I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill; Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw,
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return, and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreat from care, that never must be mine, How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labour, with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly!
How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round, And still as each repeated pleasure tir'd, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd; The dancing pair, that simply sought renown By holding out to tire each other down: The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village sports like these With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms-bu all these charms are fled!
BUT where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know, The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease. The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet perhaps if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind : As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even.
WILLIAM COWPER. BORN, 1731; DIED, 1800.
THAT PHILOSOPHY WHICH STOPS AT SECONDARY CAUSES, REPROVED.
HAPPY the man, who sees a God employed In all the good and ill that chequer life! Resolving all events, with their effects
And manifold results, into the will
And arbitration wise of the Supreme.
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend
The least of our concerns, (since from the least The greatest oft originate), could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan,
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth, Philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks, And having found his instruments, forgets Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men
That live an atheist life; involves the heaven In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast.
Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws, their sure effects
Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that Nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means
To drown it? What! is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Formed for his use, and ready at his will?
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve, ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught,
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all.
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 carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employed, Though mangl'd, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbuttoned, 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 dexterous 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. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway We feel it even in age, and at our latest day.
HE is the happy man, whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come; Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects, more illustrious in her view; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer birds
Pursuing gilded flies, and such he deems Her honours, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss,
Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a world unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed.
BEILBY PORTEUS.
BORN, 1731; DIED, 1808.
FIRST envy, eldest-born of hell, embrued
Her hands in blood, and taught the sons of men To make a death which nature never made,
And God abhorred; with violence rude to break The thread of life, ere half its length was run, And rob a wretched brother of his being. With joy Ambition saw, and soon improved The execrable deed. 'Twas not enough By subtle fraud to snatch a single life; Puny impiety! Whole kingdoms fell To sate the lust of power: more horrid still, The foulest stain and scandal of our nature Became its boast. One murder made a villain: Millions a hero. Princes were privileged To kill, and numbers sanctified the crime. Ah! why will kings forget that they are men? And men that they are brethren? Why delight In human sacrifice? Why burst the ties Of nature, that should knit their souls together In one soft bond of amity and love?
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