And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Cæsar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving haughty world, That as she sweeps him with her whistling silks Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cipher in the works of God," Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of what she little dreams. Perhaps she owes Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac-like, the solitary saint
Walks forth to meditate at even-tide,
And think on her, who thinks not for herself. Forgive him, then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seek his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an encumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits, and rendering none.
His sphere though humble, if that humble spere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of woe; Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted, place. The man, whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise; But he may boast, what few that win it can, That, if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall.
Polite Refinement offers him in vain
Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well, The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, And be not costly more than of true worth, He puts it on, and, for decorum sake, Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived; aware, that what is base No polish can make sterling; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dress'd, Like an unburied carcase trick'd with flowers, Is but a garnish'd nuisance, fitter far For cleanly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renown'd in ancient song; not vex'd with care Or stain'd with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful to the end. So glide my life away! and so, at last, My share of duties decently fulfill'd, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat,
Beneath the turf that I have often trod.
It shall not grieve me then, that once when call d To dress a sofa with the flowers of verse,
I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,
With that light task; but soon, to please her more, Whom flowers alone I knew would little please. Let fall the unfinish'd wreath, and roved for fruit: Roved far, and gathered much: some harsh, 'tis
Pick'd from the thorns and briars of reproof, But wholesome, well-digested; grateful some
To palates, that can taste immortal truth; Insipid else, and sure to be depised. But all is in His hand, whose praise I seek. vain the poet sings, and the world hears, If he regard not, though divine the theme. "Tis not in artful measures, in the chime And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,
To charm His ear, whose eye is on the heart: Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain, Whose approbation-prosper even mine.
Κεφαλαιον δη παιδειας ορθη τροφη.-Plato. Αρχη πολιτείας απασης νέων τροφα.-Diog. Laert.
To the Rev. William Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in Essex, the tutor of his two sons, the following poem, recommending private tuition in preference to an edu cation at school, is inscribed, by his affectionate friend, Olney, Nov. 6, 1784. WILLIAM COWPER.
Ir is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, the associate of a mind Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of Almighty skill, Framed for the service of a freeborn will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own. For her the memory fills her ample page With truths pour'd down from every distant age; For her amasses an unbounded store,
The wisdom of great nations, now no more;
Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil; When copiously supplied, then most enlarged; Still to be fed, and not to be surcharg'd. For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, The present muse of every pensive mind, Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. At her command winds rise, and waters roar, Again she lays them slumbering on the shore, With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies, Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise.
For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife, That Grace and Nature have to wage through life, Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill,
Appointed sage precepter to the Will, Condemns, approves, and, with a faithful voice, Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her power on every shore he laves? Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze : Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.- "Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced, Had not its Author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause,
« AnteriorContinuar » |