Six Centuries of English Poetry Part 18

By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced.{5} Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum;{6} The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and brakes That humor interposed too often makes;{7} All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I p.r.i.c.ked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.-- But no--what here we call our life is such So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark{8} from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the sh.o.r.e, "Where tempests never beat nor billows roar."{9} And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anch.o.r.ed by thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compa.s.s lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force, Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.

Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents pa.s.sed into the skies!

And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine: And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee,{10} Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

NOTES.

This, one of the most exquisite poems in the language, was written by Cowper in "the last glimmering of the evening light," before his mind was wholly overwhelmed by the final attack of insanity. "Every line is instinct with a profound and chastened feeling, to which it would be difficult to find a parallel. There is not a phrase, not a word, which jars upon the most susceptible ear, not a tinge of exaggeration, not a touch that is excessive. The fact that he who gave forth these supreme utterances of filial love was old himself when he did it, brings into the relations.h.i.+p a strange, tender equality which is marvellously touching."

1. =steep.= Imbue. From Ger. _stippen_. From the same root as _dip_, with the letter _s_ prefixed.

2. =Elysian reverie.= Heavenly meditation. See note on Elysium, page 79.

3. =when I learnt.= Cowper was only six years old when his mother died.

4. =concern.= Distress, anxiety.

5. Nearly fifty years after his mother's death, Cowper wrote: "I can truly say that not a week pa.s.ses (perhaps I might with equal veracity say a day) in which I do not think of her; such was the impression her tenderness made upon me, though the opportunity she had for showing it was so short."

6. =plum.= Perhaps the gravest fault in this poem is the frequent intermixture, as in these two lines, of trivial thoughts and circ.u.mstances with those of a more n.o.ble character.

7. Explain the metaphor which the poet attempts to carry through these three lines. =Brakes= = _breaks_, interruptions. What is the meaning of _humor_?

8. =as a gallant bark.= Observe the beauty of the simile in these twelve lines, also of the simile which follows.

9. Probably misquoted from "The Dispensary," by Samuel Garth (1670-1719):

"To die is landing on some silent sh.o.r.e, Where billows never break nor tempests roar."

10. =this mimic show.= Explain the meaning of this expression.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippins' russet peel, And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing his rump around.

His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now beneath this walnut shade He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.

WILLIAM COWPER was born at Great Berkhamstead, November 26, 1731. His father was the rector of the parish, and his mother was Ann Donne of the family of the famous John Donne. Cowper was educated at a private school and afterwards at Westminster. It was intended that he should follow the profession of law, and, after the completion of his studies at Westminster, he entered the Middle Temple and was articled to a solicitor. At the age of twenty-two, through the influence of his uncle, Major Cowper, he was appointed to two clerks.h.i.+ps in the House of Lords.

The excitement brought on by this occurrence, together with an unhappy love affair, induced an attack of insanity, from which he suffered for more than a year. In 1773 he suffered from a second attack of insanity, which continued for sixteen months. It was not until 1780, when in his fiftieth year, that he began really to write poetry. His first volume was published in 1782, and comprised, besides several shorter pieces, the three poems, "Conversation," "Retirement," and "Table Talk." His second volume appeared in 1785, and contained "The Task," "Tirocinium,"

and the ballad of "John Gilpin," which had already become famous through the recitations of one Henderson, an actor. Cowper's translation of Homer was completed and published in 1791. From that time until his death in 1800 he suffered from hopeless dejection, regarding himself as an object of divine wrath, a condemned and forsaken outcast.

Cowper was not a great poet; but he was the first to abandon the mechanical versification and conventional phrases of the artificial poets, to find inspiration and guidance in nature. It may be said that he lacked creative power; but he possessed a quickness of thought, a depth of feeling, and a certain manliness and sincerity, which lifted him above the level of the ordinary versifiers of his time.

=Other Poems to be Read:= The Castaway; John Gilpin; The Task; The Loss of the Royal George.

REFERENCES: Southey's _Life of William Cowper_; _Cowper_ (English Men of Letters), by Goldwin Smith; Hazlitt's _English Poets_; Macaulay's Essay on _Moore's Life of Byron_; _Life of Cowper_, in the "Globe Edition" of his works.

Oliver Goldsmith.

THREE PICTURES FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE."

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.

There as I pa.s.s'd, with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften'd from below: The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young, The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school, The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind-- These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the gra.s.s-grown footway tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled-- All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron--forc'd in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry f.a.ggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn-- She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain!

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's{1} modest mansion rose.