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Oh, blest within th' inclosure of your rocks,
Nor herds have ye to boast, nor bleating flocks;
No fertilizing streams your fields divide.
That show revers'd the villas on their side;
No groves have ye; no cheerful sound of bird,
Or voice of turtle, in your land is heard;
Nor grateful eglantine regales the smell
Of those that walk at ev'ning where you dwell:
But winter, arm'd with terrors here unknown,He breaks the cord that held him at the rack,
Sits absolute on his unshaken throne;
Piles up his stores amidst the frozen waste,
And bids the mountains he has built stand fast;
Beckons the legions of his storms away
From happier scenes, to make your land a prey;
Proclaims the soil a conquest he has won,
And scorns to share it with the distant sun.

Or if the will and sovereignty of God
Bid suffer it a while, and kiss the rod;
Wait for the dawning of a brighter day,
And snap the chain the moment when you may.
Nature imprints upon whate'er we see,
That has a heart, and life in it, Be free!
The beasts are charter'd-neither age nor force
Can quell the love of freedom in a horse:

Yet truth is yours, remote, unenvied isle ;
And peace, the genuine offspring of her smile:
The pride of letter'd ignorance, that binds
In chains of error our accomplish'd minds;
That decks with all the splendor of the true
A false religion-is unknown to you.
Nature indeed vouchsafes for our delight
The sweet vicissitudes of day and night;
Soft airs and genial moisture feed and cheer
Field, fruit, and flow'r, and ev'ry creature here.
But brighter beams than his who fires the skies
Have ris'n at length on your admiring eyes,
That shoot into your darkest caves the day
From which our nicer optics turn away.

§ 103. On Slavery, and the Slave Trade. COWPER.

BUT, ah! what wish can prosper, or what pray'r,

[more.

For merchants, rich in cargoes of despair,
Who drive a loathsome traffic, gage and span,
And buy the muscles and the bones of man?
The tender ties of father, husband, friend,
All bonds of nature in that moment end;
And each endures while yet he draws his breath,
A stroke as fatal as the sithe of death.
The sable warrior, frantic with regret
Of her he loves, and never can forget,
Loses in tears the far receding shore,
But not the thought, that they must meet no
Depriv'd of her and freedom at a blow,
What has he left that he can yet forego?
Yes, to deep sadness sullenly resign'd,
He feels his body's bondage in his mind;
Puts off his gen'rous nature, and to suit
His manners with his fate, puts on the brute.
Oh most degrading of all ills that wait
On man, a mourner in his best estate!
All other sorrows virtue may endure,
And find submission more than half a cure;
Grief is itself a med'cine, and bestow'd
T'improve the fortitude that bears a load;
To teach the wand'rer, as his woes increase,
The path of wisdom, all whose paths are peace.
But slav'ry!-virtue dreads it as her grave;
Patience itself is meanness, in a slave:

And, conscious of an unencumber'd back,
Snuffs up the morning air, forgets the rein,
Loose fly his forelock and his ample mane;
Responsive to the distant neigh he neighs,
Nor stops till, overleaping all delays,
He finds the pasture where his fellows

graze.

$104. On Liberty, and in praise of Mr. Howard.
COWPER.

OH could I worship ought beneath the skies
That earth had seen, or fancy could devise,
Thine altar, sacred Liberty, should stand,
Built by no mercenary, vulgar hand.
With fragrant turf, and flow'rs as wild and fair
As ever dress'd a bank, or scented summer air.
Duly as ever on the mountain's height
The peep of morning shed a dawning light;
Again, when evening in her sober vest
Drew the grey curtain of the fading West;
My soul should yield thee willing thanks and
praise

For the chief blessings of my fairest days
But that were sacrilege-praise is not thine,
But his who gave thee, and preserves thee mine:
Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,
This triple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home,
We feel thy force still active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from priestly pow'r;
While conscience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no superior but the God she fears.
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have suffer'd, and our land, too long;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care :
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless, and to punish guilt;
But shipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and
flood,

Are mighty mischiefs, not to be withstood:
And honest merit stands on slipp'ry ground
Where covert guile, and artifice abound:
Let just restraint, for public peace design'd,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind;
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let insolvent innocence go free.

Patron of else the most despis'd of men,
Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen;
Verse, like the laurel, its immortal meed,
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed:
I may alarm thee, but I fear the shame
(Charity chosen as my theme and aim)
I must incur, forgetting Howard's name.

Blest with all wealth can give thee-to resign
Joys, doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine;
To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow
To seek a nobler, amidst scenes of woe;
To traverse seas, range kingdoms, and bring
horne,

Not the proud monuments of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge, such as only dungeons teach,
And only sympathy like thine could reach;
That grief, sequester'd from the public stage,
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldest patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamor and debate,
That pleads for peace till it disturbs the state,
Were hush'd, in favor of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy fee!

§ 105. On Domestic Happiness, as the Friend of Virtue; and of the false Good-nature of the Age. COWPER.

DOMESTIC happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has surviv'd the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm
Or too incautious to preserve thy sweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.
Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms
She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heaven-born, and destin'd to the skies again.
Thou art not known where Pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support;
For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tied love
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.
Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honor, dignity, and fair renown,
Till prostitution elbows us aside

In all our crowded streets, and senates seein
Conven'd for purposes of empire less
Than to release th' adult'ress from her bond!
Th' adult'ress! what a theme for angry verse,
What provocation to the indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! But I disdain
The nauseous task to paint her as she is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame.
No. Let her pass; and, charioted along,
In guilty splendor shake the public ways:
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white;
And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch
Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd,
And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time
Not to be pass'd: and she that had renounc'd
Her sex's honor, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for Prudery's sake,
But Dignity's resentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif
Desirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was a wholesome rigor in the main,

[care

And taught th unblemished to preserve with
That purity, whose loss was loss of all.
Men too were nice in honor in those days,
And judg'd offenders well: and he that sharp'd
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd, [sold
Was mark'd, and shunn'd as odious. He that
His country, or was slack when she requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd
The price of his default. But now—yes, now,
We are become so candid and so fair,

So liberal in construction and so rich
In Christian charity, a good-natur'd age!
That they are safe: sinners of either sex
Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd,
well bred,

Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To pass us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may,

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim his merit still, that she admits
The worth of what she mimics with such care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause :
But she has burnt her masks, not needed here,
Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts
And specious semblances have lost their use.

§106. On the Employments of what is called an Idle Life. COWPER.

How various his employments whom the world
Calls idle, and who justly, in return,
Esteems the busy world an idler too!
Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen,
Delightful industry enjoy'd at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Dress'd to his taste, inviting him abroad—
Can he want occupation who has these?
Will he be idle who has much t' enjoy?
Me therefore, studious of laborious case,
Not slothful; happy to deceive the time,
Nor waste it; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,
When he shall call his debtors to account
From whom are all our blessings-business finds
E'en here. While sedulous I seek t' improve,
At least neglect not, or leave unemploy'd
The mind he gave me; driving it, though slack
Too oft, and much impeded in its work
By causes not to be divulg'd in vain,
To its just point-the service of mankind.
He that attends to his interior self,
That has a heart, and keeps it; has a mind
That hungers, and supplies it; and who seeks
A social, not a dissipated life-
Has business; feels himself engag'd t' achieve
No unimportant, though a silent task.
A life all turbulence and noise may seem,
To him that leads it, wise, and to be prais'd;
But wisdom is a pearl with most success
Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.
He that is ever occupied in storms
Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,
Vainly, industrious, a disgraceful prize.

§ 107. The Post comes in the News-paper is | The seals of office glitter in his eyes; read-the World contemplated at a distance. He climbs, he pants, he grasps them. At his

COWPER.

HARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkl'd face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noisy world, [locks,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn;
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold, and yet cheerful; messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings: have our troops awak'd?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer not to inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not such his ev'ning, who, with shining face,
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeez'd,
And bor'd with elbow-points through both his
sides,

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage.
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e'en critics criticise, that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the summit, see

heels,

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take:
The modest speaker is asham'd and griev'd
Tengross a moment's notice: and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise :
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretels us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here,
The forests of no meaning spread the page
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion-roses for the cheeks
And lilies for the brows of faded age,
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their

sweets,

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews;
Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto, with his hair on end
At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at such a world: to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd:
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on th' uninjur'd ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That lib'rates and exempts me from them all.
It turns submitted to my view, turns round
With all its generations; I behold
The tumult, and am still; the sound of war
Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;
Grieves, but alarins me not. I mourn the pride
And av'rice that makes man a wolf to man,
Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats
By which he speaks the language of his heart,
And sigh, but never tremble at the sound.
He travels and expatiates, as the bee
From flow'r to flow'r, so he from land to land;
The manners, customs, policy of all
Pay contribution to the store he gleans;
He sucks intelligence in ev'ry clime,
And spreads the honey of his deep research
At his return, a rich repast for me!
He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,
Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes
Discover countries, with a kindred heart
Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes:
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

§ 108. A Fragment.
A Fragment. MALLET.
FAIR morn ascends: fresh zephyr's breath
Blows lib'ral o'er yon bloomy heath,
Where, sown profusely, herb and flow'r,
Of baliny smell, of healing pow'r,
Their souls in fragrant dews exhale,
And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale.
Here spreads a green expanse of plains,
Where, sweetly pensive, Silence reigns;
And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the sky;
While winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with sounding sweep.
Of human heart no traces near,
I seem alone with nature here!

Here are thy walks, O sacred Health!
The monarch's bliss, the beggar's wealth,
The seas'ning of all good below,
The sovereign's friend in joy or woe.
O thou, most courted, most despis'd,
And but in absence duly priz'd!
Pow'r of the soft and rosy face!
The vivid pulse, the vermeil grace,
The spirits, when they gayest shine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
O sun of life, whose heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The storm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature with thy parting light,
Reposes late in Death's calm night:
Fled from the trophied roofs of state,
Abodes of splendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot Riot would his anguish steep,
But tosses through the midnight shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid;
For ever fled to shady cell,

Where Temp'rance, where the Muses dwell,
Thou oft art seen at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn;
Or, on the brow of mountain high,
In silence feasting ear and eye
With and
song
which abound
prospect
Froin birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the sun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While Heat sits fervent on the plain,
With Thirst and Languor in his train
(All nature sick'ning in the blaze),
Thou in the wild and woody maze
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighb'ring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing Coolness has her seat.
There plung'a amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive in his airy mood,
To ev'ry murmur of the wood:
The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;
The chidings of the headlong brook;
The green leaf quiv'ring in the gale;
The warbling hill, the lowing vale;

The distant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak.
From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converse with the dead,
Sages or poets. See, they rise!
And shadowy skim before his eyes,
Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again,
That soften'd savages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind!
They form'd the nations, or refin'd,
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlight'ning truth, adorning art.

Thus musing in the solemn shade,
At once the sounding breeze was laid:
And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb silence grew upon the hour;
A brighter night involv'd the bow'r :
When issuing from the inmost wood,
Appear'd fair Freedom's Genius good.
O'Freedom! sov'reigu boon of Heav'n,
Great charter with our being giv'n;
For which the patriot and the sage
Have plann'd, have bled, through ev'ry age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace :
Who could not give, who cannot claim,
What but from God immediate came!

§ 109 Ode to Evening. Dr. Jos. WARton. HAIL, meek-ey'd maiden, clad in sober grey, Whose soft approach the weary woodman loves ;

As homeward bent to kiss his pratiling babes
Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.
When Phoebus sinks hehind the gilded hills,
You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;
The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,
And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.
The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heat
To inmost bow'rs and cooling caverns ran,
Return, to trip in wanton ev ning dance;
Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.
To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,
Light swims the swallow o'er the wat'ry scene;
And from the sheep-cot, and fresh-furrow'd field,
Stout ploughmen meet, to wrestle on the green.
The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,
His supping sheep and length'ning shadow spies,
Pleas'd with the cool, the calm, refreshing hour,
And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flics.
Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love,
And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;
And holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,
Anger and mad Ambition's storm subside.
O modest Evening! oft let me appear
A wandering votary in thy pensive train;
List'ning to every wildly-warbling note
That fills with farewell sweet thy dark ning plain

$110. Isis.

66 ear,

An Elegy By Mr. MASON, of" The piercing notes shall strike each British
Cambridge.
"Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear!
"And, rous'd to glory by the nervous strain,
"Each youth shall spurn at slavery's abject
reign,

FAR from her hallow'd grot, where, mildly
bright,

The pointed crystals shot their trembling light; From dripping moss, where sparkling dew-drops fell,

Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed
shell,

Pale Isis lay; a willow's lowly shade
Spread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid;
Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breast
In careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest;
While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow,
In all the awful negligence of woe;
Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vase
Where Vulcan's art had lavish'd all his grace.
Here, full with life, was heaven-taught Science

seen,

Known by the laurel-wreath and musing mien;
There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace, sedate
and bland,
[wand;
Swell'd the loud trump, and way'd the olive
While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas

green,

At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.

On this the goddess cast an anxious look,
Then dropp'd a tender tear, and thus she spoke:
Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention trace
The mimic charms of this prophetic vase ;
Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyes
View on you plain the real glories rise.
Yes, Isis! oft hast thou rejoic'd to lead
Thy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead:
Oft hast thou stopp'd thy pearly car to gaze,
While ev'ry Science nurs'd its growing bays;
While ev'ry Youth, with fame's strong impulse
fir'd,

Press'd to the goal, and at the goal untir'd,
Snatch'd each celestial wreath to bind his brow
The Muses, Graces, Virtues, could bestow.

E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,
And ranks her troops on Memory's ample plain;
See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,
See! Sidney, Raleigh, Hampden, Somers, shine.
See Hough, superior to a tyrant's doom,
Smile at the menace of the slave of Roine:
Each soul whom truth could fire, and virtue
move,

Each breast strong panting with its country's love,
All that to Albion gave their heart or head,
That wisely counsell'd, or that bravely bled,
All, all appear; on me they grateful smile,
The well-earn'd prize of ev'ry virtuous toil
To me with filial reverence they bring,
And hang fresh trophies o'er my honor'd spring.
Ah! I remember well yon beechen
There Addison first tun'd his polish'd lay;
Twas there great Cato's form first met his eye,
In all the pomp of free-born majesty;

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spray,

My son," he cried, "observe this mien with

awe,

"In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw;

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"Shall guard with Cato's zeal Britannia's laws,
"And speak, and act, and bleed, in freedom's
"cause."

The hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'd;
The lay to Liberty and Cato flow'd;
While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along,
Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.

But, ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground,
How mute attention check'd each rising sound,
Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,
Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay,
When Locke walk'd musing forth! e'en now I
view

Majestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow;
View Candor smile upon his modest cheek,
And from his eye all Judgement's radiance break.
Twas here the sage his manly zeal express'd,
Here stripp'd vain Falsehood of her gaudy vest:
Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,
Ere long to burst in blessings on mankind;
Ere long to show to reason's purged eye,
That "Nature's first best gift was Liberty."

Proud of this wondrous son, sublime I stood,
(While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood;)
Then, vain as Niobe, exulting cried,
Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;
Though Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring
glade,

Though fair Lycæum lent its awful shade,
Though ev'ry Academic green impress'd
Its image full on thy reflecting breast,,
Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name,
And Britain's Isis flow with Attic fame.

Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic
boast?

See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast;
See! Hydra Faction spreads its impious reign,
Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain:
Hence frontless crowds that, not content to
fright

The blushing Cynthia from her throne of night,
Blast the fair face of day; and, madly bold,
To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;
To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd,
Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound;
The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,
The Echoes groan, the Dryad quits their haunt ;
Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,
Now sheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam
In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,
Where a firm few support her sickly head,
Despis'd, insulted, by the barb'rous train,
Who scour, like Thracia's moon-struck rout,
the plain,

Sworn foes, like them, to all the Muse approves,
All Phœbus favors, or Minerva loves.

Are these the sons my fost' ring breast must rear,
Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?

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