While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home. O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A pris'ner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group, The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; No powder'd pert, proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound, The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page by one Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still; Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry: the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the task proceeds. The volume closed, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal: Such as the mistress of the world once found Delicious, when her patriots of high note, Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors, And under an old oak's domestic shade, Enjoy'd, spare feast! a radish and an egg. Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull, Nor such as with a frown forbids the play Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth: Nor do we madly, like an impious world, Who deem religion frenzy, and the God, That made them, an intruder on their joys, Start at his awful name, or deem his praise A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone, Exciting oft our gratitude and love,
While we retrace with Memory's pointing wand, That calls the past to our exact review, The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, The disappointed foe, deliverance found Unlook'd for, life preserved, and peace restored, Fruits of omnipotent, eternal love.
Oh, evenings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd The Sabine bard. Oh, evenings, I reply, More to be prized and coveted than yours, As more illumined, and with nobler truths, That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
Bells at a distance-Fine Noon in Winter-Meditation better than Books.
THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course) The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always short; the rugged path, And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn, Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length. Yet feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revoked, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience, as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend, A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and mustering all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love; Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might
And utter now and then an awful voice, But had a blessing in its darkest frown, Threatening at once and nourishing the plant. We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allured By every gilded folly, we renounced His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent That converse, which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother too, That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed The playful humour; he could now endure, (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)
And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth, Till time has stolen away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss, And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more. The night was winter in his roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;
And through the trees I view the embattled tower, Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though movable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd: Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head,
And Learning wiser grow without his books.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.* TO THE MARCH IN SCIPIO.
TOLL for the brave!
The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
[* Cowper wrote this very noble poem to induce Government to the attempt of weighing up poor Kempenfelt's veszel. If song could have induced inen to the trial, this surely should have had the effect. The Royal George has been weighed up since the poet wrote, by the ingenuity of Colonel Iasley, but in a less noble way.]
His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done. It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! could a mind, imbued With truth from heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience yet Unpurified by an authentic act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Loved not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball Which babes might play with; and the thievish
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thine embryo vastness, at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepare The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!
Thou fell'st mature; and, in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact;
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig.
Who lived when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak,
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but, at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.
By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right- Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast-king of the woods;
And Time hath made thee what thou art-a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks
That grazed it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.
The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest waged For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour which had, far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing naught but the scoop'd rind that
A huge throat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid,
While thus through all the stages thou hast Though all the superstructure, by the tooth push'd
Of treeship-first a seedling, hid in grass;
Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant-bulk
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens, globose-till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.
What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all
That we account most durable below! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain, now the heat Transmitting cloudness, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds- Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life
In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them.
Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain
The force that agitates not unimpair'd; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe.
Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root-and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck
Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms,
Pulverized of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself!
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent
Long since; and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some
A splinter'd stump bleach'd to a snowy white; And some, memorial none where once they grew. Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The Spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine.
But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform Myself the oracle, and will discourse
In my own ear such matter as I may.
One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures-with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties-assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind
THE twentieth year is well nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah would that this might be the last!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow"Twas my distress that brought thee low,
Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more;
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
TO MY COUSIN ANNE BODHAM.
ON RECEIVING FROM HER A NETWORK PURSE, MADE BY HERSELF,
My gentle Anne, whom heretofore, When I was young, and thou no more
Than plaything for a nurse,
I danced and fondled on my knee, A kitten both in size and glee, I thank thee for my purse.
Gold pays the worth of all things here; But not of Love;-that gem's too dear For richest rogues to win it:
I, therefore, as a proof of Love, Esteem thy present far above
The best things kept within it.
LINES ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.
On that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same, that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who biddest me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun! Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such ?-It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass iny lips no more!
(Mrs. Unwin) one of the most touching, and certainly the most widely-known of all his poems, for it has been read by thousands who have never perused "The Task," nor perhaps seen or heard of any other of his works.-SOUTHET, Life of Cowper, vol. iii. p. 150.]
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak,and stroke my head, and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.— But no-what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore,
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd— Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet oh the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise- The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
[Born, 1732. Died, 1802.]
ERASMUS DARWIN was born at Elton, near Newark, in Nottinghamshire, where his father was a private gentleman. He studied at St. John's College, Cambridge, and took the degree of bachelor in medicine; after which, he went to Edinburgh, to finish his medical studies. Having taken a physician's degree at that university, he settled in his profession at Litchfield; and, by a bold and successful display of his skill in one of the first cases to which he was called, established his practice and reputation. About a year after his arrival, he married a Miss Howard, the daughter of a respectable inhabitant of Litchfield, and by that connection strengthened his interest in the
place. He was, in theory and practice, a rigid enemy to the use of wine, and of all intoxicating liquors; and, in the course of his practice, was regarded as a great promoter of temperate habits among the citizens: but he gave a singular instance of his departure from his own theory, within a few years after his arrival in the very place where he proved the apostle of sobriety. Having one day joined a few friends who were going on a water-party, he got so tipsy after a cold collation, that, on the boat approaching Nottingham, he jumped into the river and swam ashore. The party called to the philosopher to return; but he walked on deliberately, in his
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