'Twas but a mile — ^your favourite horse 
Will never look one hair the worse. 

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing — 
Child ! I am rather hard of hearing — 
Yes, truly— one must scream and bawl : 
I tell you, you can't hear at all ! 
Then, with a voice exceeding low, 
No matter if you hear or no. 

Alas ! and is domestic strife, 
That sorest ill of human life, 
A plague so little to be fear'd, 
As to be wantonly incurred. 
To gratify a fretful passion, 
On every trivial provocation ? 
The kindest and the happiest pair 
Will find occasion to forbear ; 



MUTUAL FORBEARANCE. 241 

And something every day they live 
To pity, and perhaps forgive. 
But if infirmities, that fall 
In common to the lot of all, 
A blemish or a sense impaired, 
Are crimes so little to be spared, 
Then farewell all that must create 
The comfort of the wedded state ; 
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, 
And tumult, and intestine war. 

The love that cheers life's latest stage, 
Proof against sickness and old age. 
Preserved by virtue from declension, 
Becomes not weary of attention ; 
But lives, when that exterior grace, 
Which first inspired the flame, decays. 
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind. 
To faults compassionate or blind, 
And will with sympathy endure 
Those evils it would gladly cure : 
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression 
Shows love to be a mere profession ; 
Proves that the heart is none of his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 



242 



THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 

Forced from home and all its pleasures, 

Afric's coast I left forlorn ; 
To increase a stranger's treasures, 

O'er the raging billows borne. 
Men from England bought and sdld me, 

Paid my price in paltry gold ; 
But, slave though they have enroll'd me. 

Minds are never to be sold. 

Still in thought as fi^e as ever. 

What are England's rights, I ask. 
Me from my delights to sever, 

Me to torture, me to task ? 
Fleecy locks and black complexion 

Cannot forfeit nature's claim ; 
Skins may diiFer, but affection 

Dwells in white and black the same. 

Why did all-creating nature 

Make the plant for which we toil ? 
Sighs must fan it, tears must water. 

Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
Think, ye masters iron-hearted. 

Lolling at your jovial boards. 
Think how many backs have smarted 

For the sweets your cane affords. 



THE negro's complaint. ' 243 

Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 

Is there one who reigns on high ? 
Has he bid you buy and sell us. 

Speaking from his throne the sky ? 
Ask him, if your knotted scourges. 

Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
Are the means that duty urges 

Agents of his will to use ? 

Hark ! he answers — wild tornadoes, 

Strewing yonder sea with wrecks ; 
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 

Are the voice with which he speaks. 
He, foreseeing what vexations 

Afric's sons should undergo, 
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 

Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 

By our blood in Afric wasted. 

Ere our necks received the chain ; 
By the miseries that we tasted, 

Crossing in your barks the main ; 
By our sufferings, since ye brought us 

To the man-degrading mart ; 
All sustain'd by patience, taught us 

Only by a broken heart ; 

Deem our nation brutes no longer, 

Till some reason ye shall find 
Worthier of regard, and stronger 

Than the color of our kind. 



244 THE negro's complaint. 

Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
Tamish all your boasted powers, 

Prove that you have human feelings, 
Ere you proudly question ours ! 



I 



PITY FOR POOR AFRICANS. 

Video meliora proboqne, 
Deteriora sequor. 

I OWN I am shock'd at the purchase of slaves, 
And fear those, who buy them and sell them. 
are knaves ; [groans, 

What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and 
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones. 

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum. 
For how could we do without sugar and rum ? 
Especially sugar, so needful we see ? 
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea ! 

Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes 
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains : 
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will. 
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still. 

If foreigners likewise would give up the trade, 
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said; 
But, while they get riches by purchasing blacks, 
Pray tell me why we may not also go snacks ? 



PITT FOR POOR AFRICANS. 245 

Your scruples and arguments bring to my mind 
A story so pat, you may think it is coin'd, 
On purpose to answer you, out of my mint ; 
liut I can assure you I saw it in print. 

Jl youngster at school, more sedate than the rest, 
XIad once his integrity put to the test ; 
His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, 
And ask'd him to go and assist in the job. 

He was shock'd, sir, like you, and answer'd — 
« Oh no ! [don't go ; 

What ! rob our good neighbour ! I pray you 
Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread, 
Then think of his children, for they must be fed." 

" You speak very fine, and you look very grave, 
But apples we want, and apples we'll have ; 
If you will go with us, you shall have a share, 
If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear." 

They spoke, and Tom ponder'd — "I see they 

will go : 
Poor man I what a pity to injure him so ! 

Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, 

But staying behind will do him no good. 

" If the matter depended alone upon me, [tree ; 
His apples might hang till they dropp'd from the 
But since they will take them, I think I'll go too. 
He will lose none by me, though I get a few." 



246 THE MORNING BREAM. , 

His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, 
And went with his comrades the apples to seize; 
He blamed and protested, but join'd in the plan: 
He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man. 



THE MORNING DREAM. 

'TwAS in the glad season of spring, 

Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
I dream'd what I cannot but sing, 

So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
I dream'd that, on ocean afloat. 

Far hence to the westward I sail'd. 
While the billows high lifted the boat, 

And the fresh blowing breeze never fail'd. 

In the steerage a woman I saw, 

Such at least was the form that she wore, 
Whose beauty impress'd me with awe. 

Ne'er taught me by woman before. 
She sat, and a shield at her side 

Shed light, like a sun on the waves, 
And smiling divinely, she cried — 

" I go to make freemen of slaves." 

Then raising her voice to a strain 
The sweetest that ear ever heard. 

She sung of the slave's broken chain. 
Wherever her glory appear'd. 



THE MORNING BREAM. 247 

Some clouds, which had over us hung, 
Fled, chased by her melody clear, 

And methought while she liberty sung, 
'Twas liberty only to hear. 

Thus swiftly dividing the flood. 

To a slave-cultured island we came, 
Where a demon, her enemy, stood — 

Oppression his terrible name. 
In his hand, as the sign of his sway, 

A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
And stood looking out for his prey 

From Africa's sorrowful shore. 

But soon as approaching the land. 

That goddesslike woman he view'd. 
The scourge he let fall from his hand, 

With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
I saw him both sicken and die. 

And the moment the monster expired. 
Heard shouts, that ascended the sky, 

From thousands with rapture inspired. 

Awaking, how could I but muse 

At what such a dream should betide ? 
But soon my ear caught the glad news, 

Which served my weak thought for a guide ; 
That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves 

For the hatred she ever has shown 
To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves. 

Resolves to have none of her own. 



248 



THE DIVERTING mSTORY OF JOHN GILPDf. 

Showing how he went farther than he intended, 
and came safe home again. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A trainband captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, 
Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

To-morrow is our wedding day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto 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 ride 

On horseback after we. 

He soon replied, I do admire 

Of womankind but one. 
And you are she, my dearest dear. 

Therefore it shall be done. 



JOHN GILPIN. 249 

I am a linendraper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 
And mj good friend the calender 

Will lend his horse to go. 

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 kiss'd his loving wife ; 

Overjoyed 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 allow'd 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 

Where they did all get in ; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. 

Were never folks so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 
VOL. I. 23 



250 THE HISTORY OF 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride, 
But soon came down again ; 

For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 

His joumej to begin. 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three 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. 

Twas long before the customers 
Were suited to their mind, 

When Betty screaming came down st^rs 
The wine is left behind ! 

Grood lack ! quoth he — jet 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. 



JOHN GILPIN. 251 

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 be 

Equipped from top to toe. 
His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 

He manfullj did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed. 
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 

Beneath his well shod feet. 
The snorting beast began to trot, 

Which gall'd him in his seat 

So, fair and softly, John he cried. 

But John he cried in vain ; 
That trot became a gallop soon. 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright, 
He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 



252 THE HISTORY OF 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before, 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did 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, 

TUl, loop and button failing both. 
At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung ; 
A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 

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 ! 



JOHN GILPIN. 253 

And still as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view, 
How in a trice the turnpike men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's f anks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem'd to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced ; 
For all might see the bottle necks 

Still dangling at his waist. 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols did he play. 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay ; 

And there he threw the wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop. 

Or a wild goose at play. 



254 THE HISTORY OF 

At Edmonton bis loving wife 

From the balcony spied 
Her tender busband, wondering much 

To see bow be did ride. 

Stop, stop, Jobn Gilpin ! — Here's the house, 

They all at once did cry ; 
The dinner waits, and we are tired : 

Said Gilpin — So am 1 1 

But yet bis horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there ; 
For why ? — ^his owner bad a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So like an arrow swift be flew, 

Shot by an archer strong ; 
So did he fly — ^which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin out of breath, 

And sore against bis will, 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood stilL 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbour in such trim, 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate. 

And thus accosted him : 



JOHN GILPIN. 255 

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 calender 

In 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 find 

His friend in merry pin, 
Retum'd him not a single word. 

But to the house went in ; 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; 

A wig that flow'd behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus show'd his ready wit, 
My head is twice as big as yours. 

They therefore needs must fit. 



256 ■ THE HISTOBT OF 

But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face ; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be 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 ass 

Did sing most loud and dear ; 

Whereat his horse did snort^ as he 

Had heard a lion roar, 
And gallopp'd off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig : 

He lost them sooner than at first. 
For why ? — ^they were too big. 



I 






JOHN GILPIN. 257 

Now mistress Gilpin, when she saw 

Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull'd out half a crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said. 

That drove them to the Bell, 
This shall be yours, when you bring back 

My husband safe and welL 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain ; 
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 away 

Went postboy at his heels. 
The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The 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 : — 



258 THE HISTORY OP JOHN GILPIN. 

Stop thief I stop thief! — a highwayman! 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew 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 stopp'd till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the king. 

And Gilpin, long live he ; 
And when he next doth ride abroad. 

May I be there to see ! 



259 



THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOWWOBM. 

A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his soBg, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 
Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might, 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When, looking eagerly around, 
He spied far off, upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark. 
And knew the glowworm by his spark ; 
So stooping down from hawthorn top. 
He thought to put him in his crop. 
The worm, aware of his intent. 
Harangued him thus, right eloquent — 
Did you admire my lamp, quoth he, 
As much as I your minstrelsy. 
You would abhor to do me wrong 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the selfsame Power Divine 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine j 
That you with music, I with light, 
Might beautify and cheer the night. 
The songster heard his short oration. 
And warbling out his approbation. 



260 NIOHTINGALE AND GLOWWORM. 

Released him, as my story tells, 
And found a supper somewhere else. 

Hence jarring sectaries may learn 
Their real interest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brother, 
And worry and devour each other ; 
But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
Till life's poor transient night is spent. 
Respecting in each other's case 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

Those Christians best deserve the name 
Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
Peace both the duty and the prize 
Of him that creeps and him that flies. 



261 



AN 

EPISTLE TO AN AITLICTED PROTESTANT 

LADY IN FRANCE. 

MADAM, 

A stranger's purpose in these lays 
Is to congratulate, and not to praise. 
To give the creature the Creator's due 
Were sin in me, and an offence to you. 
From man to man, or e'en to woman paid, 
Praise is the medium of a knavish trade, 
A coin by craft for folly's use design'd. 
Spurious, and only current with the blind. 

The path of sorrow, and that path alone. 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ; 
No traveller ever reach'd that blest abode. 
Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
The world may dance along the flowery plain, 
Cheer'd as they go by many a sprightly strain, 
Where nature has her mossy velvet spread. 
With unshod feet they yet securely tread, 
Admonish'd, scorn the caution and the friend, 
Bent all on pleasure, heedless of its end. 
But he, who knew what human hearts would prove, 
How slow to learn the dictates of his love. 
That, hard by nature and of stubborn will, 
A life of ease would make them harder still, 



262 EPISTLE TO A LADY IK FRANCE. 

In pity to the souls his grace designed 
To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
Call'd for a cloud to darken all their years, 
And said, ^ Go, spend them in the vale of tears." 
O balmy gales of soul-reviving air ! 
O salutary streams, that murmur there ! 
These flowing &om the fount of grace above, 
Those breathed fix)m lips of everlasting love. 
The flinty soil indeed their feet annoys ; 
Chill blasts of trouble nip their springing joys ; 
An envious world will interpose its frown, 
To mar delights superior to its own ; 
And many a pang, experienced still within, 
Reminds them of their hated inmate. Sin : 
But ills of every shape and every name, 
Transform'd to blessings, miss their cruel aim ; 
And every moment's calm, that soothes the breast, 
Is given in earnest of eternal rest. 

Ah, be not sad, although thy lot be cast 
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste ! 
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear, 
But the chief Shepherd even there is near ; 
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain 
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ; 
Thy tears all issue from a source divine. 
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine — 
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found, 
And drought on all the drooping herbs around. 



263 



TO THE REV. W. CAWTHORNE UNWIN. 

Unwin, I should but ill repay 

The kindness of a friend, 
Whose worth deserves as warm a lay, 

As ever friendship penn'd, 
Thy name omitted in a page, 
That would reclaim a vicious age. 

A union form'd, as mine with thee, 

Not rashly, or in sport. 
May be as fervent in degree. 

And faithful in its sort, 
And may as rich in comfort prove, 
As that of true fraternal love. 

The bud inserted m the rind, 

The bud of peach or rose, 
Adorns, though differing in its kind. 

The stock whereon it grows. 
With flower as sweet, dt fruit as fisdr, 
As if produced by nature there. 

Not rich, I render what I may, , 

I seize thy name in haste, 
And place it in this first essay. 

Lest this should prove the last 
'Tis where it should be — in a plan. 
That holds in view the good of man. 



264 TO THE KEY. W. C. UNWIN. 

The poet's lyre, to fix bis fame. 
Should be the poet's heart ; 

Affection lights a brighter flame 
Than ever bhized by art. 

No muses on these lines attend, 

I sink the poet in the friend. 



END OF VOL. I. 



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