Who can, like me, the nice resentment prove, The thousand soft disquietudes of love; The trivial strifes that cause a real pain; The real bliss when reconciled again ? Let him alone dispute the real prize, And read his sentence in my Delia's eyes; There shall he read all gentleness and truth, But not himself, the dear distinguish'd youth; Pity for him perhaps they may express― Pity, that will but heighten his distress. But, wretched rival! he must sigh to see The sprightlier rays of love directed all to me. And thou, dear Antidote of every pain Which fortune can inflict, or love ordain, Since early love has taught me to despise What the world's worthless votaries only prize, Believe, my love! no less the generous god Rules in my breast, his ever blest abode; There has he driven each gross desire away, Directing every wish and every thought to thee! Then can I ever leave my Delia's arms,
A slave, devoted to inferior charms ?
Can e'er my soul her reason so disgrace ? For what blest minister of heavenly race
Would quit that Heaven to find a happier place?
[WRITTEN AFTER THE LAST MEETING BETWEEN COWPER AND HIS DELIA.]
DOOM'D, as I am, in solitude to waste
The present moments, and regret the past;
Deprived of every joy I valued most,
My friend torn from me,* and my mistress lost,
Call not this gloom I wear, this anxious mien,
The dull effect of humour, or of spleen! Still, still I mourn, with each returning day, Him snatch'd by fate in early youth away; And her through tedious years of doubt and pain, Fix'd in her choice, and faithful-but in vain! Oh prone to pity, generous, and sincere, Whose eye ne'er yet refused the wretch a tear; Whose heart the real claim of friendship knows, Nor thinks a lover's are but fancied woes;
* Sir William Russell, accidentally drowned, 1757.
See me-ere yet my destined course half done, Cast forth a wanderer on a world unknown! See me neglected on the world's rude coast, Each dear companion of my voyage lost! Nor ask why clouds of sorrow shade my brow, And ready tears wait only leave to flow! Why all that soothes a heart from anguish free, And that delights the happy-palls with me!
FULL thirty frosts since thou wert young Have chill'd the wither'd grove,
Thou wretch! and hast thou lived so long, Nor yet forgot to love!
Ye Sages! spite of your pretences To wisdom, you must own Your folly frequently commences When you acknowledge none.
Not that I deem it weak to love, Or folly to admire ;
But ah! the pangs we lovers prove Far other years require.
Unheeded on the youthful brow The beams of Phoebus play; But unsupported Age stoops low Beneath the sultry ray.
For once, then, if untutor'd youth, Youth unapproved by years, May chance to deviate into truth, When your experience errs;
For once attempt not to despise
What I esteem a rule:
Who early loves, though young, is wise,- Who old, though grey, a fool.
AN ODE ON READING "SIR CHARLES GRANDISON."
SAY, ye apostate and profane, Wretches who blush not to disdain Allegiance to your God,
Did e'er your idly-wasted love Of virtue for her sake remove
And lift you from the crowd?
Would you the race of glory run, Know, the devout, and they alone, Are equal to the task:
The labours of the illustrious course Far other than the unaided force Of human vigour ask.
To arm against repeated ill The patient heart, too brave to feel The tortures of despair;
Nor safer yet high-crested Pride, When wealth flows in with
To gain admittance there.
To rescue from the tyrant's sword The oppress'd;-unseen and unimplored, To cheer the face of woe;
From lawless insult to defend An orphan's right, a fallen friend, And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind;
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, Oh, with what matchless speed, they leave The multitude behind!
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth? Derived from Heaven alone,
Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join To call the blessing down.
Published by Richardson, in 1753.
Such is that heart;-but while the Muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues, Her feebler spirits faint;
She cannot reach, and would not wrong That subject for an angel's song, The hero, and the saint!
IN A LETTER TO C. P., ESQ.
ILL WITH THE RHEUMATISM.
GRANT me the Muse, ye gods! whose humble flight Seeks not the mountain-top's pernicious height; Who can the tall Parnassian cliff forsake, To visit of the still Lethean lake;
Now her slow pinions brush the silent shore, Now gently skim the unwrinkled waters o'er, There dips her downy plumes, thence upward flies, And sheds soft slumbers on her votary's eyes.
IN A LETTER TO THE SAME.
IN IMITATION OF SHAKESPEARE.
TRUST me, the meed of praise, dealt thriftily From the nice scale of judgment, honours more Than does the lavish and o'erbearing tide Of profuse courtesy. Not all the gems Of India's richest soil at random spread O'er the gay vesture of some glittering dame, Give such alluring vantage to the person, As the scant lustre of a few, with choice And comely guise of ornament disposed.
ODE, SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND.
THOU magic lyre, whose fascinating sound Seduced the savage monsters from their cave, Drew rocks and trees, and forms uncouth around, And bade wild Hebrus hush his listening wave; No more thy undulating warblings flow O'er Thracian wilds of everlasting snow!
Awake to sweeter sounds, thou magic lyre, And paint a lover's bliss--a lover's pain! Far nobler triumphs now thy notes inspire, For see, Eurydice attends thy strain; Her smile, a prize beyond the conjurer's aim, Superior to the cancelled breath of fame. From her sweet brow to chase the gloom of care, To check the tear that dims the beaming eye, To bid her heart the rising sigh forbear,
And flush her orient cheek with brighter joy, In that dear breast soft sympathy to move,
And touch the springs of rapture and of love. Ah me! how long bewildered and astray,
Lost and benighted, did my footsteps rove, Till sent by Heaven to cheer my pathless way, A star arose-the radiant star of love. The God propitious joined our willing hands, And Hymen wreathed us in his rosy bands. Yet not the beaming eye, or placid brow, Or golden tresses, hid the subtle dart; To charms superior far than those I bow,
And nobler worth enslaves my vanquished heart; The beauty, elegance, and grace combined, Which beam transcendent from that angel mind. While vulgar passions, meteors of a day, Expire before the chilling blasts of age, Our holy flame with pure and steady ray,
Its gloom shall brighten, and its pangs assuage; By Virtue (sacred vestal) fed, shall shine, And warm our fainting souls with energy divine.
AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.*
'Tis not that I design to rob Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob, For thou art born sole heir and single Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle; Nor that I mean, while thus I knit My threadbare sentiments together, To shew my genius or my wit,
When God and you know, I have neither;
Or such, as might be better shown By letting poetry alone. Tis not with either of these views, That I presume to address the Muse: But to divert a fierce banditti,
*Son of Dr. Pierson Lloyd, one of the Masters of Westminster School. Robert Lloy edited the Connoisseur and St. James's Magazines.
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