O
HAPPY fhades! to me unbleft,
Friendly to peace, but not to me;
How ill the fcene that offers reft,

And heart that cannot reft, agree! This glaffy ftream, that fpreading pine, Thofe alders quiv'ring to the breeze, Might foothe a foul lefs hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please. But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what the feels within; Shews the fame fadnets ev'ry where,

And flights the feafon and the scene. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, While peace poffefs'd thefe filent bow'rs, Her animating mile withdrawn,

Hath loft its beauties and its pow'rs, The faint or moralift should tread

This mofs-grown alley, mufing flow;
They feck, like me, the fecret fhade,

But not, like me, to nourish woe.
Me fruitful fcenes and profpects waste
Alike admonish not to roam,
Thefe tell me of enjoyments past,
And thofe of forrows vet to come.

The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occafion to forbear,

And fomething ev'ry day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive.
But if infirmities that fall

In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a fenfe impair'd,
Are crimes fo little to be fpar'd,
Then farewel all that muft create
The comfort of the wedded state:
Inftead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and inteftine war.
The love that cheers life's lateft ftage,
Proof against fickness and old age,
Preferv'd by virtue from declenfion,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives when that exterior grace
Which firft infpir'd the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compaffionate or blind,
And will with fympathy endure
Thofe evils it would gladly cure.
But angry, coarfe, and harth expreffion
Shews love to be a mere profeflion,
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or foon expels him if it is.
The Winter Nofgur.

COWPER.

the Married State.

COWPER.

THE Lady tus addrefs'd her spoute

What a mere dungeon is t is houre!
By no means large enough; and, was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet,
Thofe hangings with their worn-out graces,.
Long beards, long nofes, and pale faces,
Are fuch an antiquated fcene,
They overwhelm me with the fpleen.

Sir Humphry, fhooting in the dark,
Makes anfwer quite befide the mark :
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engag'd myfelf to be at home,
And hall expect him at the door
Precifely when the clock ftrikes four.

You are fo deaf, the Lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd befide)
You are fo fadly deaf, my dear,
What fhall I do to make you hear?

Difmifs poor Harry! he replies,
Some people are more nice than wife;
For one flight trespass all this stir!
What if I did ride whip and fpur,
Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horfe
Will never lock one hair the worse.-
Well, I proteft 'tis paft all bearing!-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing.-
Yes, truly—one must scream and bawl;
1 tell you, you can't hear at all.
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas and is domeftic ftrife,
That foreft ill of human life,
A plague fo little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd;
To gratify a fretful pallion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation ?

To the delicate growth of our ifle, Art has in a meafure fupplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that funny fhed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the fpring, Through abroad they are frozen and dead, 'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian fweets,

Where Flora is ftill in her prime, A fortrefs to which the retreats,

From the cruel affaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of fnow,

The pinks are as fresh and as gay
As the faireft and fweeteft that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have fafely surviv'd

The frowns of a sky fo fevere,
Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late blowing rofe
Seem grac'd with a livelier hue,
And the winter of forrow beft fhews
The truth of a friend fuch as you.
COWPER

Loadicea, an Ode.
WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Sage, beneath a spreading oak,
Sat the Druid, hoay chief,
Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:
Princefs! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs, 'Tis because refentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome

Rome shall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has fpilt;
Perith hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states,
Soon her pride fhall kifs the ground-
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.
Other Romans fhall arife,

Heedlefs of a foldier's name,
Sounds, not arms, fhall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs

From the forefts of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Cæfar never knew

Thy pofterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he fwept the chords

Of his fweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bofom glow,
Rufh'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying huri'd then at the foe.
Ruffians, pitilefs as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

THE

HERE was a time when Ætna's filent fire
Slept unperceiv'd, the mountain yet entire ;
When, confcious of no danger from below,
She tower'd a cloud-clapt pyramid of fnow.
No thunders fheok with deep intestine found
The blooming groves that girdled her around,
Her unctuous olives and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peafant's hopes, and not in vain, affur'd,
In peace upon her floping fides matur'd.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That fhook the circling feas and folid carth.
Dark and voluminous the vapours rife,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ring fkies;
While through the Stygian veil that blots the day,
In dazzling ftreaks the vivid lightnings play.
But, O! what mufe, and in what pow'rs of fong,
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devaftation in the van,
It marches o'er the proftrate works of man,
Vines, olives, herbage, forefts difappcar,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving feafons, fruitlefs as they pafs,
See it an unform'd and an idle mafs,
Without a foil t'invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.

Yet time at length (what will not time achieve?)
Clothes it with carth, and bids the produce live:
Once more the fpiry myrtle crowns the glade,
And ruminating flocks enjoy the fhade.
O blifs precarious, and unfafe retreats!
O charming paradife of fhort-liv'd tweets!
The felf-fame gale that wafts the fragrance round,
Brings to the diftant ear a fullen found :
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd foe,
Again pours ruin on the vale below;

Ten thoufand fwains the wafted fcene deplore,
That only future ages can reftore.

Ye monarchs, whom the lure of honour draws, Who write in blood the merits of your caufe, Who ftrike the blow, then plead your own de fence,

Glory your aim, but juftice your pretence;
Behold in Etna's emblematic fires
The mifchiefs your ambitious pride infpires.
Faft by the ftream that bounds your juft do-
main,

And tells you where ye have a right to reign,
A nation dwells, not envious of your throne,
Studious of peace, their neighbours and their own,
Ill-fated race! how deeply muft they rue
Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet founds, your legions fwarm abroad,
Through the ripe harveft lies their deftin'd road,
At ev'ry ftep beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread;
Earth feems a garden in its loveliest drefs
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and Peftilence, her firft-born son,
Attend to finish what the fword begun;
And echoing praifes fuch as fiends might earn,
And folly pays, refound at your return.
A calm fucceeds-but plenty, with her train
Of heart-felt joys, fucceeds not foon again;
And years of pining indigence must fhew
What fcourges are the gods that rule below.

Yet man, laborious man, by flow degrees
(Such is his thirst of opulence and cafe)
Plies all the finews of induftrious toil,
Gleans up the refufe of the gen'ral spoil;
Rebuilds the tow'rs that finok'd upon the plain,
And the fun gilds the thining fpires again.

Increafing commerce and reviving art Renew the quarrel on the conq'ror's part; And the fad leffon must be learn'd once more, That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, fay, But Etnas of the fuff'ring world ye fway? Sweet nature, ftripp'd of her embroider'd robe, Deplores the wafted regions of her globe, And ftands a witnefs at truth's awful bar, To prove you there deftroyers as ye are.

O place me in fome heaven-protected ifle, Where peace, and equity, and freedom fmile; Where no volcano pours his fiery flood, No crefted warrior dips his plume in blood. Where pow'r fecures what industry has won, Where to fucceed is not to be undone; A land that diftant tyrants hate in vain, In Britain's ifle, beneath a George's reign.

The

The Poet, the Oyfter, and Senfitive Plant.

N Oyster caft upon the shore

ΑΝ

COWPER.

Was heard, though never heard before, Complaining in a fpeech well worded,

And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native fhell,
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or cafe,
But tofs'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
Twere better to be born a stone
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibility fo fine:

I envy that unfeeling fhrub,
Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough;
Was hurt, difgufted, mortified,
And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and stare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?
No matter when a poet's mufe is

To make them grow just were the chooses.
You fhapelefs nothing in a difh,.
You that are but almost a fish,
I fcorn your coarfe infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To with myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd fpark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and fhrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think.
Thus life is spent, O fic upon 't!
In being touch'd, and crying, Don't!
A poct, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine fenfe, he faid, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deferves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Difputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ilt befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemith,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The noblet minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love,

Thefe, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by fhrinking fhew'd he felt it.

A

A Fable.

COW PER
RAVEN, while with glody breaft
Her new-laid eggs the fondly prefs'1,
And on her wicker-work high mounted
Her chickens prematurely counted
(A fault philofophers might blame,
If quite exempted from the fame),
Enjoy'd at eafe the gerial day;
'Twas April, as the bumpkins fay,
The legislature call'd it May.
But fuddenly a wind as high
As ever fwept a winter sky

Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And fill'd her with a thoufand fears,
Left the rude blaft should fhap the bough,
And fpread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather,
And all her fears, were huth'd together:
And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph,
'Tis over, and the brood is fafe;
(For ravens, though as birds of omen
They teach both conj'rors and old women
To tell us what is to befal,

Can't prophefy themselves at all).

The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge,

And deftin'd all the treafure there

A gift to his expecting fair,
Climb'd like a fquirrel to his prey.
And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone fecures, In ev'ry change, both mine and yours. Safety confifts not in efcape From dangers of a frightful shape: An earthquake may be bid to fpare The man that's ftrangled by a hair. Fate fteals along with filent tread, Found oft neft in what least we dread, Frowns in the ftorm with angry brow, But in the funfline ftrikes the blow.

COWPER.

The Love of the World dete&ted. THUS fays the prophet of the Turk : Good muffulman, abstain from perk; There is a part in ev'ry swine No friend or follower of mine May tafte, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mahomet's myfterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the finful part exprefs'd, They might with fafety eat the reft : But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarr'd, And fet their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind,

Much

Much controversy straight arose,
Thefe chufe the back, the belly thofe ;
By fome 'tis confidently faid
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.

Thus, confcience freed from ev'ry clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh'tis well-the tale applied
May make you laugh on t' other fide.
Renounce the world, the preacher cries:
We do, a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A fnug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may fay,
Can fee no evil in a play;
Some love a concert, or a race,
And others, fhooting and the chafe.
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd,
Thus bit by bit the world is fwallow'd;
Each think's his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a flice as well as he;
With fophiftry their fauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to fnout 'tis eaten.

COWPER.

The Jackdaw.
THERE is a bird who by his coat,
And by the hoarfenefs of his note,
Might be fuppos'd a crow;
A great frequenter of the church,
Where bishop-like he finds a perch
And Dormitory too.

About the steeple fhines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate

From what point blows the weather;
Look up your brains begin to fwim,
'Tis in the clouds-that pleafes him,
He choofes it the rather.
Fond of the fpeculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence fecurely fees
The bustle and the raree-fhow
That occupies mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.

You think no doubt he fits and mufes
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he fhould chance to fall;
No, not a fingle thought like that
Employs his philofophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.

He fees that this great round-about,
The world, with all its motly rout,
Church, army, phy fic, law,
Its cuftoms and its bufineffes
Are no concern at all of his,

And fays, what fays he? Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men,

And, fick of having feen 'em, Would cheerfully thefe limbs refign For fuch a pair of wings as thine,

And fuch a head between 'em.

The Country Parfon's Bleffings.
WOULD ye, my friends, live free from care,
Attentive lend a willing car;
While I in humble verfe relate
The bleflings of my humble state.

I have a living brings in clear
About a hundred pounds a year;
The tythe well paid, without law, ftrife
(I'm not encumber'd with a wife).
A single church, not grand, but neat;
My people rather good than great;
A ftrong-built houfe, and pafture good,
Where Sorrel crops his livelihood:
A garden cloth'd with greens and fruits,
And intermix'd with flow'ry roots;
A walk with well-mow'd greenfword laid
Where I may fmoke in fun or fhade;
A terrace rais'd, whence I furvey
The market folk who pafs that way;
A fhaded bench where I
Old Baker's Chronicle, or Speed:
The neighb'ring clergy kind and free;
Who give and take civility;

may

read

Of humour good, of mirth and sense,
Who o'er a glafs fome wit difpense;
(For where's the crime to meet and prate
Of country news and tricks of state?)
Some focial gents of goodly worth,
Who fcorn to boaft of wealth or birth;
Who ne'er affume the courtier's frown,
Yet keep above the homely clown;
Who love their country, king, and church,
And in no ducs the parfon lurch;
With cafe I keep a maid and man,
This Harry call'd, the other Nun:
A table fleck, with pudding grac'd,
Or plain or plum, as fuits my tafte;
Attended by a fav'ry dish

Of mutton, beef, or fowl, or fish;
A pile of fallad, fresh and green;
In fummer, fruit well pick'd and clean;
Sound fparkling ale, and sometimes wine,
When patron deigns with Vic-to dine,
Oft o'er the fields with gun I ftride,
And faithful Banter by my fide;
Then, if a mushroom is in fight,
It ferves to fupper me at night;
Or elfe a veltfare or a fnipe,
Sometimes a difh of double tripe.

Thus joyous do I pafs my life,
Stranger to tumult or to ftrife;
Pleafures I feel in this bleft ftate,
Unfelt, unknown, to rich and great;
When airy fancy mounts on wing,
I think myself a fort of king;
My pipe my fcepter, cup my crown,
My elbow chair my regal throne.

+

The Happy Fire-Side.

THE hearth was clean, the fire clear,
The kettle on for tea;
PALEMON, in his elbow chair,

As bleft as man could be.
Clarinda, who his heart poffefs'd,
And was his new-made bride;
With head reclin'd upon his breaft,

Sat toying by his fide.
Stretch'd at his feet, in happy state,
A fav'rite dog was laid;
By whom a little fportive cat
In wanton humour play'd.
Clarinda's hand he gently prefs'd;
She ftole an am'rous kifs,
And blushing, modeftly confefs'd
The fulness of her blifs.
Palemon, with a heart elate,
Pray'd to Almighty Jove,
That it might ever be his fate,
Juft fo to live and love.
Be this eternity, he cried,
And let no more be given;
Continue thus my lov'd fire-fide,
I afk no other heaven.

An Invitation into the Country. THE fwallows in their torpid state Compofe their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of carly spring.

The keeneft froft that binds the ftream,
The wildeft wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repofe.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy fcene furveys;

With prefent ills his heart must ache,

And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely fpring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

Then April, with her fifter May,

Shall chafe him from the bow'rs, And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day, To crown the finiling hours.

And if a tear that speaks regret

Of happier times appear,

A glimpse of joy that we have met Shall fhine, and dry the tear.

Invitation to the feathered Race.

AGAIN the balmy zephyr blows,
Fresh verdure decks the grove;
Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,

And fhun the noon-tide heat:
My fhrubs a cooling shade supply ;
My groves, a fafe retreat.

Here, freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the moffy neft:

Here, rove and fing the live-long day ;
At night, here fweetly reft.

Amid this cool translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade,

GREAVE

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the fhade.

No fchool-boy rude, to mifchief prone,
E'er fhews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,
In this fequefter'd place.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs;
Secure the linnet fings;

The goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt

Yon diftant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy fweetly plantive fong.
Let not the harmless red-breast fear,
Domeftic bird, to come,
And feek a fure afylum here,

With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artlefs tribe!
Shall ftore of fruit preserve:
O! let me thus your friendship bribe;
Come, feed without referve.

For you these cherries I protect,

To you thefe plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But fweeter far your fong.

Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual interests guard:

Mine be the gift of fruit and fhade;
Your fongs be my reward.