William Cowper. 1731-1800. (Manual, p. 382.)
There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
He finds his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colour'd like his own; and having power T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplored As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price,
I had much rather be myself the slave,
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him.
I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,
And charged, perhaps, with venom, that intrudes,
A visitor unwelcome into scenes
Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,
The chamber, or refectory, may die :
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so when, held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field: There they are privileged; and he that hunts Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong, Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm, Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode. The sum is this: If man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all-the meanest things that are, As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all. Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too.
242. PLEASURES OF A WINTER EVENING. Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such his evening who, with shining face, Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed And bored with elbow-points through both his sides, Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage: Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb, And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles. This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break; What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns? Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge, That tempts Ambition. On the summit see The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels, Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dexterous jerk soon twists him down, And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence, in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take; The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs, Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts, However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise: The dearth of information and good sense, That it foretells us, always comes to pass. Cataracts of declamation thunder here; There forests of no meaning spread the page, In which all comprehension wanders lost ; While fields of pleasantry amuse us there With merry descants on a nation's woes. The rest appears a wilderness of strange But gay confusion; roses for the checks, And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald, Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs, Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wondering for his bread. 'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured car. Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced To some secure and more than mortal height, That liberates and exempts me from them all.
243. FROM THE TIROCINIUM.'
THE PLAY PLACE OF EARLY DAYS. Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone, That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carv'd subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again.
When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief. "Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
"Rome shall perish-write that word- In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt.
"Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground— Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
"Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name ;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
"Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
"Regions Cæsar never knew Thy posterity shall sway; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they."
Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow; Rush'd to battle, fought, and died; Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
"Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due ;
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you."
245. ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
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; 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.
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