hare
J. Gilbert fecit. W. Greatbach sculp.
THE TAME 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."
EPITAPHIUM ALTERUM.
Hic etiam jacet,
Qui totum novennium vixit,
Puss.
Siste paulisper,
Qui præteriturus es,
Et tecum sic reputa—
Hunc neque canis venaticus,
Nec plumbum missile,
Nec laqueus,
Nec imbres nimii,
Confecêre:
Tamen mortuus est—
Et moriar ego.
The following account of the treatment of his hares
was inserted by Cowper in the Gentleman's Magazine.
In the year 1774, being much indisposed both in mind and
body, incapable of diverting myself either with company or
books, and yet in a condition that made some diversion necessary,
I was glad of any thing that would engage my attention,
without fatiguing it. The children of a neighbour of
mine had a leveret given them for a plaything; it was at that
time about three months old. Understanding better how to
tease the poor creature than to feed it, and soon becoming
weary of their charge, they readily consented that their father,
who saw it pining and growing leaner every day, should offer
it to my acceptance. I was willing enough to take the prisoner
under my protection, perceiving that, in the management
of such an animal, and in the attempt to tame it, I
should find just that sort of employment which my case required.
It was soon known among the neighbours that I
was pleased with the present, and the consequence was, that
in a short time I had as many leverets offered to me as would
have stocked a paddock. I undertook the care of three, which
it is necessary that I should here distinguish by the names I
gave them—Puss, Tiney, and Bess. Notwithstanding the
two feminine appellatives, I must inform you, that they
were all males. Immediately commencing carpenter, I built
them houses to sleep in; each had a separate apartment, so
contrived that their ordure would pass through the bottom of
it; an earthen pan placed under each received whatsoever
fell, which being duly emptied and washed, they were thus
kept perfectly sweet and clean. In the day time they had
the range of a hall, and at night retired each to his own bed,
never intruding into that of another.
Puss grew presently familiar, would leap into my lap, raise
himself upon his hinder feet, and bite the hair from my temples.
He would suffer me to take him up, and to carry him
about in my arms, and has more than once fallen fast asleep
upon my knee. He was ill three days, during which time I
nursed him, kept him apart from his fellows, that they might
not molest him (for, like many other wild animals, they persecute
one of their own species that is sick,) and by constant
care, and trying him with a variety of herbs, restored him to
perfect health. No creature could be more grateful than my
patient after his recovery; a sentiment which he most significantly
expressed by licking my hand, first the back of it,
then the palm, then every finger separately, then between all
the fingers, as if anxious to leave no part of it unsaluted; a
ceremony which he never performed but once again upon a
similar occasion. Finding him extremely tractable, I made
it my custom to carry him always after breakfast into the
garden, where he hid himself generally under the leaves of a
cucumber vine, sleeping or chewing the cud till evening; in
the leaves also of that vine he found a favourite repast. I
had not long habituated him to this taste of liberty, before he
began to be impatient for the return of the time when he
might enjoy it. He would invite me to the garden by drumming
upon my knee, and by a look of such expression as it
was not possible to misinterpret. If this rhetoric did not
immediately succeed, he would take the skirt of my coat between
his teeth, and pull it with all his force. Thus Puss
might be said to be perfectly tamed; the shyness of his nature
was done away, and on the whole it was visible by many
symptoms, which I have not room to enumerate, that he was
happier in human society than, when shut up with his natural
companions.
Not so Tiney; upon him the kindest treatment had not
the least effect. He too was sick, and in his sickness had an
equal share of my attention; but if, after his recovery, I took
the liberty to stroke him, he would grunt, strike with his fore
feet, spring forward, and bite. He was however very entertaining
in his way; even his surliness was matter of mirth,
and in his play he preserved such an air of gravity, and performed
his feats with such a solemnity of manner, that in him
too I had an agreeable companion.
Bess, who died soon after he was full grown, and whose
death was occasioned by his being turned into his box, which
had been washed, while it was yet damp, was a hare of great
humour and drollery. Puss was tamed by gentle usage;
Tiney was not to be tamed at all; and Bess had a courage
and confidence that made him tame from the beginning. I
always admitted them into the parlour after supper, when,
the carpet affording their feet a firm hold, they would frisk,
and bound, and play a thousand gambols, in which Bess,
being remarkably strong and fearless, was always superior to
the rest, and proved himself the Vestris of the party. One
evening, the cat being in the room, had the hardiness to pat
Bess upon the cheek, an indignity which he resented by
drumming upon her back with such violence that the cat was
happy to escape from under his paws, and hide herself.
I describe these animals as having each a character of his
own. Such they were in fact, and their countenances were
so expressive of that character, that, when I looked only on
the face of either, I immediately knew which it was. It is
said that a shepherd, however numerous his flock, soon becomes
so familiar with their features, that he can, by that
indication only, distinguish each from all the rest; and yet,
to a common observer, the difference is hardly perceptible.
I doubt not that the same discrimination in the cast of countenances
would be discoverable in hares, and am persuaded
that among a thousand of them no two could be found exactly
similar: a circumstance little suspected by those who have
not had opportunity to observe it. These creatures have a
singular sagacity in discovering the minutest alteration that
is made in the place to which they are accustomed, and instantly
apply their nose to the examination of a new object.
A small hole being burnt in the carpet, it was mended with a
patch, and that patch in a moment underwent the strictest
scrutiny. They seem too to be very much directed by the
smell in the choice of their favourites: to some persons,
though they saw them daily, they could never be reconciled,
and would even scream when they attempted to touch them;
but a miller coming in engaged their affections at once; his
powdered coat had charms that were irresistible. It is no
wonder that my intimate acquaintance with these specimens
of the kind has taught me to hold the sportman's amusement
in abhorrence; he little knows what amiable creatures he
persecutes, of what gratitude they are capable, how cheerful
they are in their spirits, what enjoyment they have of life,
and that, impressed as they seem with a peculiar dread of
man, it is only because man gives them peculiar cause for it.
That I may not be tedious, I will just give a short summary
of those articles of diet that suit them best.
I take it to be a general opinion, that they graze, but it is an
erroneous one, at least grass is not their staple; they seem
rather to use it medicinally, soon quitting it for leaves of
almost any kind. Sowthistle, dandelion, and lettuce, are their
favourite vegetables, especially the last. I discovered by
accident that fine white sand is in great estimation with them;
I suppose as a digestive. It happened, that I was cleaning
a birdcage when the hares were with me; I placed a pot
filled with such sand upon the floor, which, being at once
directed to it by a strong instinct, they devoured voraciously;
since that time I have generally taken care to see them
well supplied with it. They account green corn a delicacy,
both blade and stalk, but the ear they seldom eat: straw of
any kind, especially wheat-straw, is another of their dainties:
they will feed greedily upon oats, but if furnished with clean
straw never want them; it serves them also for a bed, and,
if shaken up daily, will be kept sweet and dry for a considerable
time. They do not indeed require aromatic herbs,
but will eat a small quantity of them with great relish, and
are particularly fond of the plant called musk; they seem to
resemble sheep in this, that, if their pasture be too succulent,
they are very subject to the rot; to prevent which, I always
made bread their principal nourishment, and, filling a pan
with it cut into small squares, placed it every evening in their
chambers, for they feed only at evening and in the night;
during the winter, when vegetables were not to be got, I
mingled this mess of bread with shreds of carrot, adding to
it the rind of apples cut extremely thin; for, though they are
fond of the paring, the apple itself disgusts them. These however
not being a sufficient substitute for the juice of summer
herbs, they must at this time be supplied with water; but so
placed, that they cannot overset it into their beds. I must
not omit, that occasionally they are much pleased with twigs
of hawthorn, and of the common brier, eating even the very
wood when it is of considerable thickness.
Bess, I have said, died young; Tiney lived to be nine
years old, and died at last, I have reason to think, of some
hurt in his loins by a fall; Puss is still living, and has just
completed his tenth year, discovering no signs of decay, nor
even of age, except that he is grown more discreet and less
frolicsome than he was. I cannot conclude without observing,
that I have lately introduced a dog to his acquaintance,
a spaniel that had never seen a hare to a hare that had never
seen a spaniel. I did it with great caution, but there was no
real need of it. Puss discovered no token of fear, nor Marquis
the least symptom of hostility. There is therefore, it
should seem, no natural antipathy between dog and hare,
but the pursuit of the one occasions the flight of the other, and
the dog pursues because he is trained to it; they eat bread
at the same time out of the same hand, and are in all respects
sociable and friendly.
I should not do complete justice to my subject, did I not
add, that they have no ill scent belonging to them, that they
are indefatigably nice in keeping themselves clean, for which
purpose nature has furnished them with a brush under each
foot; and that they are never infested by any vermin.
May 28, 1784.
MEMORANDUM FOUND AMONG MR. COWPER'S PAPERS.
Tuesday, March 9, 1786.
This day died poor Puss, aged eleven years eleven months.
He died between twelve and one at noon, of mere old age,
and apparently without pain.
In Scotland's realms, where trees are few,
Nor even shrubs abound;
But where, however bleak the view,
Some better things are found;
For husband there and wife may boast
Their union undefiled,
And false ones are as rare almost
As hedgerows in the wild—
In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare
The history chanced of late—
The history of a wedded pair,
A chaffinch and his mate.
The spring drew near, each felt a breast
With genial instinct fill'd;
They pair'd, and would have built a nest,
But found not where to build.
The heaths uncover'd and the moors
Except with snow and sleet,
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores
Could yield them no retreat.
Long time a breeding-place they sought,
Till both grew vex'd and tired;
At length a ship arriving brought
The good so long desired.
A ship!—could such a restless thing
Afford them place of rest?
Or was the merchant charged to bring
The homeless birds a nest?
Hush—silent hearers profit most—
This racer of the sea
Proved kinder to them than the coast,
It served them with a tree.
But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal,
The tree they call a mast,
And had a hollow with a wheel
Through which the tackle pass'd.
Within that cavity aloft
Their roofless home they fix'd,
Form'd with materials neat and soft,
Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd.
Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor
With russet specks bedight—
The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore,
And lessens to the sight.
The mother-bird is gone to sea,
As she had changed her kind;
But goes the male? Far wiser, he
Is doubtless left behind.
No—soon as from ashore he saw
The winged mansion move,
He flew to reach it, by a law
Of never-failing love;
Then, perching at his consort's side,
Was briskly borne along,
The billows and the blast defied,
And cheer'd her with a song.
The seaman with sincere delight
His feather'd shipmates eyes,
Scarce less exulting in the sight
Than when he tows a prize.
For seamen much believe in signs,
And from a chance so new
Each some approaching good divines,
And may his hopes be true!
Hail, honour'd land! a desert where
Not even birds can hide,
Yet parent of this loving pair
Whom nothing could divide.
And ye who, rather than resign
Your matrimonial plan,
Were not afraid to plough the brine
In company with man;
For whose lean country much disdain
We English often show,
Yet from a richer nothing gain
But wantonness and woe—
Be it your fortune, year by year
The same resource to prove,
And may ye, sometimes landing here,
Instruct us how to love!
June, 1793.
TO MARY.
The twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah! would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flo
I see thee daily weaker gro
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more;
My Mary!
For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream:
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
Autumn of 1793.
THE CASTAWAY.
Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away:
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow:
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd:
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—"Adieu!"
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more:
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson's tear;
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
March 20, 1799.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
DEAR President, whose art sublime
Gives perpetuity to time,
And bids transactions of a day,
That fleeting hours would waft away
To dark futurity, survive,
And in unfading beauty live,—
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine—
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.
Thus say the sisterhood:—We come—
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints—
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory,
Must be the subject of the story.
First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Then slope it to a point below;
Your outline easy, airy, light,
Fill'd up, becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguine, horrid,
Blaze like a meteor in the forehead:
Beneath (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
Each with a staring, stedfast eye,
Fix'd on his great and good ally.
France flies the kite—'tis on the wing—
Britannia's lightning cuts the string.
The wind that raised it, ere it ceases,
Just rends it into thirteen pieces,
Takes charge of every fluttering sheet,
And lays them all at George's feet.
Iberia, trembling from afar,
Renounces the confederate war.
Her efforts and her arts o'ercome,
France calls her shatter'd navies home.
Repenting Holland learns to mourn
The sacred treaties she has torn;
Astonishment and awe profound
Are stamp'd upon the nations round:
Without one friend, above all foes,
Britannia gives the world repose.
ON THE AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON
LITERATURE.[837]
The Genius of the Augustan age
His head among Rome's ruins rear'd,
And, bursting with heroic rage,
When literary Heron appear'd;
Thou hast, he cried, like him of old
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire,
By being scandalously bold,
Attain'd the mark of thy desire.
And for traducing Virgil's name
Shalt share his merited reward;
A perpetuity of fame,
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr'd.
THE DISTRESSED TRAVELLERS;
OR, LABOUR IN VAIN.
A New Song, to a Tune never sung before.
I sing of a journey to Clifton,[838]
We would have performed, if we could;
Without cart or barrow, to lift on
Poor Mary[839] and me through the mud.
Slee, sla, slud,
Stuck in the mud;
Oh it is pretty to wade through a flood!
So away we went, slipping and sliding;
Hop, hop, à la mode de deux frogs;
'Tis near as good walking as riding,
When ladies are dressed in their clogs.
Wheels, no doubt,
Go briskly about,
But they clatter, and rattle, and make such a rout.
DIALOGUE.
SHE.
"Well! now, I protest it is charming;
How finely the weather improves!
That cloud, though 'tis rather alarming,
How slowly and stately it moves."
HE.
"Pshaw! never mind,
'Tis not in the wind,
We are travelling south, and shall leave it behind."
SHE.
"I am glad we are come for an airing,
For folks may be pounded, and penn'd,
Until they grow rusty, not caring
To stir half a mile to an end."
HE.
"The longer we stay,
The longer we may;
It's a folly to think about weather or way."
SHE.
"But now I begin to be frighted,
If I fall, what a way I should roll!
I am glad that the bridge was indicted,
Stay! stop! I am sunk in a hole!"
HE.
"Nay never care,
'Tis a common affair;
You'll not be the last, that will set a foot there."
SHE.
"Let me breathe now a little, and ponder
On what it were better to do;
That terrible lane I see yonder,
I think we shall never get through."
HE.
"So think I:—
But, by the bye,
We never shall know, if we never should try."
SHE.
"But should we get there, how shall we get home?
What a terrible deal of bad road we have past!
Slipping, and sliding, and if we should come
To a difficult stile, I am ruined at last!
Oh this lane!
Now it is plain
That struggling and striving is labour in vain."
HE.
"Stick fast there while I go and look;"
SHE.
"Don't go away, for fear I should fall:"
HE.
"I have examined it, every nook,
And what you see here is a sample of all.
Come, wheel round,
The dirt we have found
Would be an estate, at a farthing a pound."
Now, sister Anne,[840] the guitar you must take,
Set it, and sing it, and make it a song:
I have varied the verse, for variety's sake,
And cut it off short—because it was long.
'Tis hobbling and lame,
Which critics won't blame,
For the sense and the sound, they say, should be the same.
STANZAS
ON THE LATE INDECENT LIBERTIES TAKEN WITH THE
REMAINS OF MILTON.[841] ANNO 1790.
"Me too, perchance, in future days,
The sculptured stone shall show,
With Paphian myrtle or with bays
Parnassian on my brow.
"But I, or ere that season come,
Escaped from every care,
Shall reach my refuge in the tomb,
And sleep securely there."[842]
So sang, in Roman tone and style,
The youthful bard, ere long
Ordain'd to grace his native isle
With her sublimest song.
Who then but must conceive disdain,
Hearing the deed unblest
Of wretches who have dared profane
His dread sepulchral rest?
Ill fare the hands that heaved the stones[843]
Where Milton's ashes lay,
That trembled not to grasp his bones
And steal his dust away!
O ill requited bard! neglect
Thy living worth repaid,
And blind idolatrous respect
As much affronts thee dead.
August, 1790.
TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.
June 22, 1782.
My dear Friend,
If reading verse be your delight,
'Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time
I feel a wish by cheerful rhyme
To soothe my friend, and, had I power,
To cheat him of an anxious hour;
Not meaning (for I must confess,
It were but folly to suppress)
His pleasure, or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
In the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once (and who but he?)
The name for setting genius free,
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise.
And he by no uncommon lot
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His Highness may have taken huff,
So seldom sought with invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw, through midnight vapour,
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh for a succedaneum, then,
To accelerate a creeping pen!
Oh for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum, et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbo jam caliginoso!
'Tis here; this oval box well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely mill'd,
Beats all Anticyra's pretences
To disengage the encumber'd senses.
Oh Nymph of transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoquo's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether, touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine—
Forgive the bard, if bard he be,
Who once too wantonly made free,
To touch with a satiric wipe
That symbol of thy power, the pipe;
So may no blight infest thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains;
And so may smiling peace once more
Visit America's sad shore;
And thou, secure from all alarms,
Of thundering drums and glittering arms,
Rove unconfined beneath the shade
Thy wide expanded leaves have made;
So may thy votaries increase,
And fumigation never cease.
May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites,
While clouds of incense half divine
Involve thy disappearing shrine;
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.
EPITAPH ON MRS. M. HIGGINS,
OF WESTON.
Laurels may flourish round the conqueror's tomb,
But happiest they who win the world to come:
Believers have a silent field to fight,
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight.
They in some nook, where little known they dwell,
Kneel, pray in faith, and rout the hosts of hell;
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine,
And all those triumphs, Mary, now are thine.
1791.
SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY ON HER
BIRTH-DAY.
Deem not, sweet rose, that bloom'st 'midst many a thorn,
Thy friend, tho' to a cloister's shade consign'd,
Can e'er forget the charms he left behind,
Or pass unheeded this auspicious morn!
In happier days to brighter prospects born,
O tell thy thoughtless sex, the virtuous mind,
Like thee, content in every state may find,
And look on Folly's pageantry with scorn.
To steer with nicest art betwixt th' extreme
Of idle mirth, and affectation coy;
To blend good sense with elegance and ease;
To bid Affliction's eye no longer stream;
Is thine; best gift, the unfailing source of joy,
The guide to pleasures which can never cease!
ON A MISTAKE IN HIS TRANSLATION
OF HOMER.
Cowper had sinn'd with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;[844]
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer.
ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS
MAJESTY, FROM SEA-BATHING IN
THE YEAR 1789.
O sovereign of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway,
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound
Her navies wing their way,
With juster claims she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength,
Which strength restored to thee.
ADDRESSED TO MISS —— ON READING
THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.[845]
And dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous Heaven design'd,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined—
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and woe!
Far be the thought, and far the strain,
Which breathes the low desire,
How sweet soe'er the verse complain,
Though Phœbus string the lyre.
Come, then, fair maid, (in nature wise,)
Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell:
In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.
With lenient balm may Oberon hence
To fairy land be driven,
With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from heaven.
"Oh! if my sovereign Author please,
Far be it from my fate
To live unbless'd in torpid ease,
And slumber on in state;
"Each tender tie of life defied,
Whence social pleasures spring,
Unmoved with all the world beside,
A solitary thing—"
Some Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow,
Thus braves the whirling blast,
Eternal winter doom'd to know,
No genial spring to taste.
In vain warm suns their influence shed,
The zephyrs sport in vain,
He rears unchanged his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.
What though in scaly armour dress'd,
Indifference may repel
The shafts of woe—in such a breast
No joy can ever dwell.
'Tis woven in the world's great plan,
And fix'd by Heaven's decree,
That all the true delights of man
Should spring from sympathy.
'Tis nature bids, and whilst the laws
Of nature we retain,
Our self-approving bosom draws
A pleasure from its pain.
Thus grief itself has comforts dear
The sordid never know;
And ecstasy attends the tear
When virtue bids it flow.
For, when it streams from that pure source,
No bribes the heart can win
To check, or alter from its course,
The luxury within.
Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves,
Who, if from labour eased,
Extend no care beyond themselves,
Unpleasing and unpleased.
Let no low thought suggest the prayer,
Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me,
Long as I draw ethereal air,
Sweet Sensibility!
Where'er the heavenly nymph is seen,
With lustre-beaming eye,
A train, attendant on their queen,
(Her rosy chorus) fly;
The jocund loves in Hymen's band,
With torches ever bright,
And generous friendship, hand in hand
With pity's wat'ry sight.
The gentler virtues too are join'd
In youth immortal warm;
The soft relations, which, combined,
Give life her every charm.
The arts come smiling in the close,
And lend celestial fire;
The marble breathes, the canvas glows,
The muses sweep the lyre.
"Still may my melting bosom cleave
To sufferings not my own,
And still the sigh responsive heave
Where'er is heard a groan.
"So pity shall take virtue's part.
Her natural ally,
And fashioning my soften'd heart,
Prepare it for the sky."
This artless vow may Heaven receive,
And you, fond maid, approve:
So may your guiding angel give
Whate'er you wish or love!
So may the rosy-finger'd hours
Lead on the various year,
And every joy, which now is yours,
Extend a larger sphere!
And suns to come, as round they wheel,
Your golden moments bless
With all a tender heart can feel,
Or lively fancy guess!
1762.
FROM
A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON,
LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH.