The Rating of Poets • The Rating of Poems
Poem by William Cowper
Retirement
Hackney'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 rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd, And calls a creature form'd for God alone, For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own, Calls him away from selfish ends and aims, From what debilitates and what inflames, From cities humming with a restless crowd, 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 cluster'd close around, And works of God 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, Remind 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 power 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 born to obey. Then sweet to muse upon his skill display’d (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, express’d with ease, Where unassisted sight no beauty sees, The shapely limb and lubricated joint, Within the small dimensions of a point, 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 hatch’d, 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 size, More hideous foes than fancy can devise; With helmet-heads and dragon-scales adorn’d, The mighty myriads, now securely scorn’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; The sun, a world whence other worlds drink light, The crescent moon, the diadem of night: Stars countless, each in his appointed place, Fast 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 universal frame, thus wondrous fair; Thy power divine, and bounty beyond thought, Adored and praised in all that thou has 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 recompence 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 shew? 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; 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, Earth 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, God alike pervades And fills the world of traffic and the shades, And may be fear’d amidst the busiest scenes, Or scorn’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 above all, Ourselves, and our recovery from our fall. But leisure, silence, and a mind released From anxious thoughts how wealth may be increased, How to secure, in some propitious hour The point of interest or the post of power, A soul serene, and equally retired From 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 follow 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; Scorn’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; 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, Whate’er 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 array’d, 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 wears, 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, Next to that power who form’d thee, and sustains, Be 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 In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and lays Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays, But does a mischief while she lends a grace, Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace; So love, that clings around the noblest minds, 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 wish 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! 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) Risk 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 with harmonious streams, Soft airs, nocturnal vigils, and day-dreams, 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 truth 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, 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 resembles 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 God; And such emollients as his friends could spare, Friends such as his for modern 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 sting 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, To assuage the throbbings of the fester’d part, And staunch 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, God 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 God 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 day-spring, 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, Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like thine: Yet seek him, in his favour life is found, All bliss beside—a shadow or a sound: Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull earth, 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 overlook’d 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 exclaims, Sick of a thousand disappointed aims), My patrimonial treasure and my pride, Beneath your shades your grey possessor hide, Receive me, languishing for that repose The servant of the public 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 familiar, 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 friend, Were witnesses how cordially I press’d His undissembling virtue to my breast; Receive me now, not uncorrupt as then, Nor guiltless of corrupting other men, But versed in arts that, while they seem to stay A falling empire, hasten its decay. To the fair haven of my native home, The wreck of what I was, fatigued, I come; For once I can approve the patriot’s voice, And make the course he recommends my choice: We meet at last in one sincere desire, His wish and mine both prompt me to retire. ‘Tis done—he steps into the welcome chaise, Lolls at his ease behind four handsome bays, That whirl away from business and debate The disencumber’d Atlas of the state. Ask not the boy, who, when the breeze of morn First shakes the glittering drops from every thorn, Unfolds his flock, then under bank or bush Sits linking cherry-stones, or platting rush, How fair is Freedom?—he was always free: To carve his rustic name upon a tree, To snare the mole, or with ill-fashion’d hook To draw the incautious minnow from the brook, Are life’s prime pleasures in his simple view, His flock the chief concern he ever knew; She shines but little in his heedless eyes, The good we never miss we rarely prize: But ask the noble drudge in state affairs, Escaped from office and its constant cares, What charms he sees in Freedom’s smile express’d, In freedom lost so long, now repossess’d; The tongue whose strains were cogent as commands, 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 spreads Its cooling vapour o’er the dewy meads, Downs, that almost escape the inquiring eye, That melt and fade into the distant sky, Beauties he lately slighted as he pass’d, Seem all created since he travell’d last. Master of all the enjoyments he design’d, No rough annoyance rankling 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, Slips 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; Nor 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 rest 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 nowhere 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 thee more for being new. This observation, as it chanced, not made, Or, if the thought occurr’d, not duly weigh’d, 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; 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 collected 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, They 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 compress’d, 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 shew more? A sense of elegance we rarely find The portion of a mean or vulgar mind, And ignorance of better things makes man, Who cannot much, rejoice in what he can; And he, that deems his leisure well bestow’d, In contemplation of a turnpike-road, Is occupied as well, employs his hours As wisely, and as much improves his powers, As he that slumbers in pavilions graced With all the charms of an accomplish’d taste. Yet hence, alas! insolvencies; and hence The unpitied victim of ill-judged expense, From all his wearisome engagements freed, Shakes hands with business, and retires indeed. Your prudent grandmammas, ye modern belles, Content with Bristol, Bath, and Tunbridge Wells, When health required it, would consent to roam, Else more attach’d to pleasures found at home; But now alike, gay widow, virgin, wife, Ingenious to diversify dull life, In coaches, chaises, caravans, and hoys, Fly to the coast for daily, nightly joys, And all, impatient of dry land, agree With one consent to rush into the sea. Ocean exhibits, fathomless and broad, Much of the power and majesty of God. He swathes about the swelling of the deep, That shines and rests, as infants smile and sleep; Vast as it is, it answers as it flows The breathings of the lightest air that blows; Curling and whitening over all the waste, 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, Oh, 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 finish’d plan without a fault, The seas globose and huge, the o’er-arching vault, Earth’s millions daily fed, a world employ’d In gathering plenty yet to be enjoy’d, Till gratitude grew vocal in the praise Of God, beneficent in all his ways; Graced with such wisdom, how would beauty shine! 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. 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 retreats, 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 unconcern’d and gay, Curried his nag and look’d another way; Convinced at last, upon a nearer view, ‘Twas he, the same, the very Jack he knew, O’erwhelm’d at once with wonder, grief, and joy, 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 found 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. ‘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 he has bestow’d, He proves, less happy than his favour’d 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 reign; Nor such as useless conversation breeds, 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 entrusted talent, or a toy? Is there, as reason, conscience, Scripture say, Cause to provide for a great future day, When, earth’s assign’d duration at an end, Man shall be summon’d, and the dead attend? The trumpet—will it sound? the curtain rise? And shew 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 employ’d 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 enlighten’d 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. An idler is a watch that wants both 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 shew; Nor his who, for the bane of thousands born, Built God a church, and laugh’d his Word to scorn, Skilful alike to seem devout and just, And stab religion with a sly side-thrust; Nor those of learn’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 in 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; 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 them all)— Friends, 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 odd, The love of virtue, and the fear of God! Such friends prevent what else would soon succeed, A temper rustic as the life we lead, 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! 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, Or sought with energy, must fill the void. Oh, sacred art! to which alone life owes Its happiest seasons, and a peaceful close, Scorn’d in a world, indebted to that scorn For 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; These, and a thousand plagues that haunt the breast, 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. Hear the sweet accents of his tuneful 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 martyrs 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, Ring 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. Me poetry (or, rather, notes that aim Feebly and vainly at poetic fame) Employs, shut out from more important views, Fast by the banks of the slow-winding Ouse; Content if, thus sequester’d, I may raise A monitor’s, though not a poet’s, praise, And, while I teach an art too little known, To close life wisely, may not waste my own.
William Cowper
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