Obrázky stránek
PDF
ePub

companions, and raised private men to be fel- | admiration, or attachment. But that sort of lows with kings. Without force or opposition, reason which banishes the affections is incapit subdued the fierceness of pride and power; able of filling their place. These public affecit obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft tions, combined with manners, are required collar of social esteem, compelled stern authority sometimes as supplements, sometimes as corto submit to elegance, and gave a dominating rectives, always as aids to law. The precept vanquisher of laws to be subdued by manners. given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, But now all is to be changed. All the pleas- for the construction of poems, is equally true ing illusions, which made power gentle and as to states:-Non satis est pulchra esse obedience liberal, which harmonized the dif- poemata, dulcia sunto.8 There ought to be a ferent shades of life and which, by a bland system of manners in every nation, which a assimilation, incorporated into politics the sen- well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. timents which beautify and soften private To make us love our country, our country ought society, are to be dissolved by this new con- to be lovely. quering empire of light and reason. All the decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn off. All the superadded ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of a moral imagination, which the heart owns, and the understanding ratifies, as necessary to cover the defects of our naked, shivering nature, and to raise it to dignity in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a ridiculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion.

On this scheme of things, a king is but a man, a queen is but a woman; a woman is but an animal, and an animal not of the highest order. All homage paid to the sex in general as such, and without distinct views, is to be regarded as romance and folly. Regicide, and parricide, and sacrilege, are but fictions of superstition, corrupting jurisprudence by destroying its simplicity. The murder of a king, or a queen, or a bishop, or a father, are only common homicide; and if the people are by any chance, or in any way, gainers by it, a sort of homicide much the most pardonable, and into which we ought not to make too severe a scrutiny.

On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy, which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy understandings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is destitute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be supported only by their own terrors, and by the concern which each individual may find in them from his own private speculations, or can spare to them from his own private interests. In the groves of their academy,* at the end of every vista, you see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is left which engages the affections on the part of the commonwealth. On the principles of this mechanic philosophy, our institutions can never be embodied, if I may use the expression, in persons; so as to create in us love, veneration, The Athenian philosophers conducted their instruction walking in the groves of the Academe. See Newman, Site of a University, in the present volume.

WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800)

FROM OLNEY HYMNS

XXXV. LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS
1

GOD moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

2

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

3

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

4

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
5

His purposes will ripen fast,

Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

6

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain:
God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

8 "It is not enough that poems be beautiful, they must have sweetness." Horace Ars Poetica, 99.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 11

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!.
Who bidst me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

20

My mother! when I learned that thou wast
dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss:
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! It answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly
laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 60
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks 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 humour interposed too often makes;
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 honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

70

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 pricked them into paper with a pin

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile),

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

And, turning from my nursery window, drew 30 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 80
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?-It was.-Where thou art
gone,

40

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
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.

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 from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, 90
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
shore,

50Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 100
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest tost,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass
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- 110
The son of parents passed 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,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft- 120
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

TO MRS. UNWIN *

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned
they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That, ere through age or woe I shed my wings,
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings.
But thou hast little need. There is a book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright;
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine,
And, since thou own'st that praise,
Spare thee

mine.

THE CASTAWAY †

1

Obscurest night involved the sky,

The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home forever left.

2

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.

The friend and constant companion of Cowper for thirty-four years.

[blocks in formation]

It

.

The last poem that Cowper wrote; founded on an incident in Admiral Anson's Voyages. portrays imaginatively his own melancholy condition.

To give the melancholy theme

[blocks in formation]

"Describe the Borough."-Though our idle Then back to sea, with strong majestic sweep tribe

May love description, can we so describe,

That you shall fairly streets and buildings trace,

And all that gives distinction to a place? This cannot be; yet, moved by your request, A part I paint-let fancy form the rest.

Cities and towns, the various haunts of men, Require the pencil; they defy the pen. Could he, who sang so well the Grecian fleet, So well have sung of alley, lane, or street? 10 Can measured lines these various buildings show, The Town-Hall Turning, or the Prospect Row? Can I the seats of wealth and want explore, And lengthen out my lays from door to door? Then, let thy fancy aid me.-I repair From this tall mansion of our last-year's mayor, Till we the outskirts of the Borough reach, And these half-buried buildings next the beach; Where hang at open doors the net and cork, While squalid sea-dames mend the meshy work; Till comes the hour, when, fishing through the tide, 21

The weary husband throws his freight asideA living mass, which now demands the wife, The alternate labours of their humble life.

1 Homer, Iliad II. *This poem was inscribed to the Duke of Rutland, to whom Crabbe had been chaplain,

and takes the form of Letters from a resi

dent of a sea-port (Crabbe was a native of Aldeburgh, Suffolk) to the owner of an inland country-seat. The date of the poem is 1810. Crabbe's reputation, however, was established by The Village in 1783, and his place is with those later 18th century poets who clung to the 18th century forms, though reacting against the artificiality and frigid conventionalism that had so long reigned. In homeliness of themes and naked realism of treatment, the poet of The Village and

40

It rolls, in ebb yet terrible and deep; Here sampire-banks and salt-wort bound the flood;

There stakes and sea-weeds, withering on the mud;

And, higher up, a ridge of all things base, Which some strong tide has rolled upon the place.

Thy gentle river boasts its pigmy boat, Urged on by pains, half grounded, half afloat; While at her stern an angler takes his stand, And marks the fish he purposes to land, From that clear space, where, in the cheerful ray

Of the warm sun, the scaly people play.

50

[blocks in formation]

He shall again .be seen when evening comes, And social parties crowd their favourite rooms; Where on the table pipes and papers lie, The steaming bowl or foaming tankard by. 'Tis then, with all these comforts spread around,

They hear the painful dredger's welcome sound;
And few themselves the savoury boon deny,
The food that feeds, the living luxury.
Yon is our quay! those smaller hoys from
town,

69

The Borough stands quite alone. See Eng. Its various wares, for country-use, bring down; Lit., p. 226.

« PředchozíPokračovat »